Bollywood Babes

by Narinder Dhami

  “Johnny, let's go home,” Auntie said at two o'clock. “You're exhausted. And we must eat.”

  “All right,” Dad said, following up with a jawcracking yawn. “I can come back later.”

  “Can I come with you?” I asked. “And stay all night, I mean.” If Molly Mahal was going to cheat, I would take on the role of her conscience, I decided. I was going to be here to watch her do it. It wouldn't make any difference to her, but it might ease my own feelings of guilt.

  “Now, why would you want to do that?” Geena said thoughtfully, as we pushed through the crowd.

  “No reason,” I replied. Jazz poked me violently in the back. “Ouch. Don't do that, please.”

  “Tell us then,” she demanded.

  “There's nothing to tell,” I replied.

  Oh, how I wished that was true.

  The first glimmer of excitement happened that night at just before 1 a.m. We had returned to the showroom a couple of hours earlier. At first, only Dad and I were going. Then Geena, determined to find out what was going on, said she'd come too. Jazz didn't want to be left out, but brought her sleeping bag. Auntie decided that if everyone else was going, she might as well come along for the ride.

  There had still been quite a few people earlier, but now, after midnight, there was almost no one. Even Mr. Grimwade had staggered out an hour or so before. The only person left who I knew was Miki Chowdhury, and I eyed him with dislike.

  The three contestants were now looking exhausted and stressed after almost thirty-two hours. Mr. Anand was lurching about and muttering to himself, only just managing to keep in contact with the car. Mr. Khan kept standing on one foot to relieve tired legs, which made him look even more like a heron. Molly was trying to remain upright, but was swaying slightly and kept closing her eyes.

  I wondered when Miki Chowdhury planned to get the other two disqualified.

  Then, suddenly, Mr. Anand stumbled forward, swaying dizzily. Just for a second, his hand came off the car and flapped about in the air.

  “That's it!” Miki Chowdhury shouted triumphantly, jumping forward. “Mr. Anand, you're out!”

  There were a few weak protests from a couple of people, who must have been Mr. Anand's relatives. Miki took no notice and waved them aside. Looking disgruntled, the family moved in and bore a dazed Mr. Anand away.

  “Did I miss something?” Jazz, who had been rolled up in her sleeping bag in the corner, sat up.

  “Yes,” replied Geena. “Mr. Anand's a goner.”

  “Oh, really!” Jazz said crossly. “I was only having a little nap. Couldn't he have hung on for five more measly minutes?”

  “It seems not,” I said. “It was very inconsiderate of him.”

  Neither Molly nor Mr. Khan showed any reaction to Mr. Anand keeling over. Mr. Khan was too busy muttering to himself, and Molly had her eyes closed again. I checked my watch. It was time for a fifteenminute break. At Miki's signal, Molly and Mr. Khan stumbled over to the door and disappeared.

  My throat tightened up. I wondered what would happen.

  “Amber, you're as jumpy as a nest full of ants,” remarked Geena as we waited for them to return. “Are you going to tell us what's going on, or must we use force?”

  I did not reply. When the office door opened, I was watching. My insides were twisted and tied up in intricate knots. I felt sick.

  Molly Mahal came out, followed by Mr. Khan. Both of them resumed their places at the car.

  The same thing happened after the 3 a.m. break. By this time my eyes were red and gritty and sore. Geena had squashed into Jazz's sleeping bag with her. Both of them were asleep. Dad was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, his head on his knees. Auntie had found a secretary's chair and was perched on it, fast asleep, rotating gently round and round. I was the only one who was awake. I was sick with exhaustion and beginning to think that it was me who was hallucinating. But at last, as the time ticked round to the 5 a.m. break, it finally began to penetrate my dazed skull. Mr. Khan was still in the contest. Miki Chowdhury was looking annoyed. There'd been no cheating. Molly wanted to win fair and square.

  I wanted to believe that what I'd said had made a difference, but I thought it was much more likely that Molly was nervous I might tell somebody what I'd overheard. Like Dad, for instance. That would have ruined her great plan.

  People started arriving again at about eight o'clock in the morning. This time the crush had to be seen to be believed. There were more newspaper reporters and four cameramen this time. Mrs. Dhaliwal almost had a fight with one who got in her way. The showroom filled up in record time, and still there were people flooding in the gates and trying to push their way through the doors.

  I looked round with bloodshot eyes. Kim was back, looking as fresh as a daisy; Mrs. Macey was there, and Leo, hugging a huge bag of Sunday newspapers. Mr. Grimwade and Mr. Arora, shaved and washed, had returned too.

  In the middle of all of them stood Molly and Mr. Khan. “Stood” doesn't really describe it as they were both barely upright. Molly was talking to herself. She seemed to be repeating dialogue from her films. I could catch bits from Amir Ladka, Garib Ladka. Mr. Khan was just groaning. They had been standing there now, with only short breaks, for forty hours.

  At precisely 9:42 a.m. it finally happened. Mr. Khan's legs began to collapse. His ankles seemed to go first. He wobbled. Then his legs concertinaed underneath him, and he collapsed in a huddled mass on the floor.

  There was shocked silence for a moment. Then a huge cheer almost lifted off the roof. I glanced across at Miki Chowdhury and Anjali Desai. They both looked utterly delighted.

  “Mr. Khan is disqualified,” announced Mrs. Desai, barely able to control a triumphant smirk. “The winner of our Touch the Car competition is Bollywood legend Miss Molly Mahal!”

  Molly seemed too dazed to take in what was happening. She remained standing with her hand on the car until Miki Chowdhury and Mr. Grimwade rushed over to escort her to a chair. A glass of water was handed to her.

  I watched in silence as there was more tumultuous applause. At least she'd won it fairly. Maybe what I'd said had made a difference. I couldn't know. I was completely sure she'd never tell me.

  Molly was struggling to her feet, indicating that she wanted to say something.

  “Miss Mahal, congratulations on your fabulous victory,” proclaimed Mrs. Desai. She thrust the microphone under Molly's nose. “What do you plan to do with your prize?”

  Mr. Grimwade was pushing his way forward, his face alight with expectation. I glanced at Dad. He was beaming with delight.

  “I will be selling the car,” said Molly faintly. “And I plan to donate the money to a very good cause.”

  Mr. Grimwade looked thrilled.

  “This young man is Leo Barnett.” Molly motioned to Leo to come toward her. He did so, looking puzzled. “Leo has a brother who needs an operation very seriously. To have that operation, the family are saving to take him to America. I intend to sell the car and donate the money to the Barnett family.”

  There was a loud gasp. Leo clapped his hand to his mouth, looking stunned. Then a roar of applause and approval and hands clapping as if they couldn't clap any harder. Cameras clicked and people surged forward to get a better view.

  Molly Mahal had really outdone herself this time.

  And so …

  For the next week, Molly was everywhere. She made the local newspapers and the local TV news. The whole of the next issue of Masala Express was devoted to her. She even got a column or two in some of the national papers, and one had a small photo. Asha, Auntie's friend in Delhi, phoned to tell us that the contest had also been shown on Indian TV. The Indian press at home and back in India were all wild to interview her.

  It seemed ridiculous. Becoming famous again simply for touching a car was ridiculous. But then celebrities were doing crazy things all over the place to get noticed. Living in jungles, being shipwrecked on desert islands or locked up in houses with each other for weeks.
Touching a car didn't really seem so stupid after all.

  Molly was a local heroine. We hardly ever saw her. She spent hours on the phone, and couldn't leave our house without people asking for her autograph. She was offered free meals in restaurants, free clothes, shoes, jewelry, makeup. Leo's mum and dad invited her to visit, and there were more pictures of her in the local newspaper with Leo's brother, Keith. Although Mr. Grimwade was a bit peeved to miss out on the car, he couldn't complain about the publicity. The Bollywood party was completely sold out, and several local Indian businessmen had made big donations to the school fund after Molly had sweet-talked them into it.

  Molly loved all the attention.

  But she and I never discussed what had happened that night.

  The day of the party came round. No lessons for us. We spent the whole day, along with the other volunteers, decorating the school hall for the evening's festivities. Auntie came along to supervise, and studiously avoided Mr. Arora for the whole seven hours. He, in turn, strenuously avoided her, too.

  “Look at that pair,” Geena said. We watched Mr. Arora take an elaborate route past baskets of flowers and heaps of tinsel and piles of rolled-up film posters, just so that he didn't have to walk past Auntie. “Couldn't you just bang their heads together?”

  “Wait till tonight,” I predicted. “Molly will be the belle of the ball, and Auntie will be seriously displeased.”

  “Well, she'd better get used to it,” Jazz muttered. “Molly's everywhere like a rash at the moment.”

  “Including all over Dad?” asked Geena gravely.

  “That's something we have to sort out, straight after the party.” I looked from one to the other. “I mean, like we said, there's no reason why she has to stay with us any longer then.”

  “Oh, my,” said Geena. “I can just see us chucking her out onto the streets with nowhere to go. That would be headline news in Masala Express.”

  “INDIAN FAMILY IN HOSPITALITY SHOCKER— HEARTLESS DHILLONS EVICT HEROINE MOLLY,” Jazz speculated.

  I groaned. The situation seemed to have become more complicated, not less.

  Kim was sitting on the other side of the hall, concentrating on threading flower heads onto string. I went up to her.

  “What are you wearing tonight?” I asked.

  Kim glanced up. “Oh, just my jeans.”

  “I brought a suit for you to borrow,” I told her. “A pink one. I think it will fit you. There's a bindi to match.”

  “Thanks, Amber.” Kim looked thrilled.

  “That's all right.” I left her surrounded by flowers. We were still friends. It wasn't Kim's fault that she'd heard the siren call of Molly Mahal and become her devoted slave.

  When it was finished, the hall was spectacular. Painted film posters were fixed to the walls; sequined and embroidered red, gold and white saris swathed the windows; there were garlands of flowers, gold foil paper chains, shiny tinsel and tiny white fairy lights everywhere.

  “It looks wonderful,” said Mr. Grimwade, who had appeared, magically, as the last decoration was pinned into place. “Well done, all of you.”

  Auntie was silent as we left to go home and change. She seemed tired and depressed. There wasn't a party atmosphere at all, not in our house at least. It didn't seem the right moment to bring up the question of what we were going to do about Molly after the party. Not then.

  But nothing—nothing —could have prepared us for what happened when we arrived home.

  “I'm hungry,” Jazz said, throwing her bag onto the coffee table. “What's for tea?”

  “Nothing,” Auntie replied unsympathetically. “We'll be eating later at the party.”

  I left them beginning what promised to be quite a bitter argument and slipped upstairs. I was going to sneak in and take the first shower to make sure I had plenty of hot water.

  I never got to the bathroom. Molly's bedroom door stood wide, and I glanced in casually, as you do. I noticed that the battered suitcase, which had stood in the corner ever since she arrived, had gone.

  Puzzled, I peered into the room. I opened the wardrobe. Auntie's clothes were still there, but Molly's weren't. I could not believe my eyes.

  “She's gone!” I almost tripped over my own feet as I dashed back down the stairs. I could hardly believe that our problem had been so simply and easily solved. “Molly's left. She's moved out.”

  “Who's gone?” asked Jazz stupidly.

  Auntie and Geena stared at me.

  “Molly,” I replied. “Her suitcase's gone, and all her stuff.”

  Jazz dashed out of the room and up the stairs as if she didn't quite believe me and wanted to see for herself. Auntie sat down rather heavily on the sofa as if her legs had suddenly collapsed beneath her.

  “She's really gone?” Geena exclaimed. “And she didn't leave a note or anything?”

  “It doesn't look like it,” I replied, suddenly feeling a little hurt. But why should I expect anything more where Molly Mahal was concerned?

  I remembered when Auntie had left us so abruptly, just a month or two before, to return to India. We'd gone after her and brought her back. We wouldn't be going after Molly Mahal.

  “Oh my God,” Auntie groaned. “What about the party?”

  Geena let out a shriek, and I put my hands to my face. The horror. We had five hundred guests who had paid to see a Bollywood film star, and now we didn't have a clue where that film star was.

  We heard Jazz clattering down the stairs again. Her face was a picture. “Dad's gone with her,” she said tragically. “They must have eloped.”

  “What!” Auntie screamed.

  “Don't be ridiculous,” I snapped. “Jazz, this is no time to play the drama queen,” Geena pointed out irritably. “Be quiet.”

  “His best suit's gone,” Jazz said in a small voice. “And his posh shirt and tie. And his shaving stuff.”

  My knees wobbled under me and I clutched at Geena for support.

  “Are you sure?” Auntie demanded.

  Jazz nodded, her bottom lip trembling.

  Auntie muttered something under her breath that might have been a prayer, and dived for the phone. She punched in Dad's mobile number, and we all waited.

  “I can't get through,” she said, banging the receiver down. She then tried his direct line at work. This time, an answerphone message. Dad wouldn't be in the office again that day.

  We stood there looking at each other as if we were completely paralyzed. I couldn't begin to untangle the heaving mass of emotions inside me.

  “Dad wouldn't do something like this,” said Geena at last. But it wasn't convincing.

  “They must have decided to get married and tell us later,” Jazz said, her eyes huge. “You know, a fat accomplice.”

  “A fait accompli,” I said absently. For once, I did not have a single idea in my head. Not a one. I looked appealingly at Auntie. And I can honestly say, for almost the first time since she moved in, that I was just so glad she was there.

  “I'm sure there's a simple explanation.” Auntie visibly pulled herself together. “Did any of you see him this morning?”

  We shook our heads.

  “He was in the bathroom when we left,” said Geena. “We went early because of the party.”

  “He seemed all right last night,” I added. He didn't seem like a man who was planning to run away and get married the following day.

  “Geena, get your mobile and send your dad a text message,” Auntie ordered. “We can't do anything until we find out where he is, but we'll have to let the school know that it's very unlikely Molly will be at the party tonight.”

  I felt faint at the thought of five hundred guests turning up, and no Molly.

  “Maybe he and Molly will arrive at the party and announce that they've got married,” suggested Jazz, looking rather sick.

  “So why has Molly taken all her stuff with her then?” I demanded.

  We stared blankly at each other. There didn't seem to be a suitable explanation to cover
all the options.

  Looking grim, Auntie dialed the school's number. “No one's answering,” she said in frustration.

  “Everyone's probably gone home early to get ready for the party,” I said. “We could try Mr. Grimwade or Mr. Arora at home.”

  “Except we don't have their numbers,” Jazz pointed out.

  Auntie cleared her throat. “Actually, I have Jai Arora's number,” she said in a too-casual voice. “He gave it to me when we decided to organize the party together.”

  Even Jazz was too worried about Dad to make any sort of knowing comment. We waited as Auntie tapped in the number. To our relief, it was answered almost straight away.

  “Hello? May I speak to Mr. Arora, please?” Auntie frowned, then slipped seamlessly from English into Punjabi. “My name? Surinder Dhillon.” There was a pause. “I'm just a friend. Well, my nieces go to the school where he teaches. No, I'm not married.”

  Jazz and I raised our eyebrows at each other.

  “That's not why I'm phoning at all.” Auntie's voice had an irritated edge. “Is he there? It's very important.” We could hear an excited stream of Punjabi at the other end of the line. “Well, thank you. Goodbye.”

  “Who was that?” I asked, as Auntie slammed the phone down really rather hard.

  “Some elderly female relative, by the sound of it,” Auntie said crossly. “She practically accused me of stalking him!” She restrained herself with an effort. “He's not there, anyway.”

  “What do we do now then?” asked Jazz.

  Auntie glanced at her watch. “We'll have to go to the school now, and wait for Mr. Grimwade or Mr. Arora to turn up,” she said. “We were going early anyway to organize the food. You'd better go and get changed, girls.”

  “What about Dad?” I asked with dread.

  “He's still not replying,” said Geena, hunched on the sofa with her phone clutched in her hand.

  Auntie sighed. “Appalling as it may sound, there's nothing we can do,” she said, “except wait and see. But we might just about manage to save the party.”