Bollywood Babes Read Online Free Page A

“We'll say we're meeting Baby.”
    Uncle Dave, Auntie Rita and their kids, plus Biji (the most tactless grandmother in England), live halfway between us and Reading. They have a very posh house in the country.
    “Oh, Auntie'll buy that,” Jazz broke in. “Especially after you said last week that Baby was a bubbleheaded bimbo who needed a good slap.”
    “And what if she rings Auntie Rita to check?” added Geena.
    “We'll have to risk it,” I said through gritted teeth. “Why do you two always have to be so negative?”
    “That's rather unfair,” Geena said coldly. As we trailed after each other toward the front door, I could hear her muttering, “I knew this was a bad idea,” under her breath.
    “Never mind,” Jazz consoled her. “We can blame Amber when it all goes wrong.”
    The exotic smells of garlic, ginger, cumin and sizzling onions floated down the hall toward us as Geena opened the front door. We all sniffed hard, drowning our senses in the rich, delicious scents.
    “Want to bet Mrs. Macey'll be here?” I said, kicking off my trainers heel to toe.
    “Is the grass green?” said Geena.
    “She'll be here,” muttered Jazz.
    “Is that you, girls?” Auntie appeared in the kitchen doorway, wearing an i love india apron and holding a wooden spoon. “Come and say hello to Gloria.”
    We left a heap of trainers and bags behind us and wandered down to the kitchen. Our elderly next-door neighbor, Mrs. Macey, sat perched on a stool, eyeing us over her cup of coffee like a frightened mouse.
    “Hello,” she squeaked.
    For months Mrs. Macey had never said a word to us because she didn't like living next door to an Indian family. That was all before Auntie arrived, of course. Auntie doesn't stand for any nonsense like that. She'd soon forced Mrs. Macey into coming round for coffee
and
being polite to us. Now Mrs. Macey comes round of her own free will, especially when Auntie's cooking curry. She's discovered she loves curry. But she still seems a bit embarrassed about the way she treated us before.
    “Did you have a good day, girls?” asked Auntie, stirring the curry.
    “It was OK.” I turned to Mrs. Macey. “You should come to the Bollywood party at our school, Mrs. Macey,” I went on, with wide-eyed innocence. “Auntie's organizing it. With my teacher, Mr. Arora. They're very good together, you know.”
    Auntie reached for the potato peeler. “Haven't you three got homework to do?” she asked, pointing it at my nose.
    “Yes.” I ushered Geena and Jazz over to the door. “An English essay on
Romeo and Juliet
Under love's heavy burden do I sink
, and all that.”
    Auntie glared at me and stabbed the potato she was holding. Laughing noiselessly, I closed the door behind me.
    “She'll get you for that,” Jazz predicted.
    “I'll be waiting for her.” I caught at Geena, who was heading for the stairs. “Where are you going?”
    “Homework,” Geena began.
    “Oh, never mind that,” I said impatiently. “We've got other fish to fry.”
    “I've never known what that means,” Jazz complained as I led the way into the living room.
    “Just sit down.” I went over to the mahogany sideboard under the window and slid the glass doors open. There were heaps of videotapes and DVDs crammed inside. “I'm sure Dad recorded one of Molly Mahal's films off B4U a few months ago.”
    “Ooh,
Kuch Kuch Hota Hai
!” Jazz pounced on one of the DVDs as they spilled out of the cupboard. “Let's watch this, we haven't seen it for ages.”
    “No, this is it.” I had found a videotape labeled
    AMIR LADKA
,
GARIB LADKA
—rich boy, poor boy (1982) in Dad's neat script.
    “Nineteen eighty-two?” Jazz said, disgusted, as Geena switched the TV on. “How old is this woman?”
    Geena worked it out. “She must be in her forties by now.”
    Jazz looked dubious. “Well, I hope she hasn't let herself go.”
    “Let's see what she looked like back then,” I remarked, sliding the tape into the video machine.
    The