Page 38 of Of Socialites and Prizefights

“It broke the spell, though,” Roz said, trying to sound optimistic.

“It shot the carburettor, is what it did,” Joey retorted. “I’ll have to order one in to replace it.”

“That’s an easy enough fix.” Roz shrugged, cleaning her own hands on a nearby rag that seemed intended for just that. “If he was mad enough to try bespelling his engine to win a race with his mates, he deserves to pay for a new carburettor.”

Joey grunted in response, stalking off to the office to place the order, or perhaps call the car’s owner. Deepa made her way back to Roz’s side, standing on her toes to peer around Roz’s shoulder and under the hood. The magic had dissipated, but a plume of smoke curled out, thick and noxious.

“That’s one way to do it, I suppose,” Deepa said, trying not to feel too bad for the car.

“Magic's not really in our job description,” Roz said apologetically, giving Deepa a quick peck on the cheek, careful not to touch her with her oil-smudged hands. With a little more privacy, Deepa was inclined to get those hands on her, oil, engine grease, and all, despite her earlier protests.

“I suppose cars are easier to repair than people after they get tangled up in magic that has no business being near them.”

“Yeah,” Roz agreed with a wince. “Can't recommend this approach to your problem.”

“No matter,” Deepa said briskly, keen to change the subject. “Do you have more to do here? Because if not, I think it would be a marvellous idea if you took me back to your car and reminded me just how good you are with your hands.”

Roz swallowed. “I can do that. Just let me wash up first.”

Shaking her head, Deepa grabbed Roz’s wrist, forestalling her. “No, I want you just like this.”

Roz’s laugh was throaty and genuine and quite possibly Deepa’s new favourite sound. “I see how it is. The maharajah’s daughter’s looking for a bit of rough trade, is she?”

“Yes, please, and she doesn’t like to be kept waiting, so if you don’t mind?”

It was difficult to say which of them was more eager to reach Roz’s car outside. Once they got there, Roz was very good at distracting Deepa from any and all unpleasant thoughts about broken carburettors and inconstant honeybees, and then from any thoughts whatsoever.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

TEA-TIME AND A MOTHER’S LAMENT FOR A SON-IN-LAW

Deepa’s mother was a regular visitor on weekends. They could have easily gone out for tea instead of squeezing into Deepa’s tiny flat, but her mother was used to living in close quarters with more people than that, and furthermore, she had taken it upon herself ages ago to see both Deepa and Cherie fed. It wasn't that they couldn’t fend for themselves, but every week she insisted on cooking enough to feed them for days, never mind that she spent her weekdays cooking and cleaning.

Deepa always protested, insisting that her mother take more time to rest, and that she didn’t need to be looked after to such an extent, but her mother always forged ahead regardless. She had adopted Cherie as a second daughter, since she could hardly bring food over for one but not the other, and Cherie convertedto Gujarati cuisine immediately, with a vocal appreciation that always made Deepa’s mother puff up with pride.

“I thought I would have a friend around tomorrow, if you don’t mind the company,” Deepa said, once she and her mother were settled on the loveseat, and Cherie was perched on a kitchen chair.

“Oh, am I finally meeting one of your gentleman friends?”

Her mother had adopted English fashions for the sake of her work, though she still favoured richer colours and heavier patterns than most Englishwomen her age, and she wore her long, iron-silver hair in a neat bun at the back of her head, with a pair of spectacles on a beaded loop around her neck. She was small and soft, smelling perpetually of baked goods, with her hands dyed from spices and the soles of her sensibly-heeled shoes always worn a little thinner than they ought to be.

“No,” Deepa stressed. She had never introduced any of her suitors or club regulars to her mother, and she wasn’t about to start. “No, it’s a girlfriend. Not one of the girls from the club, either. She works, like you. She fixes motorcars.”

Her mother bobbed her head. “I will meet her, if that is what you want, my dove. I will bring cakes.”

“No, mama, you don't have to do that. It’s your day off.”

“No, no, I was going to bring you food and sweets anyway. You don’t get enough good homecooked meals, going out to that club every night. I have to make sure you are getting something decent in you. If that means I am feeding your friends as well, then I will feed your friends.”

“Mama—”

“Do not argue with me,” her mother cut in with a warning smile, raising one finger. “I have to make sure my girls are eating.”

“Could you make chana masala, then?” Deepa asked meekly.

Cherie perked up. “Chickpea curry?”

Her mother chortled, pleased. “Yes, yes, I can make chana masala.”

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