We stared at each other helplessly. We were in shock. Never in our wildest dreams, never, even when we were doing our best to find Auntie a husband, had the idea of Dad wanting to marry again ever occurred to us. It was the worst and most appalling thought that had ever entered our three heads. Now that Mrs. Dhaliwal had put it there, it had taken root and was growing at an alarming speed.
“All right”—Geena rallied a bit—“maybe Dad might want to get married again eventually. But that doesn't mean he's going to marry Molly Mahal.”
“She's a lot older than him,” Jazz said. “It'd be so— so dysfunctional.”
“Have you been watching Jerry Springer again?” demanded Geena.
“Dad seems to like her, though.” I thought back with dread to the times Dad had stood up for Molly against Auntie. “He doesn't seem bothered about how long she stays with us—”
“He's only being kind,” Geena broke in. “Or maybe he just wants to show Auntie who's the boss.”
“But he gets all embarrassed when Molly compliments him,” I pointed out.
“Those contact lenses!” Jazz groaned. “D'you think he's trying to make her fancy him?”
“She does flirt with him,” Geena pointed out.
“She flirts with Mr. Arora,” I said quickly. “She even flirts with Leo. I don't think we can read anything into that.”
“What are we going to do ?” asked Jazz in despair. “This can't be happening.” Her bottom lip began to quiver slightly. It made her look about five years old again. “I don't want another mum.”
My eyes began to sting. My throat hurt. I blinked, biting the inside of my mouth ferociously to stop tears.
“We'd better not jump to conclusions,” Geena said gravely. “If it isn't true, we don't want to put any ideas into Dad's head.”
“You're right,” I agreed. “We'll keep an eye on them and see if we can find out what's going on.”
“Yes,” said Geena. “Let's watch them for the next few days. Then we can make up our minds whether we have to interfere or not.”
“You three look like you're up to something.”
The voice behind us was totally unexpected. We all shrieked with surprise and leapt into the air. Kim, who had come up behind us unnoticed, also yelled and jumped backward nervously.
“What are you doing, sneaking up on us like that?” I demanded.
“Sorry.” Kim looked sheepish.
“I thought apologizing wasn't assertive behavior,” I said, a bit meanly.
“Oh no,” replied Kim earnestly, “I can apologize when I'm in the wrong.”
We continued walking in silence. I flicked a warning look at Geena and Jazz, and raised my eyebrows in a meaningful way. I didn't want to discuss Dad and Molly Mahal in front of Kim. She was far too matey with Molly for my liking.
“So what were you talking about?” Kim asked. Her new confidence was becoming quite tiresome. “You looked very serious.”
“Did we?” I said no more.
“Yes. What's going on?”
Kim was obviously determined to pursue it. I thought fondly of previous times when I could have shut her up with a single look.
“If you tell me what you and Molly Mahal were talking about last week,” I said, “I'll tell you what we were talking about.”
Kim looked agonized. “I can't,” she said. “She asked me not to say. Sorry.”
“Oh, you're apologizing,” I said. “Does that mean you're in the wrong again?”
“No.” Kim looked confused. “At least, I don't think so.”
“Was it anything to do with our dad?” demanded Jazz.
“No.” Kim looked puzzled. “Why should it be?” I knew she was telling the truth. She's not that good an actress.
We marched on in silence. I didn't know what Kim was thinking. But I had a good idea of what was on Geena and Jazz's minds. How we could stop Dad from possibly making the biggest mistake of his life. Also, how to stop our own lives from being ruined forevermore.
“I have four blisters,” Jazz moaned. “One on the big toe of my left foot. One—”
“Do shut up, Jasvinder,” I said, as we limped out of the school building. “Or I won't be responsible for my actions.”
Thursday. The sponsored walk was over, and we'd finally been allowed to go home. All around us, footsore pupils were trudging, shuffling and limping their way across the playground, cursing Mr. Grimwade under their breath. His part in all this had been to stand on the sidelines urging us on to do yet another lap. He reminded me of that guy who shouts encouragement at Roman slaves rowing a war galley. Except, fortunately for us, Mr. Grimwade didn't have a whip in his hand.
“Let's get out of here before Kim catches us up,” I said, glancing over my shoulder, “or we won't get a chance to talk.”
We had been secretly watching Dad and Molly Mahal for the last three days. Geena had suggested that we observe them closely and each of us would draw our own individual conclusions. Then we'd see if all three of us agreed. We'd planned a grand discussion that morning on the way to school but Kim had joined us just after we'd left the house. We hadn't been able to talk.
“I shall never be able to walk fast again,” Geena moaned. “My toes are deformed.”
“Well done, girls.” At that very moment Mr. Arora himself jogged past. He looked as fresh as a daisy, despite having done the sponsored walk alongside us. The sight of him in his shorts had kept many of the girls going round the long, hard course. “See you later.”
I waved at him. “See you, sir.”
We left the playground and moved further down the street at pretty much a snail's pace, wincing and complaining.
“Let's get this over with, shall we?” I said. “Who's going to start?”
“I'm the oldest,” Geena began.
“I'm the youngest,” said Jazz.
“I'm the prettiest,” I added.
“Let's stick to the facts,” Geena scoffed. “I'll go first.”
“All right then,” Jazz agreed. “Do you think anything's going on between Dad and Molly?”
Geena frowned. She twirled a lock of hair round her finger while she thought about it. Jazz and I waited patiently. Geena sighed. “I'm not sure,” she said at last.
“Oh, please!” I snapped. “After all that.”
“We didn't say we had to decide one way or another,” Geena said defensively. “There's definitely something going on with Dad. But I don't know if it has anything to do with Molly or not.”
“Is that it?” I asked with pointed sarcasm.
“Your turn then,” Geena snapped, looking highly offended.
“He's not interested in her,” I said. “I'm sure of it—”
“He is,” Jazz broke in defiantly. “And I've got proof.”
Geena and I stared at her.
“What proof?” I demanded.
“You remember Dad came home with all those shopping bags yesterday?” Jazz said importantly. “Well, I know what he bought.”
“Don't keep us in suspense,” Geena urged.
“Calvin Klein boxer shorts.” Jazz nodded wisely. “Now do you see?”
“Dad came home with five bags full of Calvin Klein boxers?” I asked.
“No,” Jazz said impatiently. “I only had time to look inside one bag. But you know what it means, don't you?”
“Dad needs some new underwear?” I hazarded.
“Yes, but Calvins!” Jazz said pointedly. “Don't you remember, Mum was always on at him to throw his scruffy old Y-fronts out and buy new ones.”
“So he's finally done it.” Geena shrugged. “I can't see that it's got much to do with Molly Mahal.”
“Well—” began Jazz.
“Let's not go there,” I said quickly. “To be honest, I don't think there's anything going on. Dad's nice to her, but he doesn't flirt.”
“Dad can't flirt,” said Jazz. “It's not in his genes.”
“And anyway”—triumphantly I played my ace— “Auntie hasn't n
oticed anything. You know what she's like. If she thought there was anything happening between Dad and Molly, she'd be onto it like a shot.”
“That's true,” began Geena, looking brighter.
“Auntie's too busy with the party to notice what's right under her nose,” Jazz scoffed.
“Yes,” Geena agreed.
“So who do you think is right?” I asked her. “Me or Jazz?”
“I'm not sure,” muttered Geena.
“Oh, forget it,” I said, disgusted. “There's a fence. Go sit on it.”
We walked on in silence. Secretly I felt the same way as Geena. I didn't really know what to think. I knew what I wanted to think. But that was a different thing altogether.
Jazz cleared her throat. “I've got a radical idea,” she said nervously. “It's the kind of idea Amber might have.”
Geena groaned.
“It must be good then,” I said. “Spit it out.”
“What if we told Auntie and asked her what she thought?” Jazz blurted out. “Don't hit me.”
“You mean get Auntie's help?” asked Geena.
“That is radical,” I remarked.
Jazz looked downcast. “I told you it was stupid.”
“No,” Geena said. “It's not. I think it's sensible.”
“If it was my idea, you'd say it was rubbish,” I complained. “Oh, all right. Yes. I think we should do it.”
“Good,” whispered Jazz.
“We'll do it when we get home,” I whispered back. “Why are we whispering?”
“Look. There. Then tell me I'm wrong.” Jazz pointed ahead, down the street.
Dad and Molly Mahal were standing by our car. They had their heads together, chatting and laughing. They appeared cosy and couple-like.
“Oh, help,” Geena murmured in an agonized voice.
“I told you I was right,” Jazz said. “But I wish I wasn't.”
“Hello, girls.” I took a little comfort from the fact that Dad didn't look guilty when he saw us. “How was school?”
“Fine,” I muttered.
“Oh.” Dad looked puzzled. “I thought you all looked rather depressed.”
“Have you finished work for the day, Dad?” asked Geena.
“No, I just popped home to collect a file I needed.”
Dad did indeed have a blue plastic file under his arm, but I wondered if it was simply an excuse to see Molly.
“Can I give you a lift to the video store?” Dad asked, turning to Molly.
“Certainly not,” Molly replied flirtatiously. She put her hand on Dad's arm. Our eyes widened. “It's only just round the corner. I wouldn't hear of it. You'd better get straight back to work, you naughty man.”
I thought I could hear Geena grinding her teeth next to me.
“It's only a minute out of my way.” Dad held the passenger door open politely. “Jump in.”
Smiling, Molly slid gracefully into the front seat. “Well, thank you,” she purred.
“I thought Auntie usually went to the video store for you,” Jazz remarked coldly.
“Well, Mr. Basra gets so excited when I go there myself,” laughed Molly, fluttering her long eyelashes. “It seems a shame to let him down.”
Dad waved as they drove off. We stood and watched them turn the corner with heavy hearts.
“We'd better talk to Auntie right away,” Geena said soberly.
We trailed miserably up to the front door. It was difficult to accept the idea that Dad might, someday, marry again. It was even worse to think that he had already found the woman he wanted to marry. But the most awful thing of all was that the woman just might be Molly Mahal.
It wasn't that I didn't like her.
Well …
All right.
It was.
Molly, however, didn't make it easy to like her. She blew hot and cold; sometimes she was pleasant and sometimes she was moody. You never knew how she was going to be from one minute to the next. You couldn't get close to her because she didn't show enough of her real feelings. And what she did show seemed totally self-obsessed and self-absorbed. I had an uneasy feeling that she always had some other, secret motive for the things she did; that she was only ever thinking of Molly Mahal. I suppose we're all like that in some way. But because she was so into herself, I could no way imagine her as our stepmother; couldn't even begin to imagine talking to her about teenage stuff like boys and bras and periods. I couldn't imagine her as anyone's mother.
We let ourselves into the house. As we abandoned bags, coats and trainers in the hall, Auntie came down the stairs.
“Oh!” Jazz shrieked theatrically. “What do you look like?”
“Please excuse her,” Geena said. “We expected to find our aunt at home, but she seems to have been kidnapped and replaced by a Martian.”
“Very amusing,” said Auntie. She was wrapped in Dad's tatty toweling bathrobe, and her face was coated in a thick, bright green face pack. Her wet hair was bundled into a bright orange towel, and the color clash was just too much. “This is the only chance I ever have to get into the bathroom, when Madam Mahal goes to the video store. Now, shall I make you a cup of tea while I wait for my face pack to harden?”
“We'll do it,” I said instantly. “You sit down and put your feet up.”
Auntie was stunned—you could see that even under the face pack. “What are you three up to now?” she began.
I shrugged. “Nothing at all. Go on.”
Auntie climbed carefully down the last few steps. She'd painted her toenails and stuck between her toes she had those foam separators that make you walk like a zombie. She tottered into the living room and sat down.
“That wasn't a good idea, Amber,” Jazz grumbled. “She'll expect us to make tea all the time now.”
“Shhh.” I closed the kitchen door. “We haven't decided yet how we're going to ask her about Dad.”
“Well,” said Geena, “I think we should just tell her straight out.”
“Oh, you're volunteering then,” I said, relieved. “Good.”
“No, I'm not volunteering,” Geena cut in. “It's embarrassing.”
“You're the oldest,” Jazz reminded her smugly.
“You're the youngest,” retorted Geena. Then looked puzzled.
“Oh, be quiet,” I said. “I'll do it.”
I made the tea and Geena put some biscuits on a plate. Jazz carried the tray into the living room, where Auntie was relaxing in one of the leather armchairs.
“This is very nice of you, girls,” she said. “Especially as you've already assured me you have no ulterior motive.”
“Well,” I said, as Jazz put the tray down on the coffee table, “that's not quite true.”
“Oh?” Auntie inquired suspiciously.
“It's not what you think,” I said, pouring her a cup of tea. “We just want to talk to you. It's important.”
The doorbell rang.
Auntie jumped, almost spilling her tea. “Oh, heavens!” she gasped. “Who can that be?”
“I'll see,” Geena said, heading for the door.
“No!” Auntie whispered frantically. “Look at the state of me. Find out who it is first.”
Geena peered cautiously through the net curtain. “Oh!” she gasped. “It's Mr. Arora!”
Auntie clapped a hand to her mouth and covered it in face pack. “Don't let him in!” she ordered.
We all stood there in a state of suspended animation. The doorbell rang again.
“Why don't you sneak upstairs?” suggested Jazz. “We can let him in while you wash that stuff off.”
“Don't,” Geena said urgently, as Auntie made for the door. “He's looking through the glass.”
“Quick!” whispered Auntie. I think she was pale under all the bright green. “The back room!”
We dived through the sliding doors that divided the two rooms. Geena slid the doors quietly shut and we stood in a row with our backs against it like suspects in a police lineup.
The doorbell rang in
sistently.
“What now?” Jazz asked.
“He'll go away if we keep quiet,” said Auntie.
We waited. A few moments passed.
“He must have gone by now,” I whispered.
“No,” said Auntie in a strangled voice. “I don't think so.”
Mr. Arora and Molly Mahal were standing in the back garden, outside the French windows on the other side of the room. They were staring in at us. The looks on their faces told us they thought we were completely insane.
“Oh!” Auntie said in a quivering voice. She headed for the hall, stopping only to remove her foam toe separators. A fatal mistake. It slowed her down just long enough for Molly Mahal to unlock the back door and usher Mr. Arora inside.
“What are you all doing hiding in here?” Molly demanded, putting a videotape down on the table. “Didn't you hear the doorbell? I only just caught Jai as he was about to leave.”
Mr. Arora looked acutely uncomfortable. He kept stealing glances at Auntie's bright green face.
“Molly-ji invited me to tea today,” he mumbled. “I thought you knew.”
“Obviously I didn't,” Auntie said frostily. “I prefer to be more formally dressed when we have visitors. Excuse me.” And she swept out of the room, quite regally, considering.
“So that's why he said, ‘See you later, girls,'” Geena murmured in my ear.
“Wasn't it lucky I took the back-door key with me?” Molly went on, escorting Mr. Arora into the living room. “Or we wouldn't have been able to get in. Ah, tea! Do sit down.”
Mr. Arora looked a little wretched. He sat down and accepted a cup of tea, but he was fidgeting and staring at his shoes. Molly, however, didn't seem to care one bit. It wouldn't have surprised me if she hadn't even noticed that Auntie looked like a freak from outer space.
I tapped Geena and Jazz on the shoulders and pointed upstairs. We slipped silently away.
Auntie was in Geena's bedroom. She'd washed the cream off her face and was brushing out her wet hair with long, savage strokes. As we entered, she threw an icy glare in our direction.
“I'm not discussing what just happened,” she warned tightly.
“This isn't about Mr. Arora.” I sat down on the bed next to her. Geena and Jazz went to stand by the window. “It's something else.”
Auntie was still muttering under her breath and only giving me half her mind.
Bollywood Babes Page 9
