Page 43 of Of Socialites and Prizefights

“That’s right, ma’am.” Roz claimed a spot on the loveseat; Deepa perched on the other cushion beside her. “I’m a mechanic; I work at a shop in north London. I met yourDeepa when I was downtown for a night. Some mutual friends introduced us.”

“Aaliyah and Jasmine,” Deepa supplied.

“Oh yes, those are nice girls, very good.”

“These are for you,” Roz offered belatedly, as if only just realising she was still holding her gifts, rising and brandishing the flowers somewhat awkwardly. “I know Deepa’s fond of pretty things, so I hoped you’d appreciate the same. And wine, too.”

Deepa’s mother tutted, as admonishing as she was pleased. “You shouldn’t have.” Accepting the bundle, she brought them to her face to take a deep breath. “They are beautiful. Tiger lilies?”

“Ditch lilies, we always called them,” Roz confessed, setting the wine on the kitchen table before returning to her seat and scrubbing her hands over her knees. “Tiger lilies sound a good bit classier, don’t they?”

“I’ll get a vase,” Deepa said, rising with one hand on Roz’s shoulder to keep her from getting up again.

Roz obeyed, nodding to Cherie at the table. “Good to see you again, Cher.”

“And you. Do you like Indian? Because Mrs. Patel is the most amazing cook I've ever met.”

At the kitchen sink with her back to the others, Deepa smiled as she filled a tall glass to keep the flowers fresh. Roz was flustered, like she’d never actually met anyone’s mother before and didn’t know what to do. It was endearing. Not that Deepa enjoyed seeing her wrong-footed, but she did like to see Roz less than perfectly composed.

Arranging the lilies in their makeshift vase, Deepa caught a flash of crimson from deep within the bouquet. Using both hands to part the splashes of speckled orange and green, she found a single rose nestled in the heart of the bouquet like a secret meant for her alone. Hiding her smile amongst the petals,she breathed it in before adjusting the lilies to cover it again, not wanting to share the secret Roz had gifted her.

“Start with a biscuit, my dear,” Deepa’s mother said, picking up the plate from the table and passing it over as Deepa returned to the loveseat. “Tell me, that accent: what is that? I hear it from some people in London, but I never know where exactly they originate.”

“Manchester, ma’am,” Roz said with a broad smile, taking an almond biscuit as instructed. “You hear this accent, you know we’re good Northern working-class folks, none of that posh nonsense you hear down here sometimes.”

Deepa’s mother nodded sagely. “And how did you come to work on motorcars?”

“My dad had a shop. My brother and I both grew up underfoot, watching him tinker with whatever he could get his hands on. I come by it naturally. And I don’t think the motorcars are going to disappear anytime soon, so it feels like decent job security.”

“Very good. No husband for you?”

“Definitely not,” Roz confirmed with a polite smile.

“That can be good, especially if you are making your own way in the world.”

“Mama!” Deepa exclaimed. “You never say any such thing to me.”

“Rosaline is not my daughter,” Deepa’s mother returned amicably. “And a mechanic is a good, reliable job. She can support herself without anyone worrying.”

“I could probably support someone else, too, if they didn't mind living a bit tight,” Roz said, glancing at Deepa.

The look didn't go unnoticed. “How long have you known each other?” her mother asked, passing the biscuits around again. “I like to meet Deepa’s friends, but she so rarely introduces me.”

“Oh, we’re only recent acquaintances,” Roz said casually.

Deepa’s mother raised her brows. “Acquaintances? Deepa, I have never metacquaintancesbefore. Tell me, Roz, do you own your own shop? Or will your father give you his when he is done?”

She was investigating Roz’s prospects, Deepa realised, as surely as if Roz were one of her many male suitors. Before Roz could enmesh herself deeper in this subtle marital interrogation, Deepa blurted, “Mama, she’s also a boxer.”

Her mother blinked. “A boxer?”

“I fight,” Roz supplied, rubbing one hand over the back of her neck. “I…I hit people. As a sport.” She shot Deepa a wide-eyed look as if to ask,Why would you tell her that?

Deepa winced apologetically in response. It wasn't her intention to make Roz look bad; she’d panicked, needing to change the subject before her mother could go into full matchmaking mode. Matchmaking had been one of her greatest passions before leaving Gujarat, and she had far fewer opportunities to practice it now, especially with full-time employment occupying her days.

“I am not very familiar with boxing,” Deepa’s mother admitted. Hopefully, she added, “I don’t suppose you play football at all? Or cricket?”

“I play football with my mates sometimes,” Roz agreed, “though not so much anymore. Good game. That’s big in India, yeah?”

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