Bollywood Babes

by Narinder Dhami

  “Do you think Dad's happy?” I asked, plunging straight in.

  That got her attention. Auntie looked startled. “Johnny? Happy?”

  “Yes. Do you think Dad's all right?”

  “Well …” Auntie considered. “He misses your mum, of course.”

  “Do you think he misses being married?” I wanted to know.

  “Possibly. All the research shows that men who are married are happier than those who aren't,” Auntie replied. “I don't know about women, though.” She scowled.

  “So do you think Dad might want to get married again someday?”

  “Oh.” Auntie thought for a moment. “It's likely. He's still quite young, only in his early thirties. And when you girls leave home for university or whatever, he'll be on his own.”

  “You'll be here,” Jazz remarked.

  “Well”—Auntie pursed her lips, an enigmatic look on her face—“I may be here, I may not.”

  “Yes, you might get married yourself,” Geena said innocently.

  Auntie looked peevish. I hurried to ask my next question.

  “But you don't know if Dad's thinking about it at the moment?”

  Geena and Jazz were shifting restlessly by the window. I knew they were irritated by my roundabout route. But I had been hoping that Auntie, with her usual sharpness, would cut straight through to the heart of the matter and realize what we were worried about. I guess the incident with Mr. Arora had left her rattled.

  “Oh dear.” Auntie put down her hairbrush and turned to me. “Is that what you three girls are worrying about? Don't give it another thought. I'm sure your dad isn't ready to remarry just yet.”

  I realized I was going to have to spell it out for her. “So you don't think he wants to marry Molly Mahal?”

  The change in Auntie was quite stupendous. It was like watching a volcano come to life and bubble over. First her jaw dropped. Then her eyes widened. She put her hands up to her face. Her expression was one of sheer horror.

  “What!” she shrieked.

  I shrugged. “Mrs. Dhaliwal said she thought they might get married.”

  “No,” Auntie said through her teeth. It was almost a moan. “No. That's absolute rubbish.”

  “Oh, good,” I said, relieved. “So you agree with me and not Jazz.”

  “What about the Calvin Klein underwear?” Jazz cut in mutinously.

  Auntie swung round. “Your dad's been buying Calvin Klein underwear?”

  “Boxers,” Jazz said knowingly. “And he hasn't bought any new ones for ages.”

  Suddenly Auntie looked uncertain. “I would have noticed if something had been going on,” she muttered, almost to herself. “But Johnny has been different lately. I have noticed that.” She shook her head. “But it may be that he's just trying to get to grips with his life again. Sort himself out after what happened to your mum.”

  At that moment we heard the front door close.

  “Mr. Arora's gone,” said Jazz. “He didn't stay long.”

  “I think he felt bad about catching you unexpectedly like that,” I told Auntie.

  “So he should,” replied Auntie. But her face softened somewhat.

  “What are we going to do?” Jazz asked impatiently. “About Dad, I mean.”

  “We didn't think it was a good idea to ask Dad about Molly straight out,” added Geena. “We didn't want to put ideas in his head.”

  “You're right there,” Auntie agreed. “But there is something we can do.” She yanked off her dressing gown and began to dress. “We can try to get rid of Molly before things get too serious.”

  “How?” we three said together.

  “Leave it to me.” Auntie swept over to the door. “Come along.”

  We followed her downstairs. Molly was sitting straight-backed on the sofa, finishing a cup of Darjeeling tea and a ginger biscuit. She'd put on a bit of weight over the last ten days, and her new curves suited her. She didn't offer us either tea or biscuits. I don't think she was being rude; I think it just never crossed her mind to consider anyone else.

  Auntie collected the local newspaper from the magazine rack and sat down on the sofa. We followed her example. We were dying to see what she was going to do.

  “Molly-ji, we have to talk,” Auntie said briskly.

  “Oh?” A wary look flashed across Molly's face, reminding me of a hunted animal. “Do we?”

  “Well, obviously you're very welcome here”— Auntie managed to get the words out without choking, even with a semblance of warmth—“but we must start thinking about what's going to happen when you leave.”

  Molly didn't answer. She simply sat there gazing at Auntie, her eyebrows delicately arched in query.

  “So I thought it was time you found a job.” Auntie opened the newspaper at the “Jobs Vacant” section. She spread it out flat on the coffee table.

  “A job?” Molly Mahal sounded as if Auntie had offered to take her outside and garrotte her.

  “Yes. Now, let's see what's available.” Auntie scanned the newspaper. “What qualifications do you have?”

  Geena and Jazz nudged me. I knew what they were thinking. Auntie was onto a loser before she had even started.

  “I'm very good at dancing,” Molly replied dryly. “Oh, and I can mime to playback songs.”

  “Not much call for those skills, I'm afraid.” Auntie didn't miss a beat. “It says here that McDonald's are looking for staff.”

  “I'm a vegetarian,” Molly said quickly. “And the uniform wouldn't suit me.”

  “Here's one,” Auntie went on, undaunted. “Receptionist for upmarket hotel required. No previous experience necessary. Must be willing to work hard …” Her voice tailed away.

  Molly stood up. “I made my first film when I was eighteen years old,” she said in a clear voice. “I've never had another job.”

  Auntie held out the newspaper. “Well, you ought to think about it at least,” she said, quite gently.

  “It seems that I only have two choices,” Molly snapped, her nose in the air. “One, I return to the movies. Or two, I get married.”

  She turned and walked out of the room, leaving us all in a flutter.

  “See?” Jazz sat up in bed and poked me. “I knew I was right.” “If you don't stop saying that, you'll be oh so sorry.” I pushed my hair out of my eyes and glared at her.

  “Well, I am right,” Jazz insisted. “I mean, Molly's not going to get back into the movies, is she? You heard her yourself. Her only other option is to get married—Urrgh!”

  I'd just thumped her very satisfyingly round the head with my pillow. “Will you shut up? It doesn't mean she's going to marry Dad.”

  “What else does it mean?” Jazz spluttered. I didn't answer. I simply began rolling her up in the duvet like a hot dog.

  “Girls, time to get up.” Auntie poked her head round the door. She looked as if she hadn't slept very well either. There were black rings round her eyes, and her hair was a bird's nest.

  After Molly's worrying statement the day before, we'd had a council of war. Auntie had decided that she was going to try to talk to Dad at the weekend. Until then, we'd just have to wait and see what happened.

  Jazz was now rolled up tightly in the middle of the duvet, her head sticking out of one end and her feet out of the other. I sat on the edge of the duvet so she couldn't escape.

  “It's Friday,” I reminded Auntie. “There's another meeting at school about the party. You are coming, aren't you?”

  Auntie looked diffident. “I'm not sure,” she mumbled.

  “Oh, nonsense,” I said bracingly. “You don't want Mr. Arora to think you're embarrassed about yesterday, do you?”

  “Well, of course she's embarrassed,” Jazz cut in, trying to free herself. “She was standing in front of him with a bright green face. It doesn't get any more embarrassing than that.”

  “Thank you, Jasvinder,” said Auntie. “I'm grateful you spelled that out for me.”

  “We'll see you there,” I said with br
ight encouragement. “And we'll wait for you outside. So you don't have to go in on your own.”

  Auntie sighed and left.

  “Can you please unroll me now?” Jazz demanded. I grabbed the edge of the duvet and yanked it. Jazz tumbled out and landed on the floor with a shriek.

  Geena came in. “Shhh,” she said. “Our future stepmother's still in bed.”

  “Don't joke,” I snapped. “It's not funny.”

  “I thought humor was a good tension reliever,” Geena remarked.

  “Well, it's adding to my tension,” I muttered. I felt more responsible for the situation than the others. Of course I did. It had been my idea to invite Molly Mahal to stay. It had backfired horribly.

  I slipped out of the bedroom and went along the landing to the bathroom. The door was ajar. I could hear the radio. A breathy female voice was singing a sweet love song that had been in the charts for the last few weeks, and Dad was whistling merrily along.

  I stopped and looked in. He was standing in front of the mirror, a Santa Claus beard of white shaving foam on his face. I realized with a jolt how well he looked now. He'd been gaunt and thin, hollowcheeked, after Mum. Now he looked fit and relaxed again. Was it because of Molly Mahal?

  As all these thoughts passed through my mind, Dad caught my eye in the mirror. “Morning, Amber,” he said cheerfully. “I won't be a minute.”

  “All right, Dad.”

  I had a lump as big as a football in my throat. As I waited on the landing, I wondered what I'd done. We'd just had to cope with all the upheaval of Auntie moving in and turning our lives upside down. Surely the same thing couldn't, wouldn't happen all over again.

  “No, don't go in yet.” I stopped Geena from pulling open the glass doors that led into the upper school. “I told Auntie we'd wait for her out here so that we can go into the meeting together.”

  “I guess she does need some moral support,” Geena agreed. “I mean, she did make an almighty fool of herself in front of the guy she fancies to bits.”

  “I think she knows that,” I replied.

  “Hasn't today been awful?” Jazz complained, kicking at a Coke can that was rolling its way across the vast, landscaped expanse of the upper-school playground. “I haven't been able to stop thinking about Dad and Molly Mahal. Mademoiselle Véronique went mad at me because I got my French verbs all wrong.”

  “You hate French,” Geena pointed out. “You always get your verbs wrong.”

  “Well”—Jazz looked aggrieved—“at least I've got a reason this time.”

  “Mr. Arora could hardly look me in the eye this morning,” I remarked. “I think he feels really bad about yesterday, although he didn't say anything.”

  “Look,” remarked Geena, “here's Kim.”

  Kim was looking as full of the joys of spring as Dad. She bounded over the crossing, waving cheerily at a lorry driver who stopped for her. Her face changed when she saw us, though. You could almost say it dropped.

  “Hello,” she said in an almost normal voice. “It's nearly time for the meeting to start, isn't it?”

  “We're waiting for Auntie,” I explained.

  “Oh.” Kim frowned. She looked worried. Why, I didn't have a clue.

  “Don't let us keep you,” Jazz said kindly. “You go in if you want to.”

  “No,” replied Kim, too quickly. “I'll wait with you.”

  “Seen Molly recently?” I asked.

  “Seen her?” Kim looked flustered. “No. Not seen her.”

  There was something going on. In another moment the new assertive Kim would be having one of her old panic attacks. I wondered if she really did know anything about Molly's intentions toward Dad, and if that was the reason why she was blushing and shuffling her feet and looking agonized.

  I was deciding whether to quiz Kim there and then, when Auntie's VW turned into the car park.

  “Oh, here she is.” Kim looked utterly relieved. “I'll see you inside. I've just remembered, I left my science homework behind.”

  Without another word she shot off, crossed the road again and disappeared back into the lowerschool playground.

  Geena shrugged. “The strain of being permanently assertive must have turned her brain,” she remarked. “What's the matter with the girl?”

  “There's something going on,” I said with grim certainty. “And I, for one, intend to find out what it is.”

  “Thank you for waiting, girls,” Auntie said as she joined us. She looked pretty in a stylish black trouser suit and white shirt, but she seemed nervous. “Let's get this over with.”

  The “volunteers” were milling around in the hall, waiting for Mr. Grimwade to show. There was a buzz of excited chatter. A rumor was going round that Mr. Morgan had been called before the local education authority to explain his “budget,” and everyone was talking about it.

  Mr. Arora was on the watch for us. As soon as we entered the hall, he rushed toward us. His face was pink and his tie was askew. He seemed very embarrassed.

  “Oh, hello,” he said breathlessly to Auntie. “Thank you for coming. I was hoping you would.”

  “Did you think I wouldn't?” Auntie inquired coolly.

  “No. Yes.” Mr. Arora looked quite wretched. “Er— I'm sorry about yesterday.”

  We all looked expectantly at Auntie.

  She shrugged. “Forget it,” she said. “Well. Thank you.” Mr. Arora seemed more embarrassed, not less. “You—er—look very nice today.”

  “Better than yesterday, you mean?” said Auntie. “That's not difficult.” But she smiled. Mr. Arora smiled too. We all smiled.

  We could quite possibly have stood there smiling for some time. At that moment, though, Mr. Grimwade appeared, looking rather bad-tempered.

  “Sir,” said Jack Freeman, a rather stupid boy who's in Geena's year, “is it true that Mr. Morgan's going to prison for spending all the school's money?”

  “Don't be ridiculous, boy,” boomed Mr. Grimwade. “The school has plenty of money. Plenty, I say.”

  “There's at least five pounds in the teachers' biscuit fund,” offered Mr. Hernandez.

  Mr. Grimwade glared at him and made a great show of bustling to his seat. Everybody did likewise.

  “Shall we sit together?” Mr. Arora took Auntie's arm. “There are some details I need to discuss with you.”

  I looked sideways at Geena and Jazz. It seemed as if the romance between Auntie and Mr. Arora was back on track. Just at that very millisecond they were hovering on the brink of a new understanding, a new relationship, perhaps even a new future.

  This was before Molly Mahal walked in.

  The door was flung open. Molly swept into the hall, a stunning vision in an aquamarine lengha stitched with gold. At the moment she appeared, the sun finally burst out from behind the gray clouds, where it had been hiding all day, and sent a brilliant shaft of light through the huge glass windows. It lit Molly Mahal with a radiant sunburst so that she glittered and shone all over.

  Everyone was struck dumb. Always one with an eye to the main chance, Molly paused in the doorway. Then she nodded regally at the assembled throng, and moved gracefully toward Mr. Arora. I noticed Kim behind her.

  “It's Molly,” Jazz spluttered, somewhat unnecessarily.

  “Good afternoon,” Molly said graciously, holding out her hand to Mr. Arora. Beside him Auntie had turned to stone like a character in a fairy tale. “I hope I'm not interrupting anything.”

  “No, no, no.” At first, Mr. Arora seemed incapable of stringing a sentence together. Then he rallied. “We're very pleased to see you.” He turned to Mr. Grimwade, who was goggle-eyed, along with the rest of us. “This is Molly Mahal.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath, which visibly gratified Molly.

  “What is she doing here?” whispered Geena.

  “I have no idea,” I replied. “But I think we're about to find out.”

  I had the strangest feeling that we were all extras in a movie, directed by and starring Molly Mahal.
So far, she hadn't told the rest of us what the plot was all about. She was the only one who knew.

  “Miss Mahal …” Mr. Grimwade took her hand and held it for about a minute longer than was necessary. “A great honor.”

  “Thank you,” Molly said graciously. She smiled dazzlingly. “I'm sorry it's taken me so long to make up my mind. But now I'm here to tell you that”—she paused for theatrical effect—“I would so love to be the guest of honor at your party.”

  There was a gasp of delight, followed by a ripple of applause. I stared at Molly, wondering why she'd reached this decision all of a sudden. Maybe she'd always intended to do it and had just enjoyed keeping everyone hanging on and being the center of attention. Or maybe it was part of some other great plan. As ever with her, it was hard to know.

  There was a big fat fuss going on now. Mr. Arora had abandoned Auntie to find a “suitable” chair for Molly Mahal, and had left the hall in a great rush. Mr. Hernandez gave up the cushion he'd brought along for his bad back to Molly. Everyone crowded round her introducing themselves. Meanwhile Auntie stood to one side, looking—well, poleaxed, I think would just about describe it.

  “What's Molly up to?” I whispered to Geena and Jazz. “Why's she doing this?”

  “Who knows?” Geena shrugged. “One thing's for sure. I don't suppose she's doing it out of the goodness of her heart. There'll be another motive in there somewhere.”

  “Well, of course there is,” Jazz said in an exasperated voice. “Don't you see? She's doing it to impress Dad.”

  That actually did sound horribly plausible.

  “And what's Kim's role in all of this?” Geena demanded.

  “That's precisely what I'm going to ask her,” I replied. But I thought I already knew.

  I dodged my way round the crowd toward Kim. She saw me coming and made a determined effort to melt into the excited throng around Molly Mahal. But I cut off her escape route with some swift footwork.

  “Hello, Amber,” she said. But assertively speaking, it was a very weak attempt.

  “All right,” I said, “I'll save your blushes. You've been Molly Mahal's spy in the camp, haven't you?”