Page 4 of Of Socialites and Prizefights

Club Artemis was green and gold, dimly lit and smoky like a sultry forest night. The bar ran in a long stripe along the back, couches and chairs lounging around the other two sides, with an area for the musicians on the third. In the middle, the floor opened up for dancing, though most of the patrons were sitting or standing in small groups or couples. Aaliyah presented the club with a flourish, and Deepa nodded respectfully. It was nothing spectacular save for its lack of men, who, in any other situation, would have been slavering at the sight of so many single women.

And the women were beautiful. In other clubs, they reminded Deepa of koi carp, glimmering and ornamental as they swam around, fishing for men’s attention. Here, though they still glimmered, they seemed far more interesting, as if their inner lives were allowed to bloom, their personalities coming out strong, flaunting their independence and intelligence. Deepa had always been one of the koi carp, playing dumb and demure, batting her lashes and walking that impossibly thin line between innocence and temptation. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to a crowded club without concealing her real thoughts and intentions.

“I suppose you said no to both proposals?” Jasmine asked as they made their way to the bar.

“She doesn’t intend to say yes to any of them,” Aaliyah scoffed, leaning in to catch the bartender’s attention, ordering a shot of gin apiece.

Jasmine shrugged. “Stranger things have happened. You got married, after all.”

“I’m married to you,” Aaliyah countered, sliding Jasmine her gin as Deepa reached for her own.

“Technically, you’re married to Alphonse,” Jasmine said mildly, taking a sip.

Alphonse Hollyhock was a blond-haired, blue-eyed Englishman of leisure who, Deepa suspected, had never once entertained a single thought in his pretty head. He was a perfectly nice young man, but he was as disinterested in women as Aaliyah was in men, and their marriage had worked out wonderfully for everyone involved.

Deepa doubted she would find a husband equally happy to turn a blind eye if Deepa took his ring and his hand and announced that she wanted to continue entertaining other men. It seemed a hard sell. Though Deepa was very good at getting what she wanted, she couldn’t help but suspect that marriage would only make her life more complicated.

Of course, transforming into a leopard every night would complicate things as well. She supposed that put marriage in context.

“I expect this current rash of suitors will drop off once I stop taking their calls. Very few of them persist past the second rejection.”

“Except for Bassenwood,” Aaliyah noted. “Is he still coming around?”

Deepa heaved a sigh into her drink. “He is.”

Jonathan Bassenwood was the most determined of the lot, waiting to see her after every performance, promising his undying love. She’d made the mistake of sleeping with him once, early on, not realising at the time how drastically that would stoke his devotion. She should really stop accepting his gifts, but he was both extremely generous and extremely desperate to win her over. It seemed a waste to cut him off completely and miss out on the jewellery, dresses, chocolates, and wine he liked to bestow on her.

“You’ll have to put him out of his misery eventually,” Jasmine said gently. “Before he loses patience.”

“I can take care of myself.”

Which was true; she had historically been quite capable of defending herself against her more hot-headed suitors. None of the men she actually went out with were inclined to such temperaments, but she’d had more than one man barred from the club for taking too brusque or too entitled an approach. It was most regrettable that Phillip hadn’t raised any red flags prior to the cursing incident, or she’d have barred him too, and saved herself this current conundrum.

Jonathan Bassenwood, on the other hand, wasn’t like that at all. Jonathan was more akin to a spaniel fawning over her, sweet and pathetic.

“You can't deny women make better company than most men,” said Aaliyah.

Setting aside the fact that she wasn’t inclined to women, Deepa humoured her. “I just don’t know that a woman would be able to provide for me the way I want.”

“There are plenty of women looking for a princess to spoil,” Aaliyah said, and Jasmine nodded wisely. “I bet I could find you a better shot at true love here tonight than you’ve found in all your suitors so far. It wouldn’t even be a challenge.”

“Feel free to try,” Deepa replied, amused.

Knocking back the last of her gin and clunking the glass down firmly on the bar top, Aaliyah took Jasmine and Deepa by the hands and dragged them onto the dance floor. “No better way to catch a girl’s attention,” she promised.

The band was playing a lively piece, and Aaliyah wasted no time in pulling them into a raucous Charleston. The three of them quickly drew more dancers onto the floor, and the hum of conversation racketed up a notch, with people raising their voices to be heard over the band and the dancing.

Deepa was in her element as she whirled across the floor, willing the other dancers to pay attention to her. She'd never had to try very hard to make that happen.

That night, she was in a burgundy half sari draped to bare her midriff, the cotton hemmed in gold print to match her hoop earrings and bracelets that were beset with tiny stones to glitter in the scant light whenever she moved. From her navel, a jewel flashed in time with her steps, drawing attention to the bare skin of her stomach that was infinitely more tantalising than bare shoulders or knees. Her hair, long enough to drop past her waist if she left it down, she wore in an enormous braid, made thicker by the ropes of silk twined through it. The choli she wore in place of a blouse under her sari was downright indecent, according to her mother, and she took care to keep herself modestly covered in public. But on stage or at Club Artemis, decency was not her goal.

Aaliyah was in a minuscule black dress decorated with silver and gold beading, and Jasmine was in violet, both of them flashing their knees, arms loose and smiles bright. Aaliyah was right: there was no better way to catch anyone’s attention than through dance, and Deepa had always been attuned to music. In that moment, it was easy to forget she’d been cursed a scant twenty-four hours earlier, in an establishment not so different than this.

Soon enough, she felt eyes on her, a gaze burning dark and hot between her shoulders. Turning in time with the music, she picked her admirer out of the crowd. A woman in a dark suit and a man’s haircut lounged against one of the couches, her arms spread wide over its back, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee. She looked handsome and self-assured, and older than Deepa by a good ten years. Heat coiled through Deepa’s core, pleased by the attention.

Catching on, Aaliyah elbowed her, grinning. “I told you!”

“Do you know her?” Deepa asked, leaning to speak directly in Aaliyah’s ear.

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