Bollywood Babes (6 page)

By the time I'd heaved the suitcase out of the station, Molly Mahal was sitting in the back of a black cab at the taxi rank. She had a stern, implacable look on her face. Geena and Jazz, meanwhile, were hovering helplessly by the open door.

“She won't get out,” Jazz wailed.

“Look, love,” the taxi driver said patiently, “do you want this cab or not?”

“Yes, we do,” I said.

“This is getting better,” Geena groaned, as the driver hopped out and stowed the suitcase in the boot. “We roll up with the guest from hell, and get Auntie to pay for it. Oh, I can't wait.”

“What if they're not in?” asked Jazz.

“We'll rob the jar of change that Dad hides under his bed,” I said, giving her a push. “Just get in the car.”

The journey was made in silence. Molly Mahal stared out of the window, her face a complete blank. I
had no clue what she was thinking or feeling. Geena looked worried and Jazz petrified. Meanwhile, I was trying to decide how to break the news to Auntie that we had a houseguest. There seemed no other option but to tell the truth, terrifying as it sounded.

My heart lurched horribly as we pulled into our street.

“I have to go inside and get the money from my aunt,” I told the driver as he drew to a halt outside our house.

He looked a bit suspicious. “All right, but your mum and your sisters can wait here till you come back.”

“I'm not their mother,” Molly Mahal snapped.

“There is a God,” Geena muttered.

“Just wait here,” I said. The way things were going, they'd be at each other's throats before I got back with the £4.65.

I scrambled out. I was only halfway up the path when the front door was flung open and Auntie dashed out, looking concerned.

“Why are you in a taxi?” she demanded. “Has someone been hurt?”

“No, of course not,” I said. “But we need four pounds sixty-five for the fare.”

Auntie peered down the garden. “Who's the old woman?” she wanted to know.

I took a breath. “All right, this is the short version,” I said. “We saw in
Masala Express
that Molly Mahal
was living in Reading so we decided to invite her to the Bollywood party. It was a surprise for you. But she's got no money, so we brought her home to stay with us for a bit.”

“Nice try, Amber.” Auntie fixed me with a piercing stare. “Now, the truth, if you please.”

“That's it,” I said. “Look.” I tugged the copy of
Masala Express
out of my bag and handed it to her. Auntie glanced at the article and then back at the taxi.

“
That's
Molly Mahal?” she asked incredulously.

“I'm afraid so,” I replied.

At that moment Molly Mahal rapped on the cab window and waved her hand imperiously at me. Auntie stared at her in amazement.

“Can we have the money?” I asked with urgency.

Auntie nodded as if in a trance, went inside and came back with her purse. She took out a five-pound note and handed it to me. I'd never seen her so utterly lost for words.

“Wait a minute,” Auntie said suddenly as I turned away, clutching the money. “What do you mean, you've brought her to stay for a bit?”

“She was about to be evicted,” I explained. “We couldn't leave her there, could we?”

I scooted off down the path while Auntie stared after me, her mouth open. She watched in disbelief as I paid the driver, and Molly Mahal climbed out of the cab. Geena hauled the suitcase out, cursing under her breath.

“My aunt's really pleased that you're coming to
stay,” I told Molly, who inclined her head in a stately manner.

“She looks it,” Jazz muttered.

Auntie blinked hard as Molly shuffled up the path toward her. Those trainers, those leggings, that fleece did not add up to a superstar. But Molly Mahal didn't seem one bit embarrassed. Or maybe she was totally embarrassed and was covering it up very well. She was an actress, after all, even if she wasn't very good at it.

“Er—
saat siri akaal
,” Auntie stammered, putting her palms together.

Molly Mahal returned the greeting. Then she stood waiting by the front door, her face still an unemotional mask. I stood next to her, wondering what Auntie would do. Geena and Jazz lurked behind us, trying not to catch Auntie's eye. Mrs. Macey, meanwhile, was goggling at us from behind her net curtains.

“Please come in,” Auntie said faintly.

Molly Mahal walked into the house without a word. We all proceeded solemnly into the living room, where she sat on the sofa and stared down at her hands in silence.

“Tea,” said Auntie desperately. “I'll make some tea. And maybe you three girls would like to help me.” It was a threat, not a request.

“I'll stay here and keep Miss Mahal company,” I said quickly.

“Kitchen. Now,” said Auntie, and went out.

“Leave all the talking to me,” I said in an undertone to Geena and Jazz as we followed her.

“Oh, OK,” said Geena. “Another great idea.”

“Look, if we stick together, it'll be fine,” I said.

We shuffled guiltily into the kitchen and Auntie snapped the door shut behind us.

“It's all Amber's fault,” Jazz said.

“Thank you,” I muttered.

Auntie put her hands on her hips. “What on earth has got into you, Amber?” she demanded, her eyes flashing sparks. “She can't stay here. We don't have the space, for a start.”

“I thought she could have your room,” I said.

“And I sleep where?”

“Well, Geena's got a double bed.”

Geena and Auntie stared at each other ferociously.

“That's not going to happen,” Auntie snapped. “Look, she must have some family. Or what about Social Services? There must be somewhere she can go.”

“There is,” I said dramatically. “The streets. If we turn her away, she'll be homeless.” I opened the fridge. “Can we give her something to eat? She almost fainted before. I don't think she's been eating properly.”

For the first time Auntie looked uncertain. “What do you mean?”

“There was hardly any food in the place,” I explained.

Auntie opened the biscuit jar and shook some
chocolate digestives onto a plate. “There are samosas in the fridge,” she said. She frowned. I could see that I'd given her something to think about.

“Thank you,” I said.

I carried the plates into the living room. Molly Mahal still sat on the sofa, in the same position.

“Where are your parents?” she asked abruptly.

“Dad's gone to his office to pick up some work.” I took a breath for the bit I always hated explaining. “Mum's dead. She had leukemia. Auntie looks after us now.”

Molly's eyes grew dark. I had the faintest feeling she was going to say something more. But she didn't. She simply nodded a thank-you at me as I put the plates down on the coffee table and withdrew. But I got the feeling that she was only holding herself back by the greatest effort of will, and that once I'd closed the door behind me, she'd fall on the food like a wild animal.

“Amber, are you absolutely sure she has no family close by?” Auntie asked as I returned to the kitchen.

“She said not,” I replied. I switched the kettle on. “She hasn't got anybody. Not in England, anyway.”

“Maybe she's fallen out with them,” Geena suggested. “She's not exactly Miss Congeniality.”

“Neither would you be, in those circumstances,” Auntie replied.

“See?” I looked triumphantly at Geena and Jazz. I had secretly been regretting what I'd done since—

oh—about thirty seconds after I'd invited Molly to stay. But I wouldn't admit it. “Auntie understands. I knew she would.”

“You're not off the hook yet, miss.” Auntie threw me a warning glance. “There are still several issues to be dealt with here. Like why you lied and told me you were going shopping with Baby, for example.”

“Oh,
that
—” I began. Luckily, right then we heard the front door open.

“It's Dad,” said Geena.

“Stop him,” I said, “before he goes into the living room and gets the shock of his life.”

Jazz opened the door and we charged down the hall, Auntie included. Dad was in the process of taking off his leather jacket. He paused, one sleeve on and one sleeve off, a look of bewilderment on his face.

“What's the matter?” he asked.

“Quick,” I said, grabbing one arm. “In here.”

Auntie grabbed the other, and we hustled him into the kitchen.

“What in heaven's name is going on?” Dad asked. “Is the tax man here?”

“Worse,” said Jazz. “We found Molly Mahal living in Reading, and Amber said we had to bring her home with us because she was poor and had no food.”

“Well, I felt sorry for her,” I said defensively.

Dad looked at us as if our brains had dangerously overheated.

“And she's hideous,” Jazz added.

“She's kind of dull and gray and very skinny,” Geena went on.

“Oh my God.” Dad clutched his hair, looking horrified. “I've read about this. They say soft drugs are everywhere these days. That people are even selling them at the school gates—”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, Johnny,” Auntie said, looking exasperated. “We're not hallucinating. She's in our front room right now, eating samosas.”

“Not you too?” Dad moaned.

“Read this.” I pulled the battered copy of
Masala Express
from the back pocket of my jeans and handed it to him. Dad skimmed through it, shooting us nervous glances every so often.

“So you went to find her?” Dad was still looking puzzled. “Why?”

“For the Bollywood party at school,” I explained. “We wanted to help Auntie organize it.”

“I'm sure you didn't have any ulterior motives at all,” Auntie said smoothly.

“Absolutely not,” I said with a dignity that was spoiled by Jazz and Geena sniggering. “We thought Molly Mahal could be the guest of honor.”

“Except that she's more likely to send people running and screaming from the hall,” Jazz said helpfully.

Dad was looking unnerved. “She can't have changed that much,” he said. “How old is she? Early forties?”

“She looks more like sixty,” Jazz said.

“And that's probably a conservative estimate,” added Geena.

Dad looked stunned. “How long is she staying?”

Strangely, that was one question everyone, including me, had failed to ask.

“Oh, only for a bit,” I replied as casually as I could.

Auntie pounced. “You mean you haven't discussed it with her?”

“Er. Um.” I tried to think of a lie. Couldn't. “No.”

Dad and Auntie stared at each other, concern etched on their faces. “Is she going to look for a job then?” Auntie wanted to know. “Or is she expecting money from relatives?”

“I don't know,” I mumbled, beginning to sweat. I was saved by the sound of the living room door opening.

“That's her!” Geena hissed. “She's coming out.”

Dad opened the kitchen door and we all hovered in the entrance like people at a zoo queuing to see a rare animal.

Molly Mahal came out of the living room. She stopped when she saw us. A wary look flashed across her face before the mask came down again.

Dad seemed transfixed by her ravaged beauty. He stared at her until Auntie elbowed him hard in the ribs.

“
Saat siri akaal
,” he spluttered. “I'm very pleased to meet you.”

“This is my dad,” I said.

Molly managed a faint smile. “Good afternoon,”
she said with surprising dignity. “May I go to my room now?”

“It's the one next to the bathroom,” I said quickly.

There was a protesting noise from Auntie, which she quickly choked back. Taking no further notice of us, Molly went up the stairs. A moment later we heard Auntie's bedroom door close.

“Well!” Auntie said grumpily. “She's a cool customer.”

Geena and Jazz grinned at me. It wasn't often we saw Auntie at a complete loss.

“I would never have believed it.” Dad tottered into the living room and sank down onto the sofa. “I'd never have recognized her.” He shook his head in disbelief.

“She must have been starving.” Geena stared down at the plates. There had been six samosas, and they were gone. So were the chocolate biscuits.

I glanced sideways at Geena. She looked as if she was regretting some of the things she'd said.

“Talking of starvation,” Jazz grumbled, “when's lunch?”

“Not yet,” Auntie snapped. “We'd better wait for our guest to come downstairs.”

We all glanced upward as we heard the bedroom door open, then footsteps overhead. There was the sound of water flooding into the bath.

“I'll just pop upstairs and move some of my stuff while she's in the bathroom,” Auntie said.

“Where to?” Geena asked freezingly.

“Well, your room, of course,” Auntie replied. “Unless you want me to sleep in the shed?”

“There
is
a paraffin heater out there, you know,” Geena began.

Auntie glared at her and whisked out of the room. Seconds later she was back, looking aggrieved. “Can you believe this?” she gasped. “She's only gone and locked the bedroom door.”

“I told you it wasn't a good idea to put that lock on there,” Jazz said smugly.

“It was to stop you helping yourself to my Chanel cosmetics,” Auntie snapped. She began pacing up and down like a caged animal. “I'm getting a bad feeling about this.”

“Don't worry, Auntie,” I said cheerfully. “That's exactly how we felt when
you
arrived.”

“And look how well that's turned out,” Geena said with a straight face.

“Don't be cheeky, girls,” Dad said sternly.

“Sorry,” we both muttered.

Auntie was standing by the open door, sniffing the air like a tracker dog. “That's my Chanel Number Five bath oil,” she groaned. “Oh no! Twenty-five pounds a bottle.”

“She must be using loads of it as well,” Geena said helpfully, “if we can smell it down here.”

We sat and waited. Half an hour went by. We heard the bathroom door open again. An hour passed.

“What
is
she doing up there?” Auntie wanted to know.

“Shhh!” I'd heard the creak of the bedroom door. “She's coming!”

“Look casual,” Dad instructed us. “Don't look like we've been waiting for her.”

“Like this?” Jazz flung herself down on the sofa, clutching her stomach. “Help. I'm dying of malnutrition.”