Page 5 of Of Socialites and Prizefights

“We’ve seen her around. She's definitely not one of the ones slipping out to avoid a husband at home.”

That much was obvious. The way the woman held herself, like a lioness lounging on her throne, suggested that she ran her own house and her own life, and would settle for nothing less.

They made eye contact across the dance floor and the woman smiled, pushing herself up and strolling over, her hands slung casually in her pockets. She cut straight through the crowd like a ship through water, and Deepa held her ground, a smile spreading as she waited for the woman to reach her.

CHAPTER THREE

IN WHICH DEEPA MEETS HER MATCH

They came together as the music shifted to a playful waltz, and the woman swept Deepa into position, taking the lead. None of the other dancers were drunk enough to cross each other's paths, and the waltz felt effortless, each step as easy as a swallow in flight.

“Rosaline,” said the woman. Her voice was strong and low and northern. “Call me Roz.”

“Deepa.”

Roz was a few inches shorter than Deepa, wearing men’s clothes with her dark hair cut short and masculine, strands of silver shot through at the temples. Her eyes were grey and her skin lightly tanned, with broad shoulders and a thick, stocky build, though she was light on her feet. One hand was dry and callused where she held Deepa’s, her other on Deepa’s waist, firm without commandeering. She moved like someone comfortable in her own physicality; used to manual labour, Deepa guessed. Where Deepa had cultivated a feline grace in her own movements, intentionally seductive, Roz wasstraightforward and no-nonsense, without any wasted effort. She was a good dancer — not flashy about it, but competent.

And, Deepa realised, as Roz lifted one arm to spin her around, she smelled good, too: a dark, smoky cologne clung to her suit. Coming in from her twirl, Deepa positioned herself closer, breathing deep. The other woman seemed to enjoy her newfound proximity, though she didn’t hold Deepa tighter or closer than what Deepa willing to offer.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Roz asked when the music changed.

“You don’t waste time,” said Deepa, amused.

Roz just smiled more broadly and offered Deepa the crook of her elbow, like a gentleman to a lady. Flattered, Deepa accepted, slipping her hand around the woman’s arm, ignoring the way Aaliyah and Jasmine were cheering behind her back.

Roz might not be considered attractive by the men of London, but in Club Artemis, she was magnetic. Deepa couldn’t take her eyes off her as Roz guided her back to the bar. Beside her, Roz was solid and warm, exuding confidence and charm. Deepa wasn’t the only one caught up in her magnetism, either; a number of girls from the dance floor were tracking her, their gazes hungry.

“What can I get you?” Roz asked, turning to Deepa as she leaned one elbow on the bar.

“White wine, please.”

“Classy. I’ll have a shot of whiskey, myself.” As the bartender — a stylish older woman wearing a blue and white sailor’s top, with a long cigarette clamped between her lips — fetched their orders, Roz looked Deepa over with an air of speculation. “Deepa, was it? That’s a pretty name.”

“Thank you. I actually come from a long line of Indian maharajahs.”

The lie came as easily as breathing after years of repetition. It was an image she had specifically crafted to whet men'sappetites for the exotic, and it wasn't as if any of them knew enough about India or even the British occupation to prove her wrong. And it was certainly better than sharing the truth about her parents, whose stories were far too common and tended to illicit pity more than wonder.

When she said it to Roz, though, it felt less like a deception and more like an invitation: a wink and a nudge prompting her to see through Deepa’s illusion.

“That so? I can see it.”

As so many of her suitors liked to do, Roz caught Deepa’s fingers to brush a dry kiss over her knuckles, lingering long enough to drop a second smaller kiss on the ruby ring she wore on her middle finger. Unlike with her suitors, Deepa didn't feel the urge to roll her eyes or wash her hands after.

“What brings an Indian princess to a place like this? I’ve not seen you before.”

“My friends said I should take a break from my regular club where I’m hounded by men night and day.”

“Do you like being hounded by women more?”

“It’s a new experience for me.”

When the bartender slid her glass of wine over, Deepa savoured a delicate sip as she studied Roz from over the rim. Roz toyed with her whiskey tumbler but didn’t drink yet, looking Deepa over just as Deepa was looking at her.

“Just here as a tourist then, are you, love?” Roz’s tone was casual, giving nothing away.

“I didn't come out tonight intending to get picked up, if that’s what you mean,” Deepa replied, keeping her smile light. “But I like to keep my options open.”

“Married?”

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