Bollywood Babes

by Narinder Dhami

  “I don't feel like going to a party,” Jazz said quietly as we trailed up the stairs, one after the other. “It feels more like a funeral.”

  “Yes,” said Geena. “Ours.”

  I had never felt less like getting dressed up. I'd already decided what I was going to wear—an orange tie-dyed suit with gold jewelry. It meant I could throw the outfit on without thinking about it.

  “Will you call Molly Mum?” asked Jazz, not caring that her bindi was crooked.

  “Don't be an idiot,” I retorted, and that was the extent of our conversation while we were changing.

  The drive to school was grim and upsetting. Auntie tried not to speed, but some of her cornering had us clutching each other for safety. There wasn't any point anyway. When we reached the school, the only people who were around were the caretaker, some of the canteen staff, who'd been hired for the evening to lay the food out, and Chapati MC, who was assembling his decks on the stage.

  Auntie began directing operations while we retired to a corner of the hall and sat on the floor, staring at Geena's phone and listening for the comforting beep beep that would tell us she had a new text message. It never came.

  “I can't believe Dad would do this,” I said despondently.

  “You just don't want to believe it,” Jazz butted in. “I've been warning you for days.”

  “We don't know anything yet,” Geena said sharply. “Will you two shut up!”

  “Don't tell me to shut up,” Jazz said in a raised voice.

  “Oh, bickering, the perfect solution to our problem,” remarked Geena pompously.

  We began elbowing each other, and who can say where it would have ended if Mr. Grimwade hadn't walked into the hall at that very moment.

  “Ah, Miss Dhillon,” he said, beaming at the long trestle tables laden with food. “Everything going smoothly?”

  “Not at all,” said Auntie tensely. “Molly Mahal has disappeared.”

  Mr. Grimwade's jowls began to shake. “D-d-disappeared?”

  “She's packed up her things and gone,” Auntie told him. “We don't know where.”

  “But …” Mr. Grimwade was so despairing, he could hardly get the words out. “There are people queuing outside already. What are we going to do ?”

  I scrambled to my feet and peered through the glass doors. The queue already had twenty people in it, and it was growing every second. There were cars lining up to get into the car park, even though it was only 7 p.m. and the doors didn't officially open till 7:30. Mrs. Dhaliwal was at the front of the queue in a shockingly pink sari.

  Mr. Grimwade clapped a hand to his forehead. “How are we going to tell them that Molly Mahal isn't coming after all?” he groaned.

  It was very unfortunate that, at this moment, Mr. Arora chose to push open the door and enter the hall.

  “Molly Mahal's not coming?” he repeated in a shocked voice, pausing in the open doorway.

  “Molly Mahal's not coming?” roared Mrs. Dhaliwal in horror. And the mantra was repeated right down to the back of the ever-increasing queue.

  “Oh dear,” said Geena. “Now this really does mean trouble.”

  Things began to happen quickly. Mr. Arora was shunted into the hall at speed by the crowd surging forward. Mrs. Dhaliwal led the charge, and suddenly Mr. Grimwade was surrounded by irate partygoers.

  “Molly's not coming?” Mrs. Dhaliwal said furiously. “Have you been selling tickets under false pretences, Mr. Grimble?”

  “Grimwade. And no, of course, we haven't.” Mr. Grimwade took out a hanky and mopped his sweating brow. “It's just that—there's been a slight hitch—”

  “What hitch?” called George Botley, sauntering in and smirking at the sight of his archenemy in big trouble.

  More people were cramming their way through the doors. Mr. Attwal, Leo and his family, his dad carrying Keith, and Mrs. Macey.

  “Please, can we see your tickets?” Mr. Arora shouted, trying to take some control of the situation. But he was forced to step aside to avoid being trampled to bits.

  There, at the back of the next rush of people, was Kim, looking pretty and very un-Kim-like in my pink suit. And then behind her …

  Oh, thank you. Thank you.

  “Dad!”

  Geena, Jazz and I screamed the word aloud. No one heard—they were too busy harassing Mr. Grimwade. We flew across the hall on winged feet of joy, and all three of us flung ourselves into Dad's arms.

  “That's a nice welcome,” said Dad, looking slightly bemused. “Did you think I wasn't coming?”

  “We weren't sure,” I said, finding it hard to catch my breath. He looked so normal and ordinary and Dad-like, I knew everything was all right.

  “Johnny!” Auntie appeared behind us and threw her arms round Dad's neck. “It's so wonderful to see you.”

  Now Dad looked really bewildered. “Well, thank you.”

  “Where've you been, Dad?” Geena asked, hanging on to his arm. “We've been phoning and texting you.”

  “I was in a meeting at one of our suppliers all afternoon, so I turned my phone off,” Dad replied. “I knew I'd be late, so I took my suit to work and got ready there before I left for the meeting.”

  “Oh, what a simple explanation,” Geena remarked, cuffing Jazz lightly round the ear.

  “It was an easy conclusion to jump to,” Jazz grumbled.

  “What's going on?” Dad asked, as the angry crowd finally caught his attention. “Where's Molly?”

  Auntie quickly explained, and we watched Dad closely. He looked disappointed to hear that Molly had left without a word, but more concerned that there was a possible riot developing. More people were arriving and joining in the shouting.

  “Amber?” Kim hurried over, her face pale and concerned. “Where's Molly?”

  I shrugged. Into the maelstrom came Mrs. Capstick, the school secretary, with a white envelope in her hand. She carved out a path to Mr. Grimwade and handed the envelope to him.

  “Silence!” shouted Mr. Grimwade.

  The noise died away to a dissatisfied muttering.

  “Now, I can understand that you are all very upset,” Mr. Grimwade blustered, “but I have just been informed that Miss Mahal left a letter with the school secretary earlier today. Hopefully this will explain her absence tonight. Of course, if I'd been given it earlier …” He cast a look of daggers at Mrs. Capstick.

  “I've been run off my feet,” she muttered defensively. “I forgot.”

  There was not a sound in the hall as Mr. Grimwade opened the envelope.

  “Dear friends,” Mr. Grimwade read, “I am so sorry I cannot be with you tonight as promised. But I hope you will be pleased for me. You see, something wonderful has happened. I have been offered a role in a new Bollywood film. The actress who was taking the part has fallen ill, so I am required at very short notice, and must travel to India today. I will be playing the part of the hero's mother, rather than his girlfriend, as I did in the past, but I expect I will get used to having a son who is only ten years younger than I am.

  “I hope you will forgive me, that you will enjoy your party and that you will also enjoy the enclosed gift.

  “With all good wishes, Molly.”

  Mr. Grimwade drew something else out of the envelope. “It's a check for the school,” he gasped, his eyes almost popping out of his head. “For one thousand pounds!”

  “Postdated,” Auntie whispered as she glanced over Mr. Grimwade's shoulder. “She can't have been paid for the film yet.”

  “But she's not here, is she?” said Mrs. Dhaliwal rebelliously. “And that's what we paid for.” Other people began to mutter in agreement.

  “I'm sure the school will reimburse anyone who wishes to return their ticket and leave now,” Mr. Arora cut in.

  “Oh,” said Mr. Grimwade weakly. “Yes, of course.”

  “We should be compensated too,” grumbled a woman I recognized as Mrs. Dhaliwal's sister-inlaw.

  “Stop it.”

  The voice was rai
sed. It was beside me. It was Kim's. I turned to stare at her, as did everyone else.

  “We should be pleased for Molly.” Kim was as pink as Mrs. Dhaliwal's sari, but managing to force the words out. “It's about time she had something for herself. I mean, she helped the school and she helped Leo's brother—”

  “Yes, she did,” Leo said firmly. “I'm really happy for her, and I hope her film is a great big success.”

  There was silence.

  “They're right,” said Mr. Arora. “Molly did her best for us. We should all wish her well.” He glanced around the hall. “Does anyone still want to leave?”

  No one moved.

  “Well, then,” said Mr. Arora, with an inquiring glance at Auntie, who blushed delicately, “I believe we are supposed to be having a party?”

  And so we did. What a party it was. All right, I had to spend the first half hour reviving Kim with fruit juice after her astonishing display of assertiveness. But while I was sitting and fanning her with a paper napkin, I overheard Mr. Arora talking to Auntie. Apologizing, actually.

  “You've done a magnificent job, organizing all this.” Mr. Arora cleared his throat and fiddled with his purple tie. “I feel like—I—er—didn't help as much as I could have done.” He coughed. “I was a little taken up with Molly. I'm sorry.”

  “It's all right,” Auntie replied. “If it wasn't for Molly, the party wouldn't have been such a huge success.” Which was pretty generous of her, considering.

  Mr. Arora was standing with his back to me, so, unseen, I leaned out and gave Auntie a thumbs-up. She wagged her finger at me, but I don't think she was annoyed. Rather the reverse. However, she did lead Mr. Arora away then, so that I couldn't hear any more. A bit mean, don't you think?

  The party couldn't have gone with more of a swing if we'd had a hundred Bollywood stars there. Chapati MC almost blasted the new roof off the hall. I danced with Dad, with Leo and, yes, even with George Botley. I danced with Mr. Arora too, when I could get him away from Auntie. Things were looking very promising again there.

  But the highlight of the evening was when Mr. Grimwade attempted to dance with the bhangra group. A sight never to be forgotten, beating even his appearance at the school's Grease prom party in a black leather jacket the year before.

  There were only two things that troubled me. I couldn't stop wondering whether Molly had been planning for something like this all along. If she'd been using us for her own reasons. After all, it was the Touch the Car competition that had brought her back to everyone's attention. And then I shrugged and repeated to myself what Kim had said. Everyone was happy. Did it really matter?

  The other was that she hadn't left us a note to say thank you for having her. But there I was wrong. There was a note on the table in the living room, in the very spot where Jazz had flung her bag down earlier that evening. It was simple, short and to the point.

  Dear Amber,

  You and your family have been very kind to me for the last few weeks, and I appreciate it very much. The enclosed is for you, with my thanks.

  Molly

  Inside the envelope was Molly's slim gold bangle. I felt quite overwhelmed and almost tearful, just for a moment. It had been important to her, and she'd left it for me. That had to mean something.

  “I've changed my mind,” Jazz said, as the three of us fought for a space in the bathroom late that night. “I don't want to be famous after all.”

  “Oh, I get it,” said Geena gravely. “You've seen the heartache behind the smiles for the camera, the tears behind the designer dresses and the limousines and the enormous houses.”

  “No.” Jazz shook her head. “It just seems like too much bother.”

  Geena and I giggled.

  “Oh, well,” said Geena, “I expect the world will survive without Jazz Dhillon, superstar.”

  “It's all right for Molly,” Jazz went on, her mouth foaming with toothpaste. “She hasn't got any family.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Well, can you imagine what would happen if I got famous?” Jazz pointed her toothbrush accusingly at me and Geena. “You two would tell the newspapers every single embarrassing thing you could think of about me.”

  “Oh,” said Geena. “You mean like when Dad took us horse-riding, and you fell off and landed smack in a cowpat?”

  “That was funny,” I agreed. “But not as funny as the time she tried to blow out the candles on her birthday cake, overbalanced and ended up with a faceful of cream sponge.”

  “See?” Jazz said self-righteously. “That's exactly what I mean.”

  “You're right.” I grinned at Geena, and then neatly slid a blob of toothpaste down the back of Jazz's pajama jacket. “You can't trust us one bit.”

  And during the uproar that followed, I remember thinking that, if it was a choice between fame and family, I knew which one I'd choose.

  Every time.

  About the Author

  Narinder Dhami was born in Wolverhampton and now lives in Cambridge, England. After obtaining an English degree from Birmingham University, she began teaching in London in the early 1980s. She worked as a primary school teacher for ten years, but for the last twelve years she has been a full-time writer. At first she wrote almost exclusively for children's magazines, and she has had almost two hundred short stories and articles published. But after a few years she concentrated on writing children's novels. Her previous books (many available only in the United Kingdom) include Angel Face, Animal Crackers, Annie's Game, Changing Places and the novelization of the hit British movie Bend It Like Beckham. Check out her Web site at www.narinderdhami.com.

  Published by Yearling, an imprint of Random House Children's Books a division of Random House, Inc., New York

  Copyright © 2004 by Narinder Dhami

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address Delacorte Press.

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  eISBN: 978-0-307-51470-7

  October 2006

  v3.0