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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 teabags 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