Bollywood Babes (10 page)

“A
bout this film star …,” began George Botley. “George.” I put my hands on my hips and eyed him with aggression. “Never mention that subject to me again.”

George looked aggrieved. “I just want to know if she's coming to the Bollywood party or not.”

“I'm warning you, George.” I took a step forward. “Please go away before I'm forced to kill you with my bare hands.”

“She means it, George,” Jazz added.

George pulled a face. He shambled off across the school playground muttering, “Women!”

“And that goes for anyone else who wants to ask
me about film stars and Bollywood parties,” I said, shooting looks like daggers at everyone around me. Chelsea and Sharelle, who were heading in our direction, swerved aside. They hurried off, pretending to be discussing maths homework.

“Calm down, Amber,” Geena advised me. “You're losing it.”

“Sorry.” I took a breath. “It's been a long week.”

Molly Mahal had been living with us for more than a week. It was true that we had been at school for most of that time so we didn't have to see her. But arriving home in the evenings had become one long ordeal. Auntie would be lurking behind the front door, waiting to escort us into the kitchen and reel off a long list of complaints. Apparently, Molly didn't do anything except sit around the house all day, have baths, watch films and change into different outfits. She didn't know how to cook, use a vacuum cleaner or do the ironing. Or so she said. She had Auntie wearing a path to Mr. Basra's video store to borrow more movies. The day before, a reporter from
Masala Express
had turned up on the doorstep. Molly had had a fit, and Auntie had been forced to shoo him away with a broom. Oh, Auntie had tale after tale to tell us.

Living with Molly was a roller-coaster ride. Sometimes she would be sweet as apple pie. That was if she got what she wanted immediately. If she didn't, within seconds she'd turn into the biggest Bollywood diva
going, and you could see the steel behind the sweet smile.

Whatever Molly wanted, Molly seemed to get.

Dad seemed more friendly with her than any of us, though. From him we found out that Molly had come to England when her career ended to stay with an old aunt. After her aunt died, she was on her own and living off her savings. When they were gone, she'd started selling her belongings and jewelry.

“Why didn't she claim income support?” Auntie wanted to know. “And housing benefit?”

“She went to the Social Security offices, and the Indian guy behind the desk recognized her,” Dad explained. “She was so humiliated, she never went back.”

Listening to this, Geena, Jazz and I were silent. Lifting the curtain on someone's life and taking a peek behind it tells you all sorts of things you never dreamed. We did feel very sorry for her.

But that did not make her one bit easier to live with.

And now …

Word had got round at school (I suspected Kim, Mr. Arora and all the Indian pupils, frankly) that a Bollywood film star was staying at our house and might be persuaded to be the guest of honor at our party. At least half the school had never heard of her, but they were dead excited anyway. Everyone wanted daily updates about what was happening. It was sending me slowly mad. Or slowly sending me mad. Whatever.

“Girls!” Mr. Arora had exited the school building
and was bearing down on us, his face eager. No escape was possible. “Any news about Molly?”

“No,” I said, as rudely as I dared.

“Oh.” Mr. Arora looked enormously disappointed.

“Ah, there you are, Jai.” The head of the lower school, Mr. Grimwade, bounced out of the school office and headed toward us. For a man composed almost entirely of circles, he was very light on his feet. “And our Bollywood girls! I was hoping to have a word with you about this film star.”

I ground my teeth together.

“Easy, Amber,” Geena whispered.

“Has she decided yet if she's coming to the party?” Mr. Grimwade looked at us hopefully.

“No, sir,” replied Jazz. I didn't trust myself.

“Oh. Pity. Well, keep trying.” Mr. Grimwade was becoming more desperate as the days went by. I guessed that Mr. Morgan, our free-spending headmaster, was making his life a misery. “Now …,” Mr. Grimwade went on, studying the clipboard he was clutching. “Do I have your forms for the sponsored walk next week?”

“Yes, sir,” we chorused glumly.

“And don't forget we're collecting aluminium drinks cans too,” he added. “There's a prize for the class that collects the most. A new whiteboard.”

“Whoopee,” I said under my breath.

“I hope your aunt hasn't forgotten about the meeting after school today?” inquired Mr. Arora, as Mr.

Grimwade flipped through the huge sheaf of papers again. “We've got a good many things to sort out before the party. We need to divide up the jobs between our volunteers.”

“Oh, she'll be there,” I assured him. “So will we.”

Mr. Arora looked even more eager. “Maybe Molly Mahal will come with her.”

“I wouldn't bank on it,” I said in a wet-blanket kind of voice.

“Oh yes, I wanted to ask you about Kyra Hollins.” Mr. Grimwade looked up from the clipboard. “You're a friend of hers, aren't you, Geena? I don't seem to have her form for the sponsored walk.”

“That's because she's broken her leg, sir,” replied Geena. “She tripped over a pile of aluminium cans she'd collected.”

“Ah.” Mr. Grimwade tapped his pen against his bald forehead. “Will she be able to do the sponsored walk next week or not then?”

“I should think so,” Geena said solemnly. “Providing she's allowed to hop.”

“Yes.” Mr. Grimwade nodded slowly. “A sponsored hop. That sounds like rather a good idea. …” He beckoned to Mr. Arora and they went inside.

“Wouldn't it be great,” Jazz said, “if we had a time machine?”

“Oh, you mean we could go back in time and stop Amber from having such terrible ideas?” Geena took up the tale.

“Yes,” said Jazz. “How useful would that be?”

“Quiet,” I said irritably. I'd just spotted Kim coming in through the school gates, and my mood was not improving. She was enchanted by Molly Mahal, and talked about her constantly.

“Why didn't you wait for me this morning?” Kim asked, somewhat overassertively in my opinion.

“We left early because Auntie was in a foul temper,” I said grumpily.

“Oh dear.” Kim stared at me quizzically. “She's not the only one, is she?”

“Amber's not feeling herself today,” Geena interrupted.

“Who's she feeling then?” Jazz sniggered. I flicked her ear. “Ow!”

“How's Molly Mahal?” Kim asked in a worshipping tone.

“Don't mention Molly Mahal or Bollywood parties,” I warned her. “Not now. Not ever.”

“But—”

“No.” I shook my head. “I'm saying no and meaning it.”

“There is no way Molly Mahal will come to the Bollywood party,” Jazz said. “So why do you think she doesn't just leave?”

School was over and we were on our way to the meeting in the new building. As ever, we were stunned and envious when we crossed the road and entered the upper school. It was a revelation. Everything was clean and bright and sparkling new there. The floors were polished wood. The classrooms were well equipped, carpeted and spacious. The lights worked.

“I really don't know,” I replied, running my finger along the clean cream paintwork of the wide, sunny corridor. “But she seems a lot more cheerful these days, what with Mrs. Macey, Kim and Mr. Arora chasing around after her,” I added bitterly.

“You forgot Leo,” Geena reminded me. “I heard him telling her about his brother the other day. And didn't he bring her a free copy of
Masala Express
?”

“Don't get wound up, Amber,” Jazz said kindly. “She's way too old for him.”

I sniffed. “As if I care.”

The meeting was happening in the new school hall, a huge architect's dream of a building made of concrete, glass and steel. When we arrived, Mr. Arora and Ms. Woods, head of drama, were setting out chairs in a semicircle. Mr. Grimwade was standing on the sidelines ordering them about. There were several other teachers there—Miss Patel (geography); Mademoiselle Véronique, the French student teacher; Mr. Lucas, Jazz's form teacher; and Mr. Hernandez (French and Spanish), who everyone was convinced was mad after
he broke into a flamenco dance at a governors' meeting. He said it was a great stress reliever.

Besides us, there were about fifteen other pupils hanging around, many of them looking disgruntled. I guess Mr. Arora had used the term “volunteer” quite loosely. Startlingly, one of them was Kim.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

Kim shrugged, turning delicately pink. “I volunteered to help,” she said.

“You didn't say anything before,” I accused her.

Kim looked sheepish. I should possibly have probed a bit more, but it didn't occur to me. Not then.

“Let's make a start,” boomed Mr. Grimwade, glancing at his watch. “I have a meeting with Mr. Morgan in half an hour.”

“Hello, everyone.” Auntie came through the double doors, looking casually glamorous in a pale blue
salwar kameez
. She had the look of someone who'd made a huge effort with her appearance but was pretending she hadn't. “I'm not late, am I?”

“Not at all,” said Mr. Grimwade jovially. “And how is the star of our show?”

Auntie smiled. “I'm fine, thank you.”

“Er—I meant Miss Mahal,” Mr. Grimwade mumbled.

“Oh, her.” Auntie's tone was clipped. “She's sitting in our living room, watching one of her own films. As you do.”

“We thought she might come with you,” Mr. Arora chipped in.

“Well, she didn't,” Auntie said glacially.

“Did you ask her?” Mr. Arora wanted to know.

I glanced at Geena and Jazz. This was getting dangerous.

“Shall we begin?” Mr. Grimwade cut in impatiently.

We sat down. It was interesting to see that Mr. Arora and Auntie chose chairs as far away from each other as possible. In fact, Auntie deliberately crossed the room, pushing her way past several other people to sit next to me and Kim.

“Was that strictly necessary?” I asked.

“I don't know what you mean, Amber,” Auntie said distantly. “Hello, Kim.”

“You'll never get your hooks into him if you treat him like that,” Jazz muttered.

“I strongly object to that phrase,” Auntie snapped. “I don't intend to ‘get my hooks’ into anyone.”

“Well, you should,” said Jazz stubbornly. “You'll never find anyone as good as Mr. Arora.”

Auntie glared at her.

“I call this meeting to order,” said Mr. Grimwade pompously. “Now, I know that Mr. Arora and Miss Dhillon have been coordinating the arrangements for the party up till now”—Auntie and Mr. Arora gave each other a cool glance—“but we can't expect them to do all the work. That's why we're here, to
divide up the rest of the tasks. And may I just say how pleased I am to see so many of you. It's marvelous that fund-raising fatigue is not an issue at Coppergate School!”

He paused as if he was expecting a rousing cheer of agreement. There wasn't one.

“The headmaster told me I had to come,” said Mr. Hernandez.

“So I'm going to ask Miss Dhillon and Mr. Arora to give us an update.” Mr. Grimwade swept on regardless. “Then we can see where help is required. Miss Dhillon?”

Auntie flipped open her handbag and took out a list. “Everything's under control,” she said briskly. “I've made a list of the food we'll require. Samosas,
bhajis, pakoras, jelabis, barfi
and so on. We're asking the parents to cook food and send it in.” She shot a challenging glance at Mr. Arora. “I believe a letter is going home with the pupils tonight.”

Mr. Arora nodded, equally coolly. “We're also asking for donations of fairy lights and colored tinsel to decorate the hall,” he added. “And the lower school will be making other decorations, as well as posters to publicize the event.”

“There go our art classes for the next three weeks,” Jazz grumbled.

“I've been in touch with Mr. Basra at the local video shop and he's promised us some Bollywood posters,” Auntie went on. “And I was hoping we
might get a local DJ to do the music. I've heard Chapati MC is very good.”