Page 11 of Of Socialites and Prizefights

The week passed fruitlessly. Deepa kept up her singing at The Songbird, both because she needed the money, and in case Phillip was keeping tabs on her. She wanted to present as if she were unruffled and the curse was, if not already broken, a mere inconvenience. However, she cut her nights shorter than she would have liked, always giving herself ample time to escape upstairs and transform away from prying eyes.

Her admirers drove themselves wild with speculation as to who or what she was running home to. She fanned the flames of their rumours in the hopes that they might fall over themselves trying to outbid their competitors for her attention, and because she could hardly come out and reassure them that she was spending her nights alone. Better to let them believe she was falling into the arms of some secret prince than transforming into a giant cat and sulking about it in the bath.

Despite her diminished time spent on stage, her admirers’ gifts didn’t dwindle in the least. Her suitors continued to leave her wine, chocolates, trinkets, and flowers in her dressing room.If anything, they left more. But she couldn’t spend her nights taking them out one at a time to coax more expensive and long-lasting gifts from their wallets, and chocolates and flowers couldn’t pay her bills. So, while the air of mystery seemed to help her popularity, the curse still had to go.

But she was no closer to breaking it.

Phillip was nowhere to be found. Sniffing out resources on curses and the breaking thereof was difficult, given their illegality, and the necessity of keeping her curse secret. Hardly helping was her lack of personal contacts who had any experience with curses, or at least access to historical or academic works on the subject.

That left her to break the curse as it was intended. Her scepticism on that front had not wavered in a week. Even if she did believe in love, she strongly suspected that the English bard was right when he wrote that its course never did run smooth.

Unfortunately, it seemed she had little recourse but to try it.

In light of that, Thursday evening found her following Aaliyah and Jasmine to a dive bar in the North End to watch Roz fight.

“The weather’s good, so the match will be up top,” Aaliyah told her, holding the door to shepherd her into the bar.

“On the roof?”

The bar was a small, sordid-seeming place that Deepa never would have patronised of her own volition, but it didn’t have an air of active hostility. It must have some redeeming qualities if it was willing to host a women's boxing match. Still, she was glad the fight would be outside, away from the sticky floors and smell of old smoke. Also, she’d never been on a rooftop before, and was curious as to what the experience might hold.

A stairwell behind a closed door at the back of the bar granted rooftop access, and up they climbed. The fresh air was a relief, though it still smelled of London. The roof was fairly small and almost square, a patchwork quilt of other building-tops allaround, and it offered a beautiful view of the June sky as dusk approached, inviting streaks of vivid pink and orange to linger over the horizon. The breeze caught the skirts of Deepa’s dress, blush pink to match the evening, making the tulle ruffle and flutter around her legs.

In the middle of the roof stood a makeshift boxing ring, with mats laid down to cover the concrete, and a square of ropes erected on all sides. A group of women stood gathered at the ring’s far side, while a mixed crowd of onlookers milled around the rooftop door where Deepa, Aaliyah, and Jasmine had exited.

It was no challenge to pick Roz out. She and another woman stood in the centre of the group by the ring, with a third serious-faced woman speaking to them both. All the other women looked to be listening intently, and Deepa didn’t want to interrupt. Also, it gave her the opportunity to drink Roz in and see if her second impression stood up to the first.

Roz was in shorts and a muscle shirt, and she had the muscles to show off. Biceps, calves, and thighs — Deepa imagined that if she lifted Roz’s shirt, she would find slabs of defined abdominal muscles as well, and back muscles to rival those of any weightlifter. Under the straps of her top, Roz’s shoulders were like those of an ox, broad and strong. She looked masculine, but she didn’t look like a man, not even when she was dressed as one.

Roz caught her eye from across the roof and grinned, jutting her chin up in greeting. Deepa smiled and waved in response.

“God, she is a specimen,” Aaliyah said. “I wouldn't have guessed she’d be your type.”

“What type did you expect of me?”

“Like an heiress or something, I don't know. Someone rich and dripping in gold and pearls to spoil you with.”

“You’ve just described yourself,” Jasmine said fondly. “Narcissist. Anyway, her men already do that. She was bored; maybe she wanted a change of pace.”

“It’s alright,” Deepa said. “I'll admit to being a bit surprised myself.”

“She could bench press any one of your men,” Aaliyah said. “Have you gone and got yourself a date, or a bodyguard?”

“Neither. I’m here as a friend.”

Aaliyah and Jasmine's eyebrows rose simultaneously, and the couple exchanged a glance.

“Does she know that?” Aaliyah asked.

“We left it intentionally ambiguous. It’s hardly been a week since we met. I didn’t want to promise her a date and then go home and change my mind in the interim.”

“So, you haven't ruled out a date,” Jasmine said.

“I never rule out anything. That’s how bridges get burned.”

The group of women split, meeting adjourned, and Roz cut across the roof straight to Deepa.

“You came.” Her voice was a low, pleased purr as she took Deepa’s hands.

---