Bollywood Babes (5 page)

I stood there silently, thinking about the glamorous film star in the video last night. It seemed all wrong somehow.

“Maybe she doesn't live here at all,” Jazz said doubtfully. “Maybe
Masala Express
got it wrong.”

“Only one way to find out.” I studied the picture in the magazine. The house we were looking for had a green door and an alleyway down the side.

It was easy to find. There was the house, looking even dirtier and more battered than it did in the picture. The green door was scuffed and scratched and the piece of cardboard that blocked the broken windowpane was still there. There was a tattered piece of paper taped to the peeling door frame that read, bell out of order, please knock.

“Go on, Amber,” said Geena. I could tell that she and Jazz were secretly feeling as uneasy as I was. “Knock.”

Trying to look confident, I seized the letter-box cover and banged it hard. We waited.

“I can hear someone moving around inside,” Jazz whispered.

I pressed my face against the dirty frosted glass. I couldn't see anything except a shadow flitting about occasionally.

“I knew this was a mistake,” Geena muttered.

“Be quiet,” I said. I bent down, flipped up the letterbox lid and stared in.

I was looking into a dark, dingy, dirty hallway. Even with the restricted view I had, I could see that the carpet was stained and tattered and the furniture was the kind of stuff that no one wants to buy that you see in junk shops.

Then I jumped back, almost trapping my nose in the letter box. A woman carrying a suitcase had just rushed out of a room on the right. Without noticing me, she headed down the hall toward the kitchen. Next moment she was out of sight but I could hear the jangling of keys, then the sound of a door being unlocked.

“She's running away!” I gasped.

“Who's running away?” Jazz demanded.

“Is it Molly Mahal?” asked Geena.

“I don't know,” I said, frustrated. “But she had a suitcase with her.”

“That's a bit drastic, isn't it?” Jazz sniffed. “We were only going to invite her to a party.”

“Quick.” I remembered the alley at the side of the house. “We might be able to stop her, whoever she is.”

We made for the alley. It was quite narrow, so there was a lot of pushing and shoving, which wasted a bit of time. Having the sharpest elbows, I got through first.

The alley went round the back of a garden that was thick with weeds. At the bottom was a rickety old fence, leaning drunkenly to one side. The woman I'd seen in the house was sitting astride it. She was leaning over, desperately trying to lift her suitcase up with her. This was so unexpected that the three of us stared openmouthed.

Suddenly the woman caught sight of us. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded.

I squinted at her. The sun was full in our faces and I still couldn't tell if it was Molly Mahal or not.

“Oh, hello,” I said politely. “I'm Amber Dhillon, and these are my sisters Geena and—”

“I don't mean that,” the woman snapped. “I mean
who
are you? Why are you here?”

“We're looking for Molly Mahal,” Geena said helpfully.

“Why?” the woman demanded in an incredibly rude voice. “Do you want money?”

“No,” I said, puzzled.

“Well, if you're offering—” Jazz began.

“Shut up,” I said. I shaded my eyes with my hand and looked up at the woman. “Do you want a hand to get down?”

She ignored me. With slow, painful movements, she unhooked herself from the swaying fence and slid to the ground. She landed heavily, falling sideways on one ankle, and, muttering to herself in Punjabi, stared accusingly at us as if we were to blame.

Then I saw it. It was just a glimpse, but it was there. Molly Mahal's face stared out at me for a minute, and then it was gone.

I gasped. I heard Geena's sharp intake of breath beside me. She'd seen it too. But the drawn, gaunt face of the woman, who was still staring angrily at us, the thin figure in the shapeless leggings and dirty fleece, bore hardly any resemblance to the glamorous beauty from the day before.

“We're looking for Molly Mahal, the Bollywood film star,” Jazz said helpfully. “We thought she lived here.”

A fleeting look of pain crossed the woman's face. I suppose I should call her Molly from now on, although it was still impossible to believe. I tried to nudge Jazz subtly in the side. At the same moment, Geena stepped firmly on her toe.

“And what was that for?” Jazz grumbled.

“It's her,” Geena whispered.

“
Her?
” Jazz's jaw dropped several meters as she goggled at the slightly pathetic figure in front of us. “Don't be silly.”

Molly Mahal's mouth twisted into a sardonic smile. Then suddenly, without warning, she closed her eyes and swayed slightly from side to side.

“She's going to faint!” I gasped. “Quick, Geena!”

The two of us sprang forward and grabbed her arms. They were stick-thin, like dry, brittle twigs.

“Let's get her into the house,” Geena said urgently.

We helped her over the fence again. The back door stood open. We supported Molly across the weedfilled garden, Jazz trailing along behind us, carrying the suitcase.

“It can't be her,” she kept muttering. “It can't be.”

The kitchen was a hellhole. It was filthy and it smelled. The worktops were stained and caked with bits of food and there were electrical wires sticking out of the wall above the cooker. Gingerly Geena pulled out the only chair from under the tiny, cracked table and we sat Molly down on it. She immediately laid her head on her arms, and stayed there, very still. A gold bangle, the single piece of jewelry she was wearing, glinted on her right arm. It looked expensive, and very much out of place.

“Jazz, make a cup of tea,” I said.

Jazz was hovering just outside the back door. “I'm not coming in there,” she whispered. “I might catch something nasty.”

I went to the fridge. It was empty except for a packet of margarine, the cheapest you can buy, and even that was nearly gone. There were two used tea
bags drying out on the windowsill, ready to be used a second time. Or maybe a third or fourth.

I raised my eyebrows at Geena, who looked grave. Then, quietly, I went round the kitchen opening all the cupboards. There was nothing in them except for a few more tea bags, half a packet of stale crackers and a pot of jam, which was nearly empty.

“I suppose she wouldn't have needed much if she was going away,” Geena whispered, nodding at the suitcase.

“I'm not deaf,” Molly snapped, lifting her head sharply. Her toffee-colored eyes bored into mine. All the color had bleached from her face and she looked white as bone.

“Sorry,” I said absently.

My eye had been caught by a crumpled letter lying on the worktop. I edged my way over to it as Molly put her head on her arms again. I couldn't see much because of the way the letter was folded. But a few sentences leaped out at me.
Eviction for nonpayment of rent
…
Payment of arrears must be made within the next week
…

“You still haven't told me what you're doing here,” Molly said abruptly. She wouldn't have won any awards for charm. But I guess if I'd been a rich Bollywood star, and then ended up in a scummy house in Reading with wires sticking out of the wall, I wouldn't have been very charming either.

“Well, we were hoping—” I began. Then stopped.
It was clear that Molly Mahal, in her current condition, was not going to be a big draw at the Bollywood party. It was also clear that I couldn't possibly tell her. It would be too cruel. I would have to find an excuse that would spare her feelings and allow us to leave as quickly as possible.

Except …

How could we leave, knowing that she was probably suffering from having hardly anything to eat, and about to be homeless?

Geena always complains that I come up with ideas without thinking about them properly first. That's why my ideas are stupid (her words). Well, I did think about this one. But it was, very possibly, still stupid. I see that now.

“Well …,” I began again.

“T
his is a great day, Amber,” Geena said. “It's got to rank as one of your best ideas yet. It's almost as good as when you persuaded Jazz that if you cut off her hair and sold it, you'd be millionaires.”

“I was only five at the time,” Jazz said in an aggrieved voice. “I had a bald patch for months.”

“Yes, all right,” I said. I was already regretting my impulsive action. The train was lurching and rumbling its way back home, where I could only assume that even more abuse would await me. But what else could I have done?

“I had to do
something
,” I pleaded. I lowered my voice. “We couldn't leave her
there
, could we?”

We glanced across the aisle. Molly Mahal was curled up next to the window on the seats opposite. Her eyes were closed, feet in cheap, worn trainers resting on her suitcase. Even though there was an empty seat next to Jazz, she wasn't sitting with us.

“What's Auntie going to say?” Geena demanded. “We're about to arrive home with a woman who was a film star, and now appears to be a half-dead vagrant, and tell Auntie that we've invited her to stay?”

“
We!
” Jazz repeated. “
I
didn't have anything to do with it. I wasn't even in the room.”

“All for one and one for all,” I reminded her.

“That's such an overrated concept,” Jazz retorted. “It just means we all get to share the fallout.”

“There won't be any fallout,” I said, pretending confidence. “Auntie likes helping people. She'll enjoy the challenge.”

“And it's quite a challenge,” Geena said smoothly. “Miss Mahal wasn't exactly grateful when you invited her to stay, was she?”

“She was,” I said defensively. I hadn't mentioned the Bollywood party when I'd blurted out my invitation. I'd said that we were big fans of Molly's, and we'd be honored if she'd come and stay with us.

Molly didn't seem to think there was anything odd about that, despite the fact that not even Geena had been born when she'd made her last film. She'd stared at me unsmilingly for a moment, then muttered, “All right.”

“Either I'm going deaf,” Geena remarked, “or she never even said thank you.”

“She didn't have to,” I said, trying to appear unconcerned. “I could read it in her face.”

“And could you read her face when you told her we'd have to walk to the station because we didn't have the money for a cab?” Jazz inquired. “I don't think it said
thank you
then.”

“Yes, all right,” I mumbled, flexing my aching fingers. I'd had to carry the suitcase all the way to the station.

“She could sell that gold bangle she's wearing to raise some money,” suggested Jazz. “It looks quite expensive.”

“And what does she do when the money runs out?” I demanded. “It looks like she's already sold almost everything she owns. Anyway, the bangle must be important to her if she's kept it.”

Silence for a moment.

“And where is she going to sleep?” Geena returned to the attack.

“I thought she could have Auntie's room,” I replied.

Geena's eyes flashed a warning. “And what about Auntie?”

“I thought she could move in with you,” I said bravely.

“Then you must be mad,” Geena snapped. “That is never going to happen, Amber.”

“Well, Auntie can't move in with me and Jazz, can she?” I pointed out in a reasonable voice.

“Thank God,” Jazz said with feeling.

“Forget it,” Geena retorted. “But with any luck, Auntie will get rid of her as soon as we arrive.”

“How can you be so mean?” I said furiously, as the train rattled its way into our station. “Look at her. She's got no money and nowhere to live. Why can't you try and have a bit of compassion for a change?”

Geena looked uncomfortable. “Amber,
of course
I feel sorry for her,” she said at last. “But she's not our responsibility. Her own family should be looking out for her.”

“I asked about her family,” I reminded Geena. “She says she hasn't got any.”

Jazz sniffed. “What if we invited everyone who was homeless to stay with us? We'd never get into the bathroom.”

“I'm not asking everyone,” I snapped. “Just her.”

As the train shuddered to a halt, Molly's eyes fluttered open.

“We'll get a cab to your house,” she announced.

“I told you,” I began, “we don't have enough money because we had to pay for your ticket.”

It was like talking to a brick wall. Molly ignored me, rose to her feet and walked off down the carriage, leaving her suitcase behind.

Geena smiled. “Why don't you try and have a bit more compassion, Amber?”

I muttered rude words as she followed Molly off the train. “Jazz, give me a hand with this suitcase, will you?”

Jazz ignored me too. “We are so dead when we get home,” she said, walking away.

I sighed, dragging the suitcase toward the door. Geena and Jazz might be mad with me, but I knew they'd have done exactly the same thing. They wouldn't have left Molly Mahal there either. It was just more convenient to blame me. That way I got all the trouble that was going. I had a feeling there was going to be a lot of it.