wiping out the grill pan and muttering to herself. “I don't know why the woman needs to borrow my best clothes to sit around the house and watch herself in a movie,” she complained. “She's even borrowed my underwear.”
“Ooh, how do you know?” Jazz asked. “Did you look?”
Auntie gave her a withering stare. “She had no chest when she arrived, and now she has. She must be wearing my Wonderbra.”
“I didn't know you had a Wonderbra,” I said with interest.
“I don't discuss the contents of my underwear drawer with you,” Auntie said coldly.
Dad came into the kitchen. “Miss Mahal says we'll watch the rest of the film after lunch,” he said. “I've stopped the tape.”
“Dad,” I groaned. “Do we have to?”
“Yes, we do.” Dad looked stern. “She's our guest.”
“Happy now, Amber?” Geena inquired with savage politeness. Jazz contented herself with an eloquent sniff.
“And she'd prefer curry for lunch,” Dad added. “If it's no trouble.”
Auntie stopped midway through grating a lump of cheese. “That means I'll have to cook something from scratch,” she muttered. She hurled the cheese back into the fridge and began pulling out packets of vegetables. Looking nervous, Dad backed his way out of the kitchen. Geena, Jazz and I followed him.
“Not so fast,” Auntie snapped, waving a bunch of
dhania
at us. “You're helping.”
“Amber should do it,” Jazz grumbled, “seeing as it's all down to her.”
“Yes, let Amber do the cooking,” Geena joined in. “With any luck she might poison Molly and solve the problem.”
“What problem?” I said coolly, taking the
dhania
Auntie thrust at me in rather an unfriendly manner. “We're helping someone. I don't see any problem with that.”
But underneath my ice-cool exterior, I was worried. I had really and truly started something. At this moment, I had absolutely no idea how it was all going to end.
I wonder what it's like to be famous. No, that's not quite true. I wonder what it's like to be famous, and then, suddenly, not to be famous at all. To lose everything. To go back to being just an ordinary person in the street, someone nobody would look at twice. How would that feel? Could you ever go back to being normal again? And when it was all over, did you accept defeat gracefully or did you hope and believe that one day you would be famous all over again?
I snuggled down under the duvet and flipped through
OK!
magazine. It was full of soap stars, pop stars, actors and actresses. They were splitting up with their partners, getting married, having babies, talking about their latest film or book, or about their problemswith alcohol or drugs or both. I frowned. It seemed that even when you were famous, you still had problems, just the same as everyone else. I would have liked to discuss it with Molly Mahal. But I had a strong feeling it was something she wouldn't want to talk about.
Jazz rolled over in bed and kicked my ankle. “What are you looking so serious about?” she wanted to know.
“I was thinking about the fleeting nature of celebrity,” I said.
“Oh.” Jazz yawned. “Are you going to make some tea?”
“No,” I replied. “Make it yourself.”
Jazz pouted. “I don't want to go downstairs,” she moaned. “What if Molly Mahal's lurking about?”
I grinned. “You're scared of her, aren't you?”
“No,” Jazz said indignantly.
“You are,” I chuckled. “Honestly, Jazz, you
are
a fool.”
“Well, even if I was scared of her—which I'm not,” Jazz grumbled, “
you
ought to go and make the tea. Then you can take her a cup.”
“Don't be silly,” I said quickly. “She's probably still asleep.”
Jazz giggled. “
You're
scared of her too, aren't you, Amber?”
“Oh, really!” I yawned delicately behind my hand. “Of course I'm not.”
“You are,” Jazz said gleefully. “I'm not surprised, though. She's odd.”
We had managed to escape the curse of
Amir Ladka, Garib Ladka
the previous day
“Ooh, how do you know?” Jazz asked. “Did you look?”
Auntie gave her a withering stare. “She had no chest when she arrived, and now she has. She must be wearing my Wonderbra.”
“I didn't know you had a Wonderbra,” I said with interest.
“I don't discuss the contents of my underwear drawer with you,” Auntie said coldly.
Dad came into the kitchen. “Miss Mahal says we'll watch the rest of the film after lunch,” he said. “I've stopped the tape.”
“Dad,” I groaned. “Do we have to?”
“Yes, we do.” Dad looked stern. “She's our guest.”
“Happy now, Amber?” Geena inquired with savage politeness. Jazz contented herself with an eloquent sniff.
“And she'd prefer curry for lunch,” Dad added. “If it's no trouble.”
Auntie stopped midway through grating a lump of cheese. “That means I'll have to cook something from scratch,” she muttered. She hurled the cheese back into the fridge and began pulling out packets of vegetables. Looking nervous, Dad backed his way out of the kitchen. Geena, Jazz and I followed him.
“Not so fast,” Auntie snapped, waving a bunch of
dhania
at us. “You're helping.”
“Amber should do it,” Jazz grumbled, “seeing as it's all down to her.”
“Yes, let Amber do the cooking,” Geena joined in. “With any luck she might poison Molly and solve the problem.”
“What problem?” I said coolly, taking the
dhania
Auntie thrust at me in rather an unfriendly manner. “We're helping someone. I don't see any problem with that.”
But underneath my ice-cool exterior, I was worried. I had really and truly started something. At this moment, I had absolutely no idea how it was all going to end.
I wonder what it's like to be famous. No, that's not quite true. I wonder what it's like to be famous, and then, suddenly, not to be famous at all. To lose everything. To go back to being just an ordinary person in the street, someone nobody would look at twice. How would that feel? Could you ever go back to being normal again? And when it was all over, did you accept defeat gracefully or did you hope and believe that one day you would be famous all over again?
I snuggled down under the duvet and flipped through
OK!
magazine. It was full of soap stars, pop stars, actors and actresses. They were splitting up with their partners, getting married, having babies, talking about their latest film or book, or about their problemswith alcohol or drugs or both. I frowned. It seemed that even when you were famous, you still had problems, just the same as everyone else. I would have liked to discuss it with Molly Mahal. But I had a strong feeling it was something she wouldn't want to talk about.
Jazz rolled over in bed and kicked my ankle. “What are you looking so serious about?” she wanted to know.
“I was thinking about the fleeting nature of celebrity,” I said.
“Oh.” Jazz yawned. “Are you going to make some tea?”
“No,” I replied. “Make it yourself.”
Jazz pouted. “I don't want to go downstairs,” she moaned. “What if Molly Mahal's lurking about?”
I grinned. “You're scared of her, aren't you?”
“No,” Jazz said indignantly.
“You are,” I chuckled. “Honestly, Jazz, you
are
a fool.”
“Well, even if I was scared of her—which I'm not,” Jazz grumbled, “
you
ought to go and make the tea. Then you can take her a cup.”
“Don't be silly,” I said quickly. “She's probably still asleep.”
Jazz giggled. “
You're
scared of her too, aren't you, Amber?”
“Oh, really!” I yawned delicately behind my hand. “Of course I'm not.”
“You are,” Jazz said gleefully. “I'm not surprised, though. She's odd.”
We had managed to escape the curse of
Amir Ladka, Garib Ladka
the previous day
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