Page 39 of Of Socialites and Prizefights

“And coconut rice?” Cherie asked hopefully.

“You’re a good girl. Yes, I will make coconut rice, just for you.”

“I love you, Mrs. Patel.”

Deepa’s mother waved her aside, smiling. “Now, you tell me about this girlfriend. She works with motorcars? Why do you want me to meet her?”

“Just because we’ve been spending time together, and I think you might like her.”

“Hm. She is more important than the dozens of men you like to hide from your mother?” she asked shrewdly.

“They’re not important at all, and they’re certainly not friends.”

“I only want you to be happy and settle down.” She took Deepa’s hands, bringing them to her lap to fold them over her knee. “A mother worries about her daughter. You work very hard, and I know you have great plans to support yourself, but it is good to have a family, too. I do not want you to judge your own prospects by the way my marriage turned out, do you understand?” When Deepa didn’t answer, her mother tutted. “This motorcar friend of yours. She is not married either?”

“She’s not, and she doesn't plan to be.”

“Your Aaliyah is married, though, and she is very happy.”

Deepa couldn’t exactly explain the particulars of Aaliyah’s situation.

Sighing, her mother turned to Cherie. “And you? Do not tell me you are also determined to stay unwed all your life.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Cherie said lightly. “I always imagined I’d get married someday. I just have to find the right man for the job.”

“You are a beautiful girl. You must have suitors tripping over themselves to propose.”

“Well, a couple, yeah, but the right one hasn't come along yet. Don’t worry, Mrs. Patel. You’ll be invited to the wedding when I do finally meet the perfect man.”

Deepa shot Cherie a look of thanks for taking her mother’s attention off her in regards to future wedding plans. She had no intention of settling down with any of the shallow, frivolous men who courted her for her looks. She didn't blame them for falling into her web, not when she went to such lengths to attract their attention, but she did resent them a little, as contradictory as that was.

If Roz were a man…

Deepa wasn’t sure how to finish that thought. If Roz were a man, Deepa doubted she’d be terribly interested. It was specifically the novelty of dancing with a woman, of kissing her, that made her heart burst with butterflies. She wanted a partner, a confidant, a friend, and an equal. No man could be those things to her, not when she entered every relationship knowing they only meant to use each other.

Roz was different. Emotionally, Roz could give her what she wanted. Financially, however, she was less than promising.

“Now,” said her mother, “is there anything you want to share with me? I can tell something is bothering you.”

Deepa froze. For a second, all her thoughts were of Roz, before she remembered her more dramatic secret. She couldn’t tell her mother about the curse. It had only been a week; that was hardly enough time to even try breaking it. There was no sense in worrying her mother until she had exhausted every option.

“Everything is fine,” she managed with a weak smile. For all her talent in lying to men, she was terrible at lying to her mother. “I’ve been busy, that’s all.”

Her mother gave a sceptical hum. “You work hard. You must take time to rest.”

“Ah, there will be time to rest later, when I’m done,” Deepa said, brushing aside her concern.

“And when will you be done, hm? Never. You have too many excuses to keep working.” Her mother waved her off when she opened her mouth to protest her innocence. “Yes, yes, it is all important. Fine. Tomorrow I will come back with chana masala and coconut rice to meet your new motorcar-girlfriend, yes? And maybe after you eat my cooking, you remember how I am your mother and you tell me what’s bothering you.”

“Yes, mama,” Deepa stammered.

Satisfied, her mother turned the conversation to gossip, catching her up on all the comings and goings of her employers, Elizabeth and her husband Arthur Leicester, and their permanent houseguest, the eccentric and renowned artist Jules Coxley. Deepa didn’t consider it malicious gossip, getting details of her friends’ personal lives from her mother. She had no intention of using any such details against them, and even if she did, Coxley especially had weathered worse scandals than anything she could concoct.

He had been the one to introduce her to London’s finest and most lucrative social circles, after she’d modelled for some of his art and he had painted her nude as Lady Godiva. Though she didn’t owe him any favours, she was modestly grateful that he’d taken her under his wing in that time. Possibly, her good looks would have got her just as far without him, but he’d certainly saved her some time and effort.

Still, she enjoyed hearing her mother's tales of their household. Knowing Elizabeth, Deepa couldn't be entirely surprised that she’d caught herself two men for the price of one. Deepa’s automatic reaction was to wish that she could also be so lucky — but that wasn’t true. She didn’t want two men; not even two men who adored her and wanted to provide for her every need. Elizabeth was actuallyfriendswith her husband and her…whatever Coxley was. Deepa could hardly imagine where to start when it came to cultivating a genuine friendship with a man.

So: she knew enough to say with confidence that she didn’t want a husband. She’d always assumed that meant she must not want anyone at all.

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