Superstar Babes

by Narinder Dhami

  The crowd of people standing around Kieron King whooped and yelled and jumped up and down, while making sure that they jostled their way in front of the camera so they could wave to their mums back home. Behind them was the gaudy Who’s in the House? building, which looked like a toy house made of colourful building blocks.

  ‘Why do they always have to talk so loudly?’ Uncle Jai asked with a frown. ‘We’re not deaf.’

  ‘It’s because they think the viewers might fall asleep otherwise,’ Auntie replied.

  The programme had been running for a few weeks now, and there were only six contestants left of the original eight. These were: Molly Mahal, an ex-England and Chelsea footballer called Steve Kelly, the obligatory has-been pop singer Luke Lee, TV presenter Shannon Pickering, and Romy Turner, a model who seemed to be there only because she had a very large chest. The last contestant was Katy Simpson, who wasn’t a celebrity at all but had once been married to someone who was famous.

  We already knew that Shannon Pickering and Kim Simpson had performed the worst in the week’s trials, so they were the two who might be voted out tonight. The Friday night programme was actually quite dull because all that happened was that they showed clips of the previous week’s trials before announcing the loser at the end.

  ‘I’m going to vote for Shannon,’ Jazz said, whipping out her mobile as the telephone number appeared on the screen. ‘She whines all the time. I hate her.’

  ‘You can’t hate someone you don’t know,’ Auntie pointed out quite reasonably.

  ‘And I’m not paying your phone bill this month,’ Dad added. ‘You’ll be paying it yourself out of your pocket money.’

  Jazz, who had already voted about fifty times this week, put her mobile away, looking disgruntled.

  ‘Anyway, the programme makers edit what they film to make some of the contestants look worse than others,’ Geena said as we watched Molly Mahal trying to knit with spaghetti, which had been part of Tuesday’s Pasta Pranks. ‘I mean, look at Molly. They obviously love her.’

  Molly was laughing as her spaghetti slipped off the knitting needles, making sure her stunning profile was to camera. She always seemed to get the best camera angles and the best lighting. She never swore or misbehaved or showed too much naked flesh (unlike Romy Turner). Ever since the programme started, the newspapers had been full of stuff about how ‘lovely’ and how ‘natural’ Molly was. She was apparently the favourite to win it too.

  ‘You know, I never thought Molly was a good actress,’ I remarked, ‘but considering what a snooty madam she was when she stayed with us, she’s doing a great job here.’

  ‘Maybe she had a personality transplant when she had all that other cosmetic surgery done,’ Geena suggested.

  We all stared at Molly’s wider eyes, slimmer nose, unwrinkled brow and bigger bosoms.

  ‘Geena’s right, you know,’ Auntie agreed. ‘The programme makers have their own agenda. I mean, I thought Shannon’s penne pasta model of the Eiffel Tower was quite good, but she didn’t get many votes for it.’

  ‘That’s because everyone hates her,’ said Jazz.

  As the programme moved on to Wednesday’s tightrope-walking challenge, I found my mind wandering. Geena and Jazz often remark that it doesn’t always come back again, ha ha. So not funny.

  I hadn’t forgotten what I’d said upstairs. I had quickly become convinced that life was a bit too quiet around here since Auntie had got married and moved out.

  It was up to me to liven things up, just a little.

  Chapter Two

  ‘I TOLD YOU Shannon would lose,’ Jazz said with satisfaction as we set off for school early on Monday morning. ‘I’m so glad. I really hate her.’

  ‘Yes, I think we get that,’ Geena replied. ‘It looks like Molly might win, although Romy Turner got a lot of votes for last week’s trials.’

  ‘That’s not surprising,’ Jazz remarked, ‘seeing as she did them all in her itsy-bitsy silver bikini.’

  ‘Fascinating as this conversation is,’ I butted in, ‘I do have something a little more interesting to discuss with you.’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Jazz sniffed. ‘But go on.’

  ‘About what I was saying on Friday evening,’ I began.

  Geena and Jazz stared blankly at me.

  ‘You know, about life being a bit dull at the moment,’ I reminded them impatiently.

  ‘Oh, that.’ Geena shrugged. ‘As this is probably going to involve one of your daft ideas, Amber, you can count me out.’

  I smiled. ‘Well, maybe I’ll just have to do something on my own then. Like detective work, for instance. Finding out if anyone’s got any secrets they don’t want Dad or Auntie to know about . . .’

  ‘What did you have in mind?’ Geena asked hastily.

  ‘Well—’

  ‘Hey! Wait for us!’

  We turned to see Kim and Kiran scooting along the street towards us. Kim and I have been friends ever since we first went to school and I stopped George Botley painting her blue. We’ve only known Kiran since the beginning of term, when she moved to our town. We didn’t really get off on the right foot (to be completely honest, she actually shoved a newspaper down my school jumper) but since then we’ve become good friends.

  ‘Did you see Who’s in the House on Friday night?’ Kim panted as they finally caught us up. ‘Wasn’t Molly great? I think she’s going to win, you know.’

  ‘I was so glad Shannon got kicked out,’ Kiran added. ‘I really hated her.’

  ‘Oh, and me,’ Jazz said. ‘I hated her too.’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ I groaned. ‘Are we so shallow that some dumb TV programme is all we can talk about?’

  Kim raised her eyebrows at me. ‘And what’s the matter with you today?’

  You’d never believe that Kim used to be really sweet and quiet. Now she asserts herself all over the place. I blame Auntie – oh, and Molly Mahal. She gave Kim expert lessons in how to be a diva when she was staying with us.

  ‘Amber thinks our life is too boring,’ Jazz explained. ‘She thinks everything’s settled down too much since Auntie got married.’

  ‘Oh no!’ Kim pulled a face. ‘This sounds like another of Amber’s bird-brained schemes.’

  ‘My schemes are anything but bird-brained,’ I replied with dignity. ‘All I’m saying is—’

  ‘Ooh, look over there!’ Jazz broke in, grabbing my arm. ‘It’s Baby and Rocky.’

  Our cousin and her boyfriend were standing on the corner at the end of the street. Rocky was in Geena’s year but Baby went to a private school nearby (her parents, Uncle Davinder and Auntie Rita, were seriously rich). The private school’s uniform consisted of a black skirt, white shirt, black and gold striped tie and a gold sweater. Baby had the skirt pulled up about fifteen centimetres above her knee, the tie was nowhere to be seen and the top three buttons of her shirt were undone. She had the sweater tied round her waist, and she was carrying her coat (designer, naturally) even though it was a chilly autumn morning.

  ‘Oh, what a surprise.’ Geena yawned as, frowning furiously, Baby stepped forward and poked Rocky hard in the chest. ‘They’re arguing as usual.’

  ‘Baby’s going to walk away in a minute,’ Jazz predicted. ‘Five, four, three, two – there she goes!’

  Baby had spun round on her impossibly high Vivienne Westwood stilettos and stalked off down the road. Meanwhile Rocky stomped off in the opposite direction.

  ‘What is it with those two?’ asked Kiran.

  ‘What, apart from the fact that they both have a hugely inflated opinion of themselves, gigantic egos and no brains?’ said Geena. ‘Not much, really.’

  ‘There you go, Amber.’ Jazz nudged me in the ribs. ‘You could help Baby and Rocky improve their relationship.’

  ‘I don’t think even my talents could stretch that far,’ I said modestly. Geena, Jazz, Kiran and Kim all sniggered. Highly uncalled for. ‘Anyway, Baby and Rocky seem to enjoy arguing.’

  ‘What about poor, lov
esick George Botley?’ Jazz asked with a gleam in her eyes as we joined the throng of kids swarming through the school gates. ‘He definitely needs help.’ She turned to Kiran and Kim. ‘He came round to our house on Friday night to ask Amber on a date, you know.’

  Kiran and Kim laughed heartily at this.

  ‘Ooh, tell us more!’ Kim said eagerly. ‘We want to know all the details! What did your dad do? What did Auntie say?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I snapped. ‘He didn’t get that far. Anyway, I have other plans for George Botley.’

  ‘Really!’ Jazz exclaimed. ‘And do these plans involve kissing?’

  The four of them shrieked with laughter and made kissing sounds at me.

  ‘Not at all,’ I said haughtily. I had indeed come up with a very good plan for dealing with George Botley, and I was about to tell them all about it when someone tapped me on the shoulder.

  ‘Hey, you!’

  I turned to see one of the sixth-formers, a boy called Gareth Parker, glaring at me through thick-lensed, black-framed glasses. He was accompanied by another sixth-former, Soo-Lin Pang, who looked equally stern. She was carrying a clipboard.

  ‘Yes?’ I said coldly. To be honest, I was surprised to see sixth-formers in the main part of the playground. They had their own very posh and spacious building set apart from the rest of the school, so they didn’t come and mix with lowly scumbags like us very often. We all hated them because they thought they were so cool, but all the same we were jealous of their luxurious building with its huge common room and kitchen.

  ‘Trainers,’ snapped Gareth, pointing his pen at my feet.

  ‘Oh, this is a word-association game, right?’ I said. ‘You say trainers, and I say – um, laces?’

  Gareth flushed. ‘Don’t try to be funny, Amber,’ he snapped. ‘Soo-Lin, read the rules about trainers, please.’

  ‘Coppergate pupils are allowed to wear trainers, but these must conform to school rules,’ Soo-Lin read from her clipboard in a monotone. ‘They must be dark in colour and in good condition. Football boots are not acceptable footwear in school.’

  I glanced down at my flash neon-pink Nike trainers with metallic purple bits. ‘Well, they’re in good condition and they’re not football boots,’ I offered. ‘Two out of three isn’t bad.’

  ‘What’s it got to do with you, anyway, Gareth?’ Geena put in belligerently.

  Gareth fixed her with a stony stare from under his floppy black fringe. ‘Mr Grimwade has noticed that school uniform standards are slipping,’ he said coldly. Mr Grimwade was the deputy head and was always making a nuisance of himself. ‘So he’s asked some of the sixth-formers to do uniform checks every morning.’

  ‘I might have known Grimwade would be behind this,’ Geena muttered.

  ‘Mr Grimwade to you,’ Gareth retorted with another piercing glare. ‘And while we’re on the subject, Geena, your earrings are too big.’

  We all stared at Geena’s large silver hoops.

  ‘Ha!’ Geena said triumphantly. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, actually. I checked the rules, so don’t bother asking your tame little sidekick here to read them out.’ Soo-Lin looked mortally offended. ‘Hoops can be up to three centimetres in diameter, and mine are exactly three centimetres. So there.’

  ‘Go, Geena!’ said Jazz, and we all applauded.

  ‘I’ll be the judge of whether your earrings are acceptable or not,’ Gareth said pompously. He held out his hand. ‘Soo-Lin, the tape measure, please.’

  Muttering under her breath, Geena unhooked one of her hoops and slapped it down in Gareth’s outstretched palm. Meanwhile Soo-Lin was looking mutinous.

  ‘Can’t I do this one, Gareth?’ she pleaded. ‘I never get to do any measuring.’

  ‘You can do it next time,’ Gareth said impatiently.

  ‘You know, you really need to get out more,’ I told Soo-Lin as she reluctantly handed Gareth the tape measure.

  ‘You’re right,’ she sighed. ‘This is the most excitement I’ve had for weeks. My parents expect me to study all the time and they don’t like me going out, even at weekends—’

  Gareth tutted loudly. ‘When you’ve quite finished . . .’ He drew out the tape measure with a flourish and carefully measured Geena’s earring. ‘Three point two centimetres,’ he announced with immense satisfaction.

  ‘What!’ Geena shrieked. ‘No way.’

  ‘Two millimetres over?’ Kiran raised her eyebrows. ‘Hardly worth making a fuss about, is it?’

  Gareth looked slightly nervous. Kiran’s big and square and she has a tongue stud. In fact, she looks quite hard. She could probably flatten a weedy swot like Gareth with one hand.

  ‘Just make sure you don’t wear either those trainers or those earrings again,’ Gareth warned, backing away a little. ‘Soo-Lin, make a note to check on Amber and Geena tomorrow.’

  ‘Are you sure you’ll have time?’ Geena snapped.

  Gareth looked confused. ‘What?’

  ‘Well, surely you should be spending your time looking for a life, as you clearly don’t have one at the moment,’ Geena riposted superbly.

  Blushing, Gareth slunk away, muttering something to Soo-Lin who was trying very hard not to giggle.

  ‘What a complete prat,’ I commented. ‘And look, Gareth’s not the only one.’

  There were indeed lots of sixth-formers with clipboards bullying other hapless kids in various parts of the playground.

  ‘They’re power-mad, that lot,’ said Kim. ‘Hey, Amber, if you’re bored, how about teaching some of these snooty sixth-formers a lesson?’

  ‘Yep, that sounds like fun,’ I agreed. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘So you were about to tell us what you’re going to do about George Botley?’ Jazz asked nosily.

  I smiled. ‘Ever heard of the Labours of Hercules?’

  Kim and Jazz looked totally blank.

  ‘He was an ancient Greek hero who had to perform ten tasks, for some reason,’ said Kiran. ‘I can’t remember why.’

  ‘He had to kill various creatures like a lion, a boar and a snake with lots of heads,’ Geena added. ‘Oh, and he had to clean all the muck out of a huge stable. That was one of the tasks.’

  ‘How utterly non-fascinating,’ said Jazz. ‘And what does all this have to do with George Botley?’

  ‘All right, forget Hercules,’ I said. ‘Even the ignorant amongst us, like Jazz and Kim, must have read those old fairy tales where a handsome hero has to perform a series of tasks in order to win the hand of the fair princess?’

  ‘Of course,’ Jazz replied. ‘But George Botley isn’t a handsome hero and you aren’t a fair princess by any stretch of the imagination.’

  I ignored her. ‘Well, that’s what I’m going to do,’ I went on. ‘I’m going to set George some tasks and tell him he has to be successful if he wants to impress Dad and Auntie and take me on a date.’

  They all sniggered.

  ‘Look, it’s just to keep George occupied for a while,’ I explained. ‘Anyway, if he’s got any sense, he’ll tell me politely to get lost and go and pester someone else. That’s what I’m banking on.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bank on him having any sense, actually,’ Kim remarked. ‘After all, he fancies you, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Ooh, here’s George now!’ Jazz hopped up and down gleefully. ‘And he’s coming over!’

  ‘This I simply have to see,’ said Geena.

  George was grinning from ear to ear. I thought the presence of the others might put him off, but he didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed.

  ‘Hey, Amber,’ he called, strolling towards me. ‘You said we were going to have that talk today.’

  ‘Yes, George, I did,’ I said solemnly, ‘and here’s the deal. You have to prove to my dad and to Auntie that you’re worthy of a date with me.’

  Muffled giggles all round.

  ‘So I thought it would be fun if I set you a few tasks to complete,’ I went on. ‘Dad and Auntie won’t let me date just any old person. So
you have to prove that you’re serious and committed.’

  ‘What, that my intentions are honourable, you mean?’ George said with a wink.

  ‘Something like that,’ I replied. ‘Of course, I completely understand if you don’t want to do it . . .’

  George mulled it over for a moment. ‘OK,’ he said easily. ‘It sounds like a bit of a laugh. What do you want me to do first?’

  I was stunned. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘My first task,’ George said. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Yes, Amber,’ said the other four helpfully, like some annoying Greek chorus. ‘What do you want him to do?’

  Oh, blast. I hadn’t actually thought of anything as I’d been reasonably sure that George would tell me to get lost.

  ‘Oh – ah – well . . .’ I glanced around for inspiration and my gaze fell on the canteen on the other side of the school. ‘Your first task, George, if you choose to accept it, is this – get me into lunch before everyone else in the lower school. For a whole week.’

  George looked shocked and there was a sharp intake of breath from the others. The queue for the canteen was always a complete scrum. There was supposed to be a shift system, but the dinner ladies were helpless, and it was everyone for themselves.

  ‘Of course, if you don’t think you can . . .’ I let my voice tail away, shrugging my shoulders.

  ‘I’ll give it a go,’ George said, and he trudged away, frowning.

  ‘A whole week, mind,’ I called after him. ‘If you don’t manage a whole week in one go, then we have to start over again.’

  ‘You’re quite heartless, Amber,’ said Geena with admiration. ‘He’ll probably get trampled to bits trying to clear a path to the front of the queue for you.’

  ‘Well, it should keep him busy for a good few weeks,’ I said cheerfully. ‘And then I’ve got lots more ideas for new tasks.’

  The conversation moved back to more idle gossip about Who’s in the House?, and while we were chatting, my gaze strayed idly over to the opposite side of the street. The old Coppergate School had been completely demolished, and builders were preparing the site to build houses. Our new school was swish and flash and very posh, but Mr Morgan, the headteacher, was still trying to bully us into doing loads of sponsored events to raise money for extra refinements. Local businesses had donated plenty of cash too, and they’d had parts of the school named after them. For instance, the canteen was now officially named the Bolton Canteen (Bolton’s Best Biscuits), although no one ever called it that, despite Mr Grimwade constantly reminding us. The drama studio had also received a large injection of cash from Mackenzie Allan, a local accountancy firm, and was now called the Mackenzie Allan Studio.