Page 3 of Of Socialites and Prizefights

A moment later, Cherie peeked out, looking like she hadn’t slept a wink. Her platinum blonde bob was dishevelled, and the previous night’s makeup was smudged under her eyes, making her look more exhausted than she really was.

“Good morning,” Deepa said carefully.

“What the bloody hell?” Cherie croaked. “There was a bloody great cat in here last night! Did you see it?”

“Yes, unfortunately.” Deepa cleared her throat. “That was me, actually.”

Cherie covered her face with a groan. “I’d hoped I’d taken something to make me imagine all that,” she mumbled from behind her hands. “Was it an enchantment?”

“A curse. I didn’t do anything to break it, so I expect it will keep happening every night until I get it taken care of.”

“Who on earth cursed you?” Cherie asked indignantly, dropping her hands to her hips.

“That weasel Phillip. He said true love’s kiss would break it, but I have a mind to take his head off his shoulders and see if that does the trick. Now that I’m myself again, I'm going to go get Aaliyah. Assuming I have until midnight before I come over all feline again, I should think that gives me more than enough time to sort this out.”

Aaliyah Kaddour was a terrifyingly competent woman. If anyone could break a curse, Deepa wholly believed it was her.

???

“A leopard?” Aaliyah said when Deepa explained the matter over espresso shots in Aaliyah’s favourite café. “I've never heard of a curse like that before. And he said you needed true love’s kiss? Classic, if pedestrian. I suppose you haven't had the chance to go and knock him around until he undoes it? Because that would be my first recommendation.”

Aaliyah Kaddour was the only daughter of a wealthy Algerian merchant, and had both a legal husband, with their marriage being a political arrangement to satisfy both parties’ meddlesome parents, and a less-legal wife, who was a love match. Deepa admired Aaliyah for her no-nonsense attitude and her ability to get everything she wanted out of life. Even when she had to take a husband, she did it entirely on her own terms. In many ways, she was aspirational, though Deepa was in nohurry to land a husband, or indeed any spouse, in a sham-marriage or otherwise.

Deepa had, in fact, gone poking around looking for Phillip that morning, only to determine that he’d either gone deep into hiding, or left London entirely until he could be sure that Deepa wouldn't be causing problems for him.

“His family’s got a home in France. He’s always going on about it, trying to impress me.”

“Well, if he’s buggered off out of the country, there's much not much you can do about that,” Aaliyah said realistically. “Have you given any thought to breaking the curse by more traditional means?”

“You mean by finding my true love?” Deepa was thoroughly sceptical, if not disdainful. “Phillip was many things, but he wasn't wrong regarding my chances there. I don't believe in love, true or otherwise. I can’t imagine myself falling for any man, not even to save myself an eternity of nightly leopard transformations.”

“About that,” said Aaliyah, setting her cup down in its saucer.

“You're not going to suggest something mad like a love spell, are you? Because I might rather stay a cat forever than enchant myself to fall in love.”

“Nothing nearly so drastic,” Aaliyah assured her, as if she didn’t have the components for an illegal love potion at her disposal. Deepa knew for a fact that she did. “It’s just that this isn’t the first time you’ve gone on about the impossibility of finding love with a man. I do have to point out that you have the entire fairer sex to explore as far as options go.”

Deepa laughed reflexively. Aaliyah, smiling, did not.

“Wait. Are you serious?”

Aaliyah shrugged. “Surely you’d know by now if men did anything for you. You’ve tried enough of them. Clearly, they don’t. So, either you’re immune to love entirely, in which case,we’ll have to arrange a trip to France so you can hunt down this little worm and threaten him until he undoes your curse, or you just need to try it on with a woman. It should be easy enough to find out which it is.”

Which was how Deepa found herself at Club Artemis that evening with Aaliyah and her wife Jasmine.

Like Aaliyah, Jasmine Bailey trucked with no man. They both belonged to a glittering community of femininity uninterested in the male sex as a species, their worlds revolving around sweet perfume, shining hair, and soft curves. Born to a Jamaican immigrant mother, Jasmine was brilliantly dark, with stunning jewel-tone features, as cool black as Aaliyah’s were warm brown. She was intelligent and hard-working, owning and managing her own flower shop in the city.

Between the two women, they conspired to take Deepa to one of the only clubs in all of London with which she wasn’t familiar. Club Artemis, on Gerrard Street in the West End, was a secret women-only establishment that made its home quite literally underground, hidden down a staircase underneath a more conventional bar.

“I have to be out the door by eleven,” Deepa told her friends in a low voice. “I won’t risk a spectacle by transforming anywhere but my own flat.”

“I’ll keep an eye on the time,” Jasmine promised, ever the responsible one.

“How many proposals did you get this week, pre-curse?” Aaliyah asked, leading the way down the narrow stairs.

“Only two.” Deepa followed Aaliyah, with Jasmine taking up the rear. “I’m sure I would have reached five if I’d stayed at The Songbird over the weekend.”

Pushing through the painted door at the bottom of the stairs, Aaliyah flashed her a smile. “This will be a more promising use of your time.”

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