Bollywood Babes Read Online Free PDF Page B

pavements.
    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