Bollywood Babes Page 2

  “Oh, great,” George said, relieved. The idiot then looked puzzled as Chelsea, Sharelle and Kim giggled.

  “Sit down, please.” Mr. Arora hurried into the classroom, the register tucked under his arm. “George, kindly replace your clothes on the right bits of your anatomy.”

  I glanced at Mr. Arora. He looked all sort of pink and shining and glowy, as if he had a lovely secret. I smiled.

  “Amber said I look stylish, sir,” George remarked, stumbling over his trailing shoelaces.

  “I did not!” I protested. The rest of the class hooted with laughter. Even Mr. Arora smiled. And, believe me, he does not find anything to do with George Botley funny at any time.

  “He's in a good mood,” I murmured in Kim's ear, sliding into the seat next to her.

  Kim grinned. “That's because you said he looks stylish.”

  “Not George,” I said, casting up my eyes. “Mr. Arora.”

  “You said you and Geena and Jazz weren't going to interfere this time,” Kim reminded me anxiously.

  “No.” I smiled. “You said that.”

  “He's definitely interested,” I told Geena and Jazz later. We were on our way home after school, dawdling through the park, Geena and I dipping into a packet of M&M's that I'd nicked out of Jazz's bag. “George Botley was burping all through the register, and Mr. Arora didn't even notice.”

  “Absentmindedness,” Geena said knowledgeably. “One of the first signs of being in love. Do you want an M&M, Jazz?”

  “After all, they are yours,” I said kindly.

  “No, thanks.” Jazz smirked. “And they're not mine actually. Someone left the open bag on my desk.”

  “Urgh!” Geena spluttered, spitting hers out onto the grass.

  I'd just swallowed mine and almost choked. “Why didn't you say so?” I croaked crossly. “They could have been poisoned.”

  “Exactly.” Jazz began to laugh hysterically, so we set about her with our fists, which only made her laugh harder.

  “Stop,” Geena said suddenly. We stopped just outside the park. “Sorry, girls. It's Friday. You know what that means.” And she pointed across the road in the direction of the minimarket on the corner.

  “Oh no,” I groaned. “It's not that time again, is it?”

  “Why do we have to come?” Jazz argued mutinously. “Can't we just wait outside?”

  “No.” Geena began herding us across the road like a determined sheepdog. “It's less traumatic if there's three of us.”

  I glanced through the window. Mr. Attwal, the minimarket owner, was sitting at the till with his nose in a large book. He had possibly been the most boring man alive until a few weeks ago, constantly telling his customers all the things he might have done if only his life had been different. Then Auntie had come along and suggested that he do a few courses, take a few evening classes. Now Mr. Attwal was like a man reborn. Or a bore reborn.

  As we sidled into the shop, trying to remain inconspicuous, a bell louder than a police siren chimed overhead. Alerted to the presence of a captive audience, Mr. Attwal jumped to his feet, beaming, and waved the book at us. It was called Geography Is Fun!

  “Girls, did you know that Asia is the biggest continent in the world?” he boomed across the shop floor. “And Mumbai is the biggest city—well, going by the number of people living inside the city boundaries; not including the people who live outside the city limits.” He was definitely the most boring man in the world now, for sure. His head seemed to be utterly stuffed with useless facts.

  “Great,” I called out. I turned and elbowed Geena in the ribs. “Hurry up,” I mouthed urgently.

  Geena had it down to a fine art by now. As Jazz and I waited by the door, she skirted the fresh fruit and veg display, took a left by the tinned fruit and hurtled toward the magazines. Before Mr. Attwal could step out from behind the counter and bear down on Jazz and me, Geena was at the till, clutching her magazine.

  “Oh.” Mr. Attwal looked disappointed. “Is that all?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Geena had the money in her hand, the exact amount. Five seconds later we were out of the door, breathing hard, Mr. Attwal's voice floating wistfully after us. “Come back when you've got a bit more time and I'll tell you all about the North Pole.”

  “Do we have to do this every week?” Jazz asked crossly.

  “Yes.” Geena unfolded her magazine. “You know very well that Mr. Attwal's is the only shop that sells it round here.”

  Masala Express was only a local magazine, but it had become a kind of cult hit. I don't think it was because of the useful community information or the events listings or Auntie Palvinder's Traditional Punjabi Recipes. I think it was mostly because of all the scandalous gossip (not necessarily true) about local people. We thought we knew who they were most of the time, although no names were ever given. Now Jazz and I crowded round Geena as she flipped through the magazine to our favorite page, “Geeta's Gossip.”

  “Look at this.” Geena read aloud,”‘Who was the young newlywed bride seen partying at Shannon's nightclub with someone who was definitely not her husband?'”

  “Ooh, that could be Baljeet Baines,” Jazz said excitedly. “She's just had an arranged marriage. And her husband's supposed to be horrid.”

  “I'm sure we're going to see Baby in here one day,” I remarked. Baby's our cousin. She's a good little girl at home with Auntie Rita and Uncle Dave, and a demon when she's let loose.

  “Aren't Masala Express having a samosa-eating competition this month?” Jazz asked, trying to wrestle the magazine off Geena. “Shall we go along and watch?”

  Geena shook her head. “Watching people stuffing down as many samosas as they can isn't my idea of fun. And the prize is only a couple of Bollywood DVDs. I doubt if it's worth the effort.”

  “Next month's competition is a lot better.” Jazz pointed at the magazine. “Look, a Touch the Car competition. Win a Ford Ka.”

  “That does sound like fun,” Geena said with scorn. “Standing there touching a car for hours on end.”

  Jazz looked puzzled. “It seems too easy.”

  “Oh no,” said Geena. “I've heard about this before. People have to stand there for ages, and they start feeling ill and hallucinating and fainting and stuff.”

  “Oh, that sounds interesting,” Jazz said, looking more cheerful.

  I wasn't listening. My eye had been caught by a headline on the opposite page: FORMER BOLLYWOOD STAR MOLLY MAHAL—NOW A SAD RECLUSE LIVING IN READING.

  Below the headline was a picture of a beautiful Indian woman in a typical Bollywood costume, a lilac and fuchsia-pink lengha with lots of body on show. She was dancing through a sumptuous filmi palace with fountains and golden statues of elephants. It appeared, shockingly, next to a photo of a run-down house with a battered green door. One of the windows had cardboard stuffed into the pane instead of glass.

  “Look at this,” I said.

  “Oh dear.” Geena pulled a face. “What a comedown. From Bollywood to Reading.”

  “Who is she?” Jazz poked her nose over my shoulder. “I've never heard of her.”

  “Molly Mahal,” I repeated. “I think she was a star back in—oh, the early eighties.”

  “That's ages ago,” Jazz sniffed. “I wasn't even born.”

  “Neither was I,” I said. “But Dad's got some of her films. She didn't make that many, though.”

  “Then she just disappeared,” Geena remembered. “Wasn't there some sort of scandal?”

  I was skimming through the article. “Yes. She had an affair with one of her directors. He was married.”

  “Really,” said Jazz. “It's lucky that's not a problem in Hollywood. They'd have no actors or actresses at all.”

  “Look.” I squinted at the photo of the house more closely. “I swear that's Rosamund Road. You can just see the Indian sweet shop on the corner.”

  Geena peered at the photo too. “You mean the one Uncle Dave's taken us to a few times? It looks like it.”

 
“It says here that Masala Express tried to interview her,” I went on, “but she wasn't interested.”

  “Well,” Geena said, “that's what recluses do. Reclude themselves.”

  “How sad,” yawned Jazz. “Do you think Auntie's making curry today?”

  I didn't reply. My mind was off, winging its way down another track entirely. That was how I got my best ideas. Or my worst, some might say.

  “I have an idea,” I announced.

  The reaction I got didn't surprise me. Jazz stuck her fingers in her ears and began to hum. Geena stared at me in disgust.

  “Really, Amber! I would have thought your ideas had got us into enough trouble by now.”

  “This won't get us into trouble,” I said. Oh, what famous last words. “But if you're not interested …”

  “Tell us.” Jazz took her fingers out of her ears. “I could do with a laugh.”

  “It would be rather good if we could get Molly Mahal to be guest of honor at the school's Bollywood party,” I said.

  Looking somewhat surprised, Jazz turned to Geena. “Actually,” she began, “That's not bad at all—” “Don't get taken in,” Geena interrupted. “That's how Amber operates. Her ideas sound reasonable at first. It's only later that the full horror really hits you.”

  “You make me sound like Dr. Evil,” I said. “Anyway, Jazz thinks it's a good idea.”

  “I said it wasn't bad,” Jazz backtracked cautiously. “I didn't say it was good.”

  “Of course it's good.” I spread out my arms. “It's genius. Here we have a real Bollywood star—”

  “Ex-Bollywood star,” Geena pointed out.

  “Living just down the road from us,” I steamrollered on.

  “About twenty miles away, actually,” said Geena. “And we're having a Bollywood party at school. It's meant to be.”

  Geena waved the magazine aggressively at me. “Do you know what the word ‘recluse' actually means?” she demanded.

  “Of course,” I said.

  Geena ignored me. “Molly Mahal wouldn't give Masala Express an interview. She obviously doesn't want any publicity. Is she going to turn up at our school party? I don't think so.”

  “Auntie could persuade her,” Jazz said, her tone faintly bitter. “She can persuade anyone to do anything.”

  Geena frowned. “That's true,” she admitted.

  I was thinking hard, my mind zipping through all the pros and cons like lightning. “No,” I said slowly. “I don't think we should get Auntie involved just yet.”

  “Excuse me?” Geena raised her eyebrows. “I was starting to get ever so slightly interested in your foolish idea there, Amber. But without Auntie it's deader than a big fat dead duck.”

  “Think about it,” I urged. “If we can get Molly Mahal on board ourselves, we'll be in with Auntie like never before.” I grinned widely. “We'll be heroines. She'll have to cut us some slack then and get off our backs.”

  “I like it,” Jazz said instantly. Even Geena looked marginally more interested.

  “All right,” she said grudgingly. “It'd be worth it to have Auntie at our mercy for once. But I still think it's doomed.”

  I shrugged. “OK, so it's a long shot. But Molly Mahal can only say no.”

  “And she will,” Geena added.

  “If she does,” I went on, “it'll still be our idea, and we can get the credit. Then we can send in Auntie.”

  “Deadlier than a cruise missile,” Jazz added.

  We were wandering along our street deep in conversation and plans. So it took me a while to realize that someone was traveling alongside us, keeping pace. I eventually glanced up to see Leo astride his bike, traveling slowly along the curb. Leo delivers our newspapers, and he and I have a love-hate relationship. Geena and Jazz prefer to put the emphasis on the love bit, though.

  “Oh. Hello.” I felt my face fill up with color as Geena and Jazz started giggling loudly.

  “Hi.” Afiery-cheeked Leo handed me Dad's evening paper, rolled up into a neat tube. “How's your auntie?”

  “Fine,” I twittered, stepping backward onto Geena's and Jazz's toes simultaneously. “How's your brother?”

  “The same,” Leo replied. “But the fund's getting bigger now. We might be able to take him to America for the operation this year.”

  “That's great news,” I said, fiddling with the newspaper. “Well. Bye then.”

  “Bye.” Leo looked strangely reluctant to leave. He pedaled slowly away, looking over his shoulder, heading straight for a large pothole.

  “Ouch,” Jazz chuckled as the bike lurched boneshakingly into the hole, shooting Leo up into the air and down again.

  “The path of true love never did run smooth,” Geena chortled.

  “Shut up.” I waved the newspaper at them. “I've got a weapon in my hand and I'm not afraid to use it.”

  “What's that?” Jazz asked as something shiny and glossy slipped out of the middle of the paper.

  I bent to retrieve it from the pavement. It was a copy of Hip Chick, “a brand-new magazine for cool girls with funky style,” according to the cover.

  “He's made a mistake,” I said. “This isn't ours. Leo!”

  He didn't hear and was pedaling off. I chased after him. Because of Auntie, we'd discovered that Leo did two paper rounds, both morning and evening, helping to save money for Keith's operation to get his twisted back put right. Leo might get into trouble for delivering the wrong papers to the wrong house. I didn't want that.

  I tripped and sprawled flat on the pavement, narrowly missing a pile of dog dirt. “Leo!” I picked myself up, ignoring my scraped knees. “Leo!”

  Leo skidded gracefully to a halt and looked round.

  “This …,” I panted, waving the magazine weakly, “isn't … ours.”

  Leo looked highly embarrassed. “It's for you,” he muttered, and scorched away on wheels of fire.

  Geena and Jazz strolled up behind me. “Hip Chick —‘the magazine for cool girls with funky style,'” Geena read out over my shoulder. “The red-faced, snotty-nosed, grazed-knee look must be big, then.”

  “Maybe we should start interfering in Amber's love life,” Jazz remarked, “and give Auntie and Mr. Arora a break.”

  “Yes,” Geena agreed. “Between Leo and George Botley, she's got a more interesting love life than any Hollywood movie star.”

  I took out a tissue. “Hilarious,” I wheezed. Blushing wildly, which crimsoned my face even more, I stuffed the magazine into my bag. “About tomorrow”—I reached out to stop Jazz opening our gate— “we'd better decide what lies we're going to tell Auntie before we go in.”

  “I think we should tell as few as possible,” Geena advised. “I always find lies sound better if you stick to as much of the truth as you possibly can.”

  “We'll ask her in front of Dad,” I decided. “You know how she's trying not to interfere so much.”

  Dad had kind of left us alone after Mum died. But now, slowly, things were coming back together.

  “Shall we tell them we're going to Reading?” asked Jazz.

  “Yes,” I said thoughtfully. “But not why.”

  “Auntie will want to know,” Geena pointed out.

  “All right.” I shrugged impatiently. “We'll say we're meeting Baby.”

  Uncle Dave, Auntie Rita and their kids, plus Biji (the most tactless grandmother in England), live halfway between us and Reading. They have a very posh house in the country.

  “Oh, Auntie'll buy that,” Jazz broke in. “Especially after you said last week that Baby was a bubbleheaded bimbo who needed a good slap.”

  “And what if she rings Auntie Rita to check?” added Geena.

  “We'll have to risk it,” I said through gritted teeth. “Why do you two always have to be so negative?”

  “That's rather unfair,” Geena said coldly. As we trailed after each other toward the front door, I could hear her muttering, “I knew this was a bad idea,” under her breath.

  “Never mind,” Jazz
consoled her. “We can blame Amber when it all goes wrong.”

  The exotic smells of garlic, ginger, cumin and sizzling onions floated down the hall toward us as Geena opened the front door. We all sniffed hard, drowning our senses in the rich, delicious scents.

  “Want to bet Mrs. Macey'll be here?” I said, kicking off my trainers heel to toe.

  “Is the grass green?” said Geena.

  “She'll be here,” muttered Jazz.

  “Is that you, girls?” Auntie appeared in the kitchen doorway, wearing an i love india apron and holding a wooden spoon. “Come and say hello to Gloria.”

  We left a heap of trainers and bags behind us and wandered down to the kitchen. Our elderly next-door neighbor, Mrs. Macey, sat perched on a stool, eyeing us over her cup of coffee like a frightened mouse.

  “Hello,” she squeaked.

  For months Mrs. Macey had never said a word to us because she didn't like living next door to an Indian family. That was all before Auntie arrived, of course. Auntie doesn't stand for any nonsense like that. She'd soon forced Mrs. Macey into coming round for coffee and being polite to us. Now Mrs. Macey comes round of her own free will, especially when Auntie's cooking curry. She's discovered she loves curry. But she still seems a bit embarrassed about the way she treated us before.

  “Did you have a good day, girls?” asked Auntie, stirring the curry.

  “It was OK.” I turned to Mrs. Macey. “You should come to the Bollywood party at our school, Mrs. Macey,” I went on, with wide-eyed innocence. “Auntie's organizing it. With my teacher, Mr. Arora. They're very good together, you know.”

  Auntie reached for the potato peeler. “Haven't you three got homework to do?” she asked, pointing it at my nose.

  “Yes.” I ushered Geena and Jazz over to the door. “An English essay on Romeo and Juliet Under love's heavy burden do I sink, and all that.”

  Auntie glared at me and stabbed the potato she was holding. Laughing noiselessly, I closed the door behind me.

  “She'll get you for that,” Jazz predicted.

  “I'll be waiting for her.” I caught at Geena, who was heading for the stairs. “Where are you going?”