Bollywood Babes (20 page)

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.”

“W
hat!” 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.”

“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.