by pleading homework. Molly Mahal had watched Bollywood films all evening, and was still watching at midnight, long after the rest of us had gone to bed. I thought I'd heard footsteps coming upstairs around two o'clock in the morning, but I couldn't be sure.
“You'd be odd too if you were rich and famous and beautiful one minute, and poor and forgotten and downtrodden the next.” The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that only a fool would crave being famous in the first place.
“I'd like to be famous,” Jazz said dreamily.
“Why?” I demanded.
“Well.” Jazz looked a bit confused. “Everyone knows who you are.”
“That seems like an excellent reason,” I began sarcastically—but broke off to listen to Geena and Auntie arguing outside our bedroom door.
“I do
not
snore,” Geena was saying coldly.
“Yes, you do,” Auntie replied. “It's like trying to sleep on the runway at Heathrow Airport.”
The door flew open and Geena marched in. Her face was red. “This is all your fault, Amber,” she said through her teeth. “I didn't get a wink of sleep last night.”
“Neither did I,” grumbled Auntie, appearing behindher. She was wearing Geena's DKNY tartan pajamas, which were slightly too small for her.
“At least I don't talk in my sleep,” Geena retorted.
Auntie looked a little nervous. “I don't. Do I?”
“Oh yes.” Geena smiled. “Don't worry, Auntie. I won't give away all your secrets.”
“I don't have any secrets to tell,” Auntie said. She seemed somewhat concerned all the same.
“Is Molly Mahal up yet?” I asked.
“She's sitting in the living room, wearing my second-best
lengha
,” Auntie said crossly. “Go downstairs and make her a cup of tea, Amber. I don't think it would ever occur to her to boil the kettle herself.”
I groaned. “Do I have to?”
“Oh yes,” said Auntie. “And keep her down there as long as you can so I can grab some clothes from my room. I think she's left it unlocked. Otherwise I'm going to have to borrow something of Geena's.”
“Well, you're very welcome,” Geena said smoothly. “Although, of course, I
am
a size smaller than you. You don't want to look ridiculous.”
Auntie retaliated with a loud, piglike snort and whisked out of the room.
“What are you two staring at me for?” I asked.
“Auntie told you to go downstairs and make Molly Mahal a cup of tea,” Jazz reminded me, laughing uncontrollably.
“All right,” I said, trying to look unconcerned. “I'm going.”
I climbed out of bed and began to dress, slowly. Geena jumped into my vacant spot, and she and Jazz lay there giggling under the duvet while I brushed my hair.
“You two are so childish,” I said. I went out of the bedroom, wishing I was somewhere far away.
The living room door was shut. I had to take a deep breath before I could open it. Molly was sitting on the sofa, her back straight, the skirt of Auntie's peacockblue
lengha
pooling around her on the carpet. The newsreader on TV was talking about someone who'd been shot in South London, but I don't think she was listening.
“Hi,” I said brightly. “Did you sleep well?”
Molly turned to me. The unforgiving morning sun streaming through the windows highlighted the difference in her face; still beautiful, but not in the way it had been, and never would be again.
“I don't sleep that well these days,” she said quietly.
“Oh.” I wasn't actually scared of her. Not really. But there was something about her eyes. When she locked on to you, it was like being hit with the full force of her personality. You felt like a rabbit entranced by a snake. Well, I did, anyway.
I had no idea what to say next. Then I remembered why I was there. “Tea?”
“Thank you.”
I scuttled out, feeling relieved. There were so manyquestions I wanted to ask her. How had she ended up in Reading? Why didn't she have any money? Wasn't there anyone who cared enough to help her out? But I couldn't ask any of
“You'd be odd too if you were rich and famous and beautiful one minute, and poor and forgotten and downtrodden the next.” The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that only a fool would crave being famous in the first place.
“I'd like to be famous,” Jazz said dreamily.
“Why?” I demanded.
“Well.” Jazz looked a bit confused. “Everyone knows who you are.”
“That seems like an excellent reason,” I began sarcastically—but broke off to listen to Geena and Auntie arguing outside our bedroom door.
“I do
not
snore,” Geena was saying coldly.
“Yes, you do,” Auntie replied. “It's like trying to sleep on the runway at Heathrow Airport.”
The door flew open and Geena marched in. Her face was red. “This is all your fault, Amber,” she said through her teeth. “I didn't get a wink of sleep last night.”
“Neither did I,” grumbled Auntie, appearing behindher. She was wearing Geena's DKNY tartan pajamas, which were slightly too small for her.
“At least I don't talk in my sleep,” Geena retorted.
Auntie looked a little nervous. “I don't. Do I?”
“Oh yes.” Geena smiled. “Don't worry, Auntie. I won't give away all your secrets.”
“I don't have any secrets to tell,” Auntie said. She seemed somewhat concerned all the same.
“Is Molly Mahal up yet?” I asked.
“She's sitting in the living room, wearing my second-best
lengha
,” Auntie said crossly. “Go downstairs and make her a cup of tea, Amber. I don't think it would ever occur to her to boil the kettle herself.”
I groaned. “Do I have to?”
“Oh yes,” said Auntie. “And keep her down there as long as you can so I can grab some clothes from my room. I think she's left it unlocked. Otherwise I'm going to have to borrow something of Geena's.”
“Well, you're very welcome,” Geena said smoothly. “Although, of course, I
am
a size smaller than you. You don't want to look ridiculous.”
Auntie retaliated with a loud, piglike snort and whisked out of the room.
“What are you two staring at me for?” I asked.
“Auntie told you to go downstairs and make Molly Mahal a cup of tea,” Jazz reminded me, laughing uncontrollably.
“All right,” I said, trying to look unconcerned. “I'm going.”
I climbed out of bed and began to dress, slowly. Geena jumped into my vacant spot, and she and Jazz lay there giggling under the duvet while I brushed my hair.
“You two are so childish,” I said. I went out of the bedroom, wishing I was somewhere far away.
The living room door was shut. I had to take a deep breath before I could open it. Molly was sitting on the sofa, her back straight, the skirt of Auntie's peacockblue
lengha
pooling around her on the carpet. The newsreader on TV was talking about someone who'd been shot in South London, but I don't think she was listening.
“Hi,” I said brightly. “Did you sleep well?”
Molly turned to me. The unforgiving morning sun streaming through the windows highlighted the difference in her face; still beautiful, but not in the way it had been, and never would be again.
“I don't sleep that well these days,” she said quietly.
“Oh.” I wasn't actually scared of her. Not really. But there was something about her eyes. When she locked on to you, it was like being hit with the full force of her personality. You felt like a rabbit entranced by a snake. Well, I did, anyway.
I had no idea what to say next. Then I remembered why I was there. “Tea?”
“Thank you.”
I scuttled out, feeling relieved. There were so manyquestions I wanted to ask her. How had she ended up in Reading? Why didn't she have any money? Wasn't there anyone who cared enough to help her out? But I couldn't ask any of
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