Just One Night, Part 3: Binding Agreement by Kyra Davis Page B

that’s okay. At the moment everything is okay.
    Downstairs the dress is red. Red like the words painted on the door of the speakeasy, red as Genevieve’s hair, red as a ruby.
    The last thought disturbs me. I haven’t thought of Dave for a while now. He’s fading further and further into my past. How much of what I remember of my relationship with him is real and how much only reflects the reality that works best for me? Memories evolve quickly, more like a virus than an animal. This year’s flu bears little resemblance to the flu that killed so many only a few years back. The virus evolves, we’ve taken our shots, and now it can’t hurt us the way it once could . . . back when it looked different, back before we were prepared.
    I slide into the dress. It’s made of velvet, a fabric I usually think of as tacky and outdated, like something you would see in a 1970s rendition of the Nutcracker , although even that wouldn’t work since the dancers would sweat too much.
    But this dress is different. It’s higher quality, the fabric mixed with layers of silk that hang in a cowl neckline and adorn the very low back. The designer is Antonio Berardi. He’s redefined the fabric, given it a fierce modern edge, made it sensual and daring.
    For a brief moment I wonder if Robert Dade has redesigned me.
    I quickly discard the idea and go upstairs.
    Robert is already sitting at the table, waiting for me. A bottle of champagne has been opened yet again but this time it’s poured by a man in a white chef’s jacket. He gives me a deferential nod as Robert rises to pull out my chair.
    “You look magnificent.”
    “There’s that word again,” I say lightly.
    “It suits you.” He kisses me on top of my head like a father. It makes me feel safe.
    He sits down, raises his glass in toast. “To us.”
    It’s the most common toast in the world. Right up there with “Cheers,” and “ À ta santé! ” But the words seem more loaded coming from Robert’s lips. For what does it mean, “Us?” We are not Romeo and Juliet. We are Caesar and Cleopatra. We’re Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn, Pierre and Marie Curie. Our coupling has consequences, people’s lives will be changed. . . .
    Like Tom and Dave and Asha and Mr. Costin, for them our romance is as radioactive as anything the Curies cooked up in their lab.
    And Cleopatra, Anne, Marie—each one of them was destroyed by the fate they pursued. Each undone by their passions and power. Pierre and Caesar didn’t fare much better . . . and then there was Henry.
    I study Robert over my champagne glass. Could Robert ever turn on me? I’ve watched him casually destroy Tom; he’s offered to destroy others. What would it take for him to decide to destroy me?
    The man in the chef’s coat is back. He places a small serving of venison carpaccio in front of each of us. The venison has been seared with a light vinaigrette that smells of rosemary and it’s topped with porcini panna cotta, a dark red coulis, beetroot, and a sprinkling of shaved parmesan, culinary adornments that do nothing to detract from the fact that what we’re about to eat is raw. A living thing that we kill and consume simply because it suits our tastes. My fork hesitates before piercing the meat. I meet Robert’s eyes as he takes his first mouthful.
    “Not hungry?” he asks.
    I pause for only a moment before admitting the truth. “I’m famished.” And I eat what’s been served. And I savor it, enjoy it; with each bite I find myself less and less concerned about the symbolism, the moral implications. I like it. That’s enough.
    “How is the transition going?”
    “Mr. Costin was uncomfortable with my promotion at first,” I say, my mouth partially full, “but he understands the score now. I’m getting a better sense of all the departments and those who once saw me as a coworker have already come to see me as a boss.” I take a sip of the champagne. “I have them all in line.”
    The last line was