Bollywood Babes

by Narinder Dhami

  “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.”

  We waited in silence, listening to each light footstep coming closer. The living room door opened.

  Molly Mahal stood in the doorway. The effect, compared to her previous incarnation, was—well, dazzling. That's the word.

  She sparkled. She was dressed in a lilac-colored skirt and top, stitched with gold swirls and heavy with sequins. She didn't look stick-thin anymore, but slender and wandlike. Miraculously, her bosoms had reappeared. Gold earrings with purple stones were in her ears and a slim gold chain around her neck. As she moved into the room, gold bangles jangled musically on both her wrists. She smelled deliciously of Chanel No. 5. Her makeup was skillfully applied, and while it couldn't disguise the fact that she was old, she looked a hundred times better than before. The effect was that of a snake shedding its dull gray outer skin and emerging newly encased in brilliant, jeweled colors.

  We couldn't help staring. She looked like a different person. She moved like a different person. Head held high, she swayed confidently across the room and sat down on the sofa, arranging her silky, sequined skirt around her feet.

  Auntie looked more stunned than any of us. “That's one of my suits,” she began in a dazed voice.

  “And I'm very grateful to you for letting me borrow it,” Molly said graciously. Suddenly, her whole personality seemed to have changed. It was as if she was doing us a favor by being here, rather than the other way round. “Thank you so much. I do appreciate it.”

  Auntie was speechless. I looked down to hide a smile. What could Auntie say now without looking mean and nasty? Molly Mahal was smart.

  Molly glanced around the room, her gaze coming to rest on the video recorder and the tape that had been ejected but not removed. “Amir Ladka, Garib Ladka,” she said in a thrilled voice. “A wonderful film.”

  “She's only saying that because she's in it,” Jazz muttered.

  “Shall we watch it now?” Molly went on, fluttering her eyelashes at Dad. It was more of a command than a request.

  Geena and I looked at each other, aghast. We'd already sat through forty terrible minutes of it. I couldn't imagine that it would get any better on a second showing.

  “What about lunch?” Jazz wailed.

  “Oh, surely we have time to watch just a little before we eat?” Molly inquired in a sweet but steely voice.

  “Certainly,” said Dad politely. He'd already slotted the videotape into the machine. Gloomily we sat back and prepared for a second showing of probably one of the worst films ever to come out of Bollywood.

  Molly beamed as the credits began. She then swung round to stare accusingly at me as I wiggled into a more comfortable position on the sofa, the leather cushion squeaking ever so slightly.

  “Do you think we're allowed to breathe?” Geena whispered in my ear.

  The film began. To our dismay, Molly took charge of the remote control, and whenever there was a part she thought was particularly good, she reran the tape and watched it again. This made the film seem twice as long. Predictably, the bits she thought were good were only ever the bits that she was in.

  When we got to the scene with the mad cook and the frying pan, Jazz could stand it no longer. She got quietly to her fee
t and sidled out of the room.

  Molly Mahal sent a laser-beam stare after her. “We're just coming to a very exciting part,” she remarked coolly. “I hope she won't be long.”

  “Just as long as it takes to eat her way through the entire contents of the fridge,” I whispered to Geena, which earned me another look.

  Jazz wasn't very long, however. She reappeared a few minutes later and edged her way back into the room, casting nervous glances at Molly Mahal.

  “Auntie,” she mouthed.

  “What?” Auntie mouthed back.

  Molly shot them both a “this had better be important” look.

  “I've set the grill on fire,” Jazz whispered.

  “What!” Auntie shrieked. She leapt to her feet and dashed out of the room.

  “Well, really!” Molly Mahal looked mightily annoyed. “Some of us are trying to watch a good film in peace.”

  Geena and I took the opportunity to leave the room as quietly as we could, too. Jazz trailed along behind us, muttering to herself.

  Auntie was beating out the flames in the grill pan with a wet towel. Luckily there didn't seem to be any damage done.

  “I was trying to make cheese on toast,” Jazz said dismally.

  “Well done.” I slapped her on the back. “You saved us from having to watch the rest of Amir Ladka, Garib Ladka.”

  Auntie was banging round the kitchen, wiping out the grill pan and muttering to herself. “I don't know why the woman needs to borrow my best clothes to sit around the house and watch herself in a movie,” she complained. “She's even borrowed my underwear.”

  “Ooh, how do you know?” Jazz asked. “Did you look?”

  Auntie gave her a withering stare. “She had no chest when she arrived, and now she has. She must be wearing my Wonderbra.”

  “I didn't know you had a Wonderbra,” I said with interest.

  “I don't discuss the contents of my underwear drawer with you,” Auntie said coldly.

  Dad came into the kitchen. “Miss Mahal says we'll watch the rest of the film after lunch,” he said. “I've stopped the tape.”

  “Dad,” I groaned. “Do we have to?”

  “Yes, we do.” Dad looked stern. “She's our guest.”

  “Happy now, Amber?” Geena inquired with savage politeness. Jazz contented herself with an eloquent sniff.

  “And she'd prefer curry for lunch,” Dad added. “If it's no trouble.”

  Auntie stopped midway through grating a lump of cheese. “That means I'll have to cook something from scratch,” she muttered. She hurled the cheese back into the fridge and began pulling out packets of vegetables. Looking nervous, Dad backed his way out of the kitchen. Geena, Jazz and I followed him.

  “Not so fast,” Auntie snapped, waving a bunch of dhania at us. “You're helping.”

  “Amber should do it,” Jazz grumbled, “seeing as it's all down to her.”

  “Yes, let Amber do the cooking,” Geena joined in. “With any luck she might poison Molly and solve the problem.”

  “What problem?” I said coolly, taking the dhania Auntie thrust at me in rather an unfriendly manner. “We're helping someone. I don't see any problem with that.”

  But underneath my ice-cool exterior, I was worried. I had really and truly started something. At this moment, I had absolutely no idea how it was all going to end.

  Iwonder what it's like to be famous. No, that's not quite true. I wonder what it's like to be famous, and then, suddenly, not to be famous at all. To lose everything. To go back to being just an ordinary person in the street, someone nobody would look at twice. How would that feel? Could you ever go back to being normal again? And when it was all over, did you accept defeat gracefully or did you hope and believe that one day you would be famous all over again?

  I snuggled down under the duvet and flipped through OK! magazine. It was full of soap stars, pop stars, actors and actresses. They were splitting up with their partners, getting married, having babies, talking about their latest film or book, or about their problems with alcohol or drugs or both. I frowned. It seemed that even when you were famous, you still had problems, just the same as everyone else. I would have liked to discuss it with Molly Mahal. But I had a strong feeling it was something she wouldn't want to talk about.

  Jazz rolled over in bed and kicked my ankle. “What are you looking so serious about?” she wanted to know.

  “I was thinking about the fleeting nature of celebrity,” I said.

  “Oh.” Jazz yawned. “Are you going to make some tea?”

  “No,” I replied. “Make it yourself.”

  Jazz pouted. “I don't want to go downstairs,” she moaned. “What if Molly Mahal's lurking about?”

  I grinned. “You're scared of her, aren't you?”

  “No,” Jazz said indignantly.

  “You are,” I chuckled. “Honestly, Jazz, you are a fool.”

  “Well, even if I was scared of her—which I'm not,” Jazz grumbled, “you ought to go and make the tea. Then you can take her a cup.”

  “Don't be silly,” I said quickly. “She's probably still asleep.”

  Jazz giggled. “You're scared of her too, aren't you, Amber?”

  “Oh, really!” I yawned delicately behind my hand. “Of course I'm not.”

  “You are,” Jazz said gleefully. “I'm not surprised, though. She's odd.”

  We had managed to escape the curse of Amir Ladka, Garib Ladka the previous day by pleading homework. Molly Mahal had watched Bollywood films all evening, and was still watching at midnight, long after the rest of us had gone to bed. I thought I'd heard footsteps coming upstairs around two o'clock in the morning, but I couldn't be sure.

  “You'd be odd too if you were rich and famous and beautiful one minute, and poor and forgotten and downtrodden the next.” The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that only a fool would crave being famous in the first place.

  “I'd like to be famous,” Jazz said dreamily.

  “Why?” I demanded.

  “Well.” Jazz looked a bit confused. “Everyone knows who you are.”

  “That seems like an excellent reason,” I began sarcastically—but broke off to listen to Geena and Auntie arguing outside our bedroom door.

  “I do not snore,” Geena was saying coldly.

  “Yes, you do,” Auntie replied. “It's like trying to sleep on the runway at Heathrow Airport.”

  The door flew open and Geena marched in. Her face was red. “This is all your fault, Amber,” she said through her teeth. “I didn't get a wink of sleep last night.”

  “Neither did I,” grumbled Auntie, appearing behind her. She was wearing Geena's DKNY tartan pajamas, which were slightly too small for her.

  “At least I don't talk in my sleep,” Geena retorted.

  Auntie looked a little nervous. “I don't. Do I?”

  “Oh yes.” Geena smiled. “Don't worry, Auntie. I won't give away all your secrets.”

  “I don't have any secrets to tell,” Auntie said. She seemed somewhat concerned all the same.

  “Is Molly Mahal up yet?” I asked.

  “She's sitting in the living room, wearing my second-best lengha,” Auntie said crossly. “Go downstairs and make her a cup of tea, Amber. I don't think it would ever occur to her to boil the kettle herself.”

  I groaned. “Do I have to?”

  “Oh yes,” said Auntie. “And keep her down there as long as you can so I can grab some clothes from my room. I think she's left it unlocked. Otherwise I'm going to have to borrow something of Geena's.”

  “Well, you're very welcome,” Geena said smoothly. “Although, of course, I am a size smaller than you. You don't want to look ridiculous.”

  Auntie retaliated with a loud, piglike snort and whisked out of the room.

  “What are you two staring at me for?” I asked.

  “Auntie told you to go downstairs and make Molly Mahal a cup of tea,” Jazz reminded me, laughing uncontrollably.

  “All right,”
I said, trying to look unconcerned. “I'm going.”

  I climbed out of bed and began to dress, slowly. Geena jumped into my vacant spot, and she and Jazz lay there giggling under the duvet while I brushed my hair.

  “You two are so childish,” I said. I went out of the bedroom, wishing I was somewhere far away.

  The living room door was shut. I had to take a deep breath before I could open it. Molly was sitting on the sofa, her back straight, the skirt of Auntie's peacockblue lengha pooling around her on the carpet. The newsreader on TV was talking about someone who'd been shot in South London, but I don't think she was listening.

  “Hi,” I said brightly. “Did you sleep well?”

  Molly turned to me. The unforgiving morning sun streaming through the windows highlighted the difference in her face; still beautiful, but not in the way it had been, and never would be again.

  “I don't sleep that well these days,” she said quietly.

  “Oh.” I wasn't actually scared of her. Not really. But there was something about her eyes. When she locked on to you, it was like being hit with the full force of her personality. You felt like a rabbit entranced by a snake. Well, I did, anyway.

  I had no idea what to say next. Then I remembered why I was there. “Tea?”

  “Thank you.”

  I scuttled out, feeling relieved. There were so many questions I wanted to ask her. How had she ended up in Reading? Why didn't she have any money? Wasn't there anyone who cared enough to help her out? But I couldn't ask any of these things. She seemed to have built a wall around herself that was impossible to penetrate.

  I was standing by the boiling kettle, deep in thought, when the doorbell rang. I glanced at the kitchen clock. It was twenty past eight. A little early for visitors.

  Mr. Attwal stood outside, beaming at me. It was a shock. I'd never seen him away from the shop before. It was as if a polar bear had suddenly walked up our path and knocked on the door. Behind Mr. Attwal was his shy little wife, Parmjit, who hardly ever said a word, or didn't get a chance to.

  “Hello, Uncle,” I said, bewildered.

  “Where is she?” Mr. Attwal asked in a booming whisper.

  “Who?” I asked stupidly.