Bollywood Babes (13 page)

We let ourselves into the house. As we abandoned bags, coats and trainers in the hall, Auntie came down the stairs.

“Oh!” Jazz shrieked theatrically. “What
do
you look like?”

“Please excuse her,” Geena said. “We expected to find our aunt at home, but she seems to have been kidnapped and replaced by a Martian.”

“Very amusing,” said Auntie. She was wrapped in Dad's tatty toweling bathrobe, and her face was coated in a thick, bright green face pack. Her wet hair was bundled into a bright orange towel, and the color
clash was just too much. “This is the only chance I ever have to get into the bathroom, when Madam Mahal goes to the video store. Now, shall I make you a cup of tea while I wait for my face pack to harden?”

“We'll do it,” I said instantly. “You sit down and put your feet up.”

Auntie was stunned—you could see that even under the face pack. “What are you three up to now?” she began.

I shrugged. “Nothing at all. Go on.”

Auntie climbed carefully down the last few steps. She'd painted her toenails and stuck between her toes she had those foam separators that make you walk like a zombie. She tottered into the living room and sat down.

“That wasn't a good idea, Amber,” Jazz grumbled. “She'll expect us to make tea all the time now.”

“Shhh.” I closed the kitchen door. “We haven't decided yet how we're going to ask her about Dad.”

“Well,” said Geena, “I think we should just tell her straight out.”

“Oh, you're volunteering then,” I said, relieved. “Good.”

“No, I'm not volunteering,” Geena cut in. “It's embarrassing.”

“You're the oldest,” Jazz reminded her smugly.

“You're the youngest,” retorted Geena. Then looked puzzled.

“Oh, be quiet,” I said. “I'll do it.”

I made the tea and Geena put some biscuits on a plate. Jazz carried the tray into the living room, where Auntie was relaxing in one of the leather armchairs.

“This is very nice of you, girls,” she said. “Especially as you've already assured me you have no ulterior motive.”

“Well,” I said, as Jazz put the tray down on the coffee table, “that's not quite true.”

“Oh?” Auntie inquired suspiciously.

“It's not what you think,” I said, pouring her a cup of tea. “We just want to talk to you. It's important.”

The doorbell rang.

Auntie jumped, almost spilling her tea. “Oh, heavens!” she gasped. “Who can that be?”

“I'll see,” Geena said, heading for the door.

“No!” Auntie whispered frantically. “Look at the state of me. Find out who it is first.”

Geena peered cautiously through the net curtain. “Oh!” she gasped. “It's Mr. Arora!”

Auntie clapped a hand to her mouth and covered it in face pack. “Don't let him in!” she ordered.

We all stood there in a state of suspended animation. The doorbell rang again.

“Why don't you sneak upstairs?” suggested Jazz. “We can let him in while you wash that stuff off.”

“Don't,” Geena said urgently, as Auntie made for the door. “He's looking through the glass.”

“Quick!” whispered Auntie. I think she was pale under all the bright green. “The back room!”

We dived through the sliding doors that divided the two rooms. Geena slid the doors quietly shut and we stood in a row with our backs against it like suspects in a police lineup.

The doorbell rang insistently.

“What now?” Jazz asked.

“He'll go away if we keep quiet,” said Auntie.

We waited. A few moments passed.

“He must have gone by now,” I whispered.

“No,” said Auntie in a strangled voice. “I don't think so.”

Mr. Arora and Molly Mahal were standing in the back garden, outside the French windows on the other side of the room. They were staring in at us. The looks on their faces told us they thought we were completely insane.

“Oh!” Auntie said in a quivering voice. She headed for the hall, stopping only to remove her foam toe separators. A fatal mistake. It slowed her down just long enough for Molly Mahal to unlock the back door and usher Mr. Arora inside.

“What are you all doing hiding in here?” Molly demanded, putting a videotape down on the table. “Didn't you hear the doorbell? I only just caught Jai as he was about to leave.”

Mr. Arora looked acutely uncomfortable. He kept stealing glances at Auntie's bright green face.

“Molly-ji invited me to tea today,” he mumbled. “I thought you knew.”

“Obviously I didn't,” Auntie said frostily. “I prefer to be more formally dressed when we have visitors. Excuse me.” And she swept out of the room, quite regally, considering.

“So that's why he said, ‘See you later, girls,'” Geena murmured in my ear.

“Wasn't it lucky I took the back-door key with me?” Molly went on, escorting Mr. Arora into the living room. “Or we wouldn't have been able to get in. Ah, tea! Do sit down.”

Mr. Arora looked a little wretched. He sat down and accepted a cup of tea, but he was fidgeting and staring at his shoes. Molly, however, didn't seem to care one bit. It wouldn't have surprised me if she hadn't even noticed that Auntie looked like a freak from outer space.

I tapped Geena and Jazz on the shoulders and pointed upstairs. We slipped silently away.

Auntie was in Geena's bedroom. She'd washed the cream off her face and was brushing out her wet hair with long, savage strokes. As we entered, she threw an icy glare in our direction.

“I'm not discussing what just happened,” she warned tightly.

“This isn't about Mr. Arora.” I sat down on the bed next to her. Geena and Jazz went to stand by the window. “It's something else.”

Auntie was still muttering under her breath and only giving me half her mind.

“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.

“S
ee?” 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?”