Miki shrugged. “Thanks, you've been a great help,” he said in a heavily sarcastic tone before walking off.
Kim was looking disappointed. “You could have been a bit more forthcoming,” she muttered.
“And told him what we really think of her?” I inquired. That sent her packing.
There was another rustle of anticipation as Mr. Gill stepped up to the microphone, which had been placed at the side of the Ford Ka. The contest was about to start.
“Welcome,” began Mr. Gill loudly. The microphone screeched and everyone covered their ears. It took a few minutes to adjust it, and then Mr. Gill began again.
“We are gathered here today,” he said, with great pomp, “to witness the ultimate endurance test. A battle of wills. A show of mental toughness and physical stamina …”
“He's seen the Web site,” Jazz whispered in my ear.
“We have three contestants here today who are going to strive to do their very, very best,” Mr. Gill went on. “And here at my Kwality Kar emporium, we also strive to give you the very, very best. For example, we have a Honda Civic, a very nice family car, going cheap for just—”
He was elbowed out of the way by Miki Chowdhury.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” he said. “Please welcome the editor of Masala Express, Mrs. Anjali Desai.”
There was a very faint smattering of applause, but people were also muttering with dissatisfaction. It was one minute to five o'clock and everyone was longing for the contest to start.
“May I say …,” began Anjali Desai, who was all teeth and big hair and shiny gold jewelry. “May I say how honored I am to be here for today's competition. Masala Express has a very important place in the Asian community, and—”
“Get on with it,” called a voice that sounded suspiciously like George Botley's.
Mrs. Desai drilled a contemptuous stare into the crowd. “Our contestants in today's Touch the Car competition are Mr. Vijay Anand, Mr. Akbar Khan”—a few people clapped—“and Miss Molly Mahal, the well-known Bollywood legend.”
The cheer that rang out almost lifted the roof off the showroom.
“No bias there at all then,” Geena muttered.
On cue, the office door opened. “We Are the Champions” by Queen boomed out of the speakers, and we all pushed forward to get a better look. It was rather an anticlimax when two men trotted out. The first was short and plumply rounded and shoehorned into a shiny blue tracksuit. The second was tall and thin, hunched over like a mournful heron in shorts and singlet. There was no sign of Molly Mahal.
Mr. Anand and Mr. Khan advanced to the platform.
“Mr. Anand?” Anjali Desai pulled the short, tubby man over to the microphone. “What are your battle tactics?”
“I plan to keep myself going with high-energy snacks and plenty of water during our breaks,” puffed Mr. Anand, who seemed breathless after just the short walk from office to platform. “I'm going to win this contest!” He raised a clenched fist, and there was a faint cheer from some of his supporters in the crowd.
“And Mr. Khan?” Mrs. Desai turned to the mournful heron. “How about you?”
Poor Mr. Khan. Nobody heard a word he said. For that was the moment Molly Mahal chose to make her entrance.
The office door opened again. Molly stepped out, and a hush descended on the whole audience. No tracksuits or shorts for her, but a gold sari, shimmering with deep purple embroidery, and high-heeled gold sandals. Her hair was swept up on top of her head and woven with purple blossoms. I could not have come up with a less suitable outfit for a Touch the Car competition if I'd thought about it for a week.
“That's not one of my saris,” Auntie said faintly. “Where did she get it?”
“Those shoes,” breathed Geena. “She won't be able to stand for five minutes.”
Seeming confident and relaxed, Molly Mahal walked through the audience toward the platform. She held her head high. Everyone was spellbound. The glossy sheen of celebrity was working its magic on everyone.
The clapping began. A wave of thunderous applause that reached its crescendo as Molly Mahal stepped onto the stage. There was absolutely no doubt who most of the audience wanted to win.
“Miss Mahal, welcome!” fussed Mrs. Desai, taking her arm. Mr. Khan, who had been rudely shoved aside, looked rather irate. “How do you intend to approach this contest? Tell us something of your tactics.”
“My tactics?” Molly repeated huskily. You could have heard a pin drop in the showroom. “My tactics are simple. I just want to do my best, even if I don't manage to win.”
There was another rousing cheer, although Mr. Grimwade looked a bit concerned. Molly inclined her head graciously at the crowd and waved. Her fans went wild.
“Now, the rules,” announced Mrs. Desai. “The winner will be the person who remains standing and touching the car for the longest time. Contestants will be disqualified if they remove their hand from the car or if they fall asleep. There will be breaks of fifteen minutes every two hours, and twenty-five minutes every six hours.” She looked sternly at the contestants. “Contestants will also be disqualified if they overrun their breaks. A representative from Masala Express will constantly be on duty, and their decision is final. Is that clear? Then let the contest begin.”
There was a rustle of anticipation as the three contestants took their places around the Ford Ka.
“Ready!” shouted Mrs. Desai. “Three … two … one. Hands on the car!”
There was a collective intake of breath as Molly Mahal, Mr. Anand and Mr. Khan placed their palms against the Ka's shiny silver surface. This was followed by loud applause. For ten minutes there was dead silence as we watched them with eager faces. Then people started coughing, shuffling their feet and whispering to each other.
What everyone had failed to realize was that watching three people standing touching a car is actually infinitely boring.
“It'll be more interesting when they get tired,” Geena assured us after twenty minutes. “They'll start lurching around and hallucinating and falling asleep.”
“So will I, if I have to watch any more of this,” Jazz complained. “I'm hungry.”
“We can't go yet,” said Dad. “We have to stay and give Molly a bit of support.”
Mr. Anand was already looking fidgety. He kept rocking backward and forward on the balls of his feet, and staring at the clock on the wall every minute. Mr. Khan was hunched over even more, sighing loudly at short intervals. Only Molly stood still, her back straight, her head up, poised and still.
Over the next hour or so, people began to drift away, looking rather apologetic. By the time the second hour came round, half of the people in the showroom had left, and Jazz was whining like a five-year-old.
“Can't we go now? I'm hungry.”
Auntie tapped Dad's arm. “I think we should go home and eat, Johnny.”
“You take the girls,” Dad said absently, his eyes fixed on Molly. “I'll stay a bit longer.”
We slipped quietly over to the door. Molly must have seen us leaving, but didn't betray it by so much as a flicker of an eyelash. Not even when I gave her a little wave.
“That was rather stupid, wasn't it?” said Geena. “What if she'd taken her hand off the car to wave back at you?”
That hadn't occurred to me, I must say. “I imagine Mr. Grimwade would have throttled me,” I replied.
Mr. Grimwade and Mr. Arora were still there, tucking into boxes of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Kim was with Miki Chowdhury, but Leo had gone, probably to do his paper deliveries. I couldn't see George Botley, either.
We made our way to Auntie's car.
“Do you think Molly will win?” asked Jazz.
“Not in those shoes,” Auntie replied.
“It'll probably be all over by tomorrow morning,” Geena said wisely.
She was wrong, however. During the evening we watched TV while receiving regular calls and text messages from Dad. Nothing much seemed to be happening. At one point there wa
s a minor bit of excitement when it was thought Mr. Anand had given up and gone home. But it turned out that the smell of the KFC boxes had been too much for him and he'd popped out in his break to buy one.
Dad still wasn't back when we went to bed. Of course, Jazz thought this was of great significance.
“He won't desert Molly in her hour of need,” she said. “He'll probably stay there all night.”
“That's ridiculous,” I said sharply. “Of course he won't.”
But the idea must have got right inside my head, because I slept very badly. Dreams of Dad and Molly Mahal entwined with periods of wakefulness and fighting Jazz for the duvet. We both woke up heavyeyed and bickering on Saturday morning, wondering what was going on at the Kwality Kar Emporium. We argued our way down the stairs to the kitchen, where Auntie was sitting with a cup of tea.
“Anything happen?” I demanded, without so much as a good morning.
Auntie shrugged. “No. Apart from the fact that your dad stayed there all night.”
“Ha!” said Jazz triumphantly.
“We'd better take him some breakfast.” Auntie rose and took two flasks from the cupboard. “Go and get dressed. Oh, and kick Geena out of bed.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Two flasks?”
Auntie looked uncomfortable. “Well, I suppose Molly could do with a cup of tea herself.”
“You know,” said Jazz, “you're quite nice, really.”
“Thank you,” Auntie replied, trying not to look pleased.
We levered Geena out of bed and were ready to leave in about half an hour. I was curious to find out how many people would still be at the Kwality Kar Emporium. The answer was, not many. Mrs. Macey and Kim had gone, so had Anjali Desai. Mr. Grimwade and Mr. Arora were still there, though. They were sitting in the corner fast asleep, with their heads on each other's shoulders. Mr. Grimwade's snores could be heard halfway down the Broadway. Mr. Gill, the owner, was slumped on one of the sofas, yawning widely. Dad was next to him. Apart from that, there were only a very few other people there, all looking baggy-eyed and yawning nonstop.
There was also no sign of Molly Mahal or the other contestants.
“Is it all over, Dad?” I asked. “Who won?”
Dad shook his head. “No, they're having a break.” He yawned. “I don't know how Molly's coping. She must be exhausted.”
“We've brought you some tea.” Auntie handed him one of the flasks.
“I'll take the other one to Molly,” I volunteered. I was secretly very curious to see how she was holding up.
“She's in her room,” Dad said with another almighty yawn. He seemed too weak to unscrew the flask and handed it back for Auntie to open, like a child. “Miki Chowdhury wanted to talk to her.”
I took the carrier bag from Auntie. I thought someone from Masala Express might stop me going backstage, as it were, but nobody took any notice. I passed through the door and into a wide corridor. There were washrooms and the main office. The door was open. Mr. Anand was flat out on the sofa breathing heavily, while Mr. Khan was standing on his head chanting some mystic prayer. Neither of them looked like they were going to last another five minutes.
Further down the corridor I could hear the murmur of voices. I followed the sound.
I wished I hadn't. I simply wasn't expecting to hear what I heard next.
When Miki Chowdhury finally came out of the room, I ducked out of sight round the corner. I waited until I heard his footsteps fade away down the corridor. Then I pushed open the door. Molly had been directing this movie for far too long. It was time someone else had a turn.
The room wasn't really much more than a big cupboard. But someone had tried to make it more comfortable by squeezing in an armchair and a tiny coffee table. Molly was crouched in the armchair, her bare feet resting on the table. Her toes were swollen and red. There were dark circles under her eyes.
“I've brought you some tea,” I said coldly. I was still reeling in shock from the conversation I'd listened to. “Or maybe you'd like some champagne to celebrate. Oh. I forgot,” I went on sarcastically. “You haven't won. Yet.”
Molly didn't look guilty at all. “Do you often sneak around listening to other people's conversations?” she inquired.
“Is that worse than cheating?” I asked. “You tell me.”
Silence.
“Amber,” Molly began softly, “you don't know what you're talking about.”
“Oh, but I do,” I said. “Masala Express want you to win the competition, and they're going to fix it so you do.”
It will be easy tonight. There'll be hardly anyone here. We can disqualify the other two for overrunning their breaks. No one will know, and they'll be too tired to care. …
Miki Chowdhury's whispered words were still running through my head.
Molly sighed. “No, Amber, you don't understand,” she said. “I don't mean the contest. Publicity. Press. Media. How it works.”
“I don't want to.” My voice shook a little. “It stinks.”
“It's a game,” Molly went on, ignoring me and speaking half to herself. She seemed too tired to care about putting on an act anymore. “It's all a game. Who do you think cares if Mr. Anand or Mr. Khan wins that car? No one. But if I win”—she turned the full force of her catlike eyes on me—“then it's a news story. It'll be everywhere. All over the Indian press and TV. Here and in India. Masala Express get great publicity and so—” She stopped herself, then continued, “So does the school. Everybody's happy. Don't you see?”
“But it's not fair,” I said. Even to my own ears, I sounded like a five-year-old.
“This is how it works, Amber,” Molly replied wearily, rubbing her eyes. “Don't tell me you never read gossip about celebrities in your glossy magazines? Half of it isn't true, do you realize that?”
“Of course I do,” I mumbled. I wasn't stupid.
Molly was barely listening. “Some of it is planted by their PR people. Some of it is made up by the press. We feed them, and they feed on us. Like I said, it's a game. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose.” Her face shadowed briefly. “Like I said to you before, there's always a price to pay.”
I couldn't speak. I could—just—understand what she meant. But it felt wrong.
“Molly.” Dad put his head round the door. “Your break's nearly over.”
He withdrew. Molly lowered her feet from the table and wiggled her toes.
“So you're really going to do it?” I asked. “You're going to cheat?”
“It's called giving everyone what they want,” replied Molly.
“Well, I think you're wrong,” I said shakily. “I can't believe you'd do that. Not when all those people out there think you're so wonderful.”
I walked out. I was trembling. It was almost the longest conversation we'd ever had, and it had made me feel wretched.
“Amber?” Auntie studied me closely as I returned to the showroom. “What's wrong?”
“I'm all right,” I said. “Just a bit tired.”
“How's Molly?” asked Geena.
“Oh, she's just fine,” I said grimly.
The showroom was filling up again. There were all the usual suspects. Kim, Mrs. Macey, George Botley, Mrs. Dhaliwal, Mr. Attwal and Leo. Mr. Grimwade and Mr. Arora had woken up and were yawning and stretching. They both looked embarrassed at being caught in such a cozy huddle.
There also seemed to be more reporters than yesterday, all clustered round Miki Chowdhury. There were several men and women clutching notebooks, and in one corner were a couple of men with TV cameras balanced on their shoulders.
“One's filming for an Indian TV station,” said Kim, who had edged her way over to me. “And one's from the local news. Miki thinks someone from a national newspaper might come too!” She looked excited. “And there are reporters from other Indian newspapers and magazines. Miki says it's great publicity for Masala Express, as well as the school.”
“Really,” I said coldly. “And what else does Miki say?”
Kim looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing.” I stopped myself from saying more. What was happening was wrong. But telling someone didn't seem the right thing to do either. Besides, who would believe me? I'd probably get lynched by a mad mob of Molly Mahal fans.
“Something's going on,” Geena said, as Kim left us. “What is it, Amber?”
Jazz was hovering around too, looking curious.
“Nothing at all,” I said brightly.
“Oh, you're far too upbeat.” Geena stared closely at me. “Is it something to do with Molly?”
I was saved from answering by the entrance of all three contestants, to thunderous applause and whoops. Molly looked calm and relaxed. I tried to catch her eye, but she stared straight ahead and wouldn't look at me as she took her place on the platform again. I did notice that she'd left the gold sandals behind and was wearing her trainers. I didn't realize the significance of this until later.
The contest began again. By now the showroom was packed to bursting. There were people crammed into the yard, too, steaming up the windows as they pressed their faces against the glass. Because it was Saturday, people were shopping on the Broadway, and kept popping in to see what was going on. It added enormously to the crowd.
10:20 a.m. The air-conditioning failed. Everyone began to melt. It took a few frantic phone calls by Mr. Gill to get it fixed, but it was boiling hot for over two hours. Mr. Anand must have sweated off half his body weight by then. Dr. Patel, from the surgery across the road, was on stand-by.
11:35 a.m. Mr. Arora sneaked off home, looking as wrung out as a wet dishcloth. For a moment I thought he was going to come over and speak to us before he left, but he didn't. Mr. Grimwade remained behind, looking disheveled and with the beginnings of a scary beard.
1:15 p.m. George Botley shambled over to us and asked me if I wanted to go to McDonald's with him. I sent him away with a flea in his ear.
By this time the contest had been going on for about twenty hours. Almost a whole day. The strain was beginning to show. Mr. Anand was perspiring heavily, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket every few minutes to wipe his streaming face. Mr. Khan didn't look much better. Molly was holding up well. But then she knew when the contest was going to end, didn't she? She only had to wait until the evening.
Bollywood Babes Page 13
