earpiece.
“Bette Noir plus two,” Bette said at the door. The man said something into his headset, then opened the door for them. Mallory couldn’t help noting that she had spent twenty-five years simply walking into clubs and restaurants, and suddenly it was all about being on a list.
Bette led the way. A woman dressed as a flapper greeted them with a clipboard and asked them to sign in. Mallory was amazed by the baroque interior—she felt as if she was stepping into the film
Moulin Rouge
.
And then Alec whispered to her about love, quoting the film. She smiled at him in amazement—she was so happy when they were perfectly in sync like that. He was the first guy she’d ever had that with—experiencing small moments in the exact same way. She’d had that with her best friend in high school, but never with a boyfriend.
The hostess led them up a winding, carpeted stairwell leading to the mezzanine. On stage, two women wearing crotchless dominatrix gear tossed a flaming baton back and forth.
They were shown to a curved, red leather booth. Alec squeezed her hand, then gestured for her to slide in first. She expected him to follow her, but instead he waited for Bette to sit next, and he took a place on the end.
A waitress, also dressed in a flapper dress with ropes of pearls and a feather headpiece, appeared instantly with an open bottle of champagne. She poured them all glasses, then set the bottle on the table.
“Cheers,” Bette said.
Alec said something that made Bette laugh, but Mallory missed it. She was too distracted by what was going on on stage; she could have sworn she saw one of the performers put the flame out on her vagina, but then she thought she must be seeing things. And the audience, unlike at the Blue Angel, was stoic. No applause, no yelling—just cool observation.
And then she felt Bette’s hand on her thigh.
Mallory glanced at Alec, and he was looking at her in a way that, given their ability to communicate wordlessly, made her strongly suspect that Bette’s other hand was on Alec’s thigh.
“I’m going to use the restroom,” Mallory said, sliding out.
She made her way back down the staircase. Passing all the elaborately dressed women on the way to the restroom, she once again felt plain and unprepared for where the night had taken her.
The seclusion of the bathroom was a great relief. She didn’t have to pee, so spent a few minutes looking at the display of hair care products, powder, combs, mouthwash, candy, gum, and multicolored condoms set out for the patrons’ use. Mallory took a peppermint candy, and left.
“Hey,” Alec said.
“Jesus! You scared me. The men’s room is on the other side.”
“I know—I wanted to talk to you.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. You doing okay?”
“Yes. I’m fine.” She could tell he wanted to say something, that he was assessing her readiness to hear it. “What is it?”
“Are you open to the possibility of a three-way with Bette tonight?”
Mallory lost her breath. “You think that could really happen?”
He looked at her very seriously and nodded. Mallory wished she hadn’t drunk the first glass of champagne so quickly. It was hard to process what he was asking of her. Yes, she knew he fantasized about having sex with her and another woman—but didn’t all guys say things like that? She’d never thought the moment would actually arrive. And now maybe it had. And it felt like a moment of truth. Here she was, complaining—at least to herself—that their sex life had grown rote and was on the wane. And there he was—the man she loved more than anything—telling her what he wanted sexually. If she said no, she would have no one to blame but herself if their relationship lost its spark.
“If that’s what you want,” she heard herself saying.
Alec looked into her eyes, kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose, her lips.
“I love you, sweetheart,” he said. “I only love you—you know that,
“Bette Noir plus two,” Bette said at the door. The man said something into his headset, then opened the door for them. Mallory couldn’t help noting that she had spent twenty-five years simply walking into clubs and restaurants, and suddenly it was all about being on a list.
Bette led the way. A woman dressed as a flapper greeted them with a clipboard and asked them to sign in. Mallory was amazed by the baroque interior—she felt as if she was stepping into the film
Moulin Rouge
.
And then Alec whispered to her about love, quoting the film. She smiled at him in amazement—she was so happy when they were perfectly in sync like that. He was the first guy she’d ever had that with—experiencing small moments in the exact same way. She’d had that with her best friend in high school, but never with a boyfriend.
The hostess led them up a winding, carpeted stairwell leading to the mezzanine. On stage, two women wearing crotchless dominatrix gear tossed a flaming baton back and forth.
They were shown to a curved, red leather booth. Alec squeezed her hand, then gestured for her to slide in first. She expected him to follow her, but instead he waited for Bette to sit next, and he took a place on the end.
A waitress, also dressed in a flapper dress with ropes of pearls and a feather headpiece, appeared instantly with an open bottle of champagne. She poured them all glasses, then set the bottle on the table.
“Cheers,” Bette said.
Alec said something that made Bette laugh, but Mallory missed it. She was too distracted by what was going on on stage; she could have sworn she saw one of the performers put the flame out on her vagina, but then she thought she must be seeing things. And the audience, unlike at the Blue Angel, was stoic. No applause, no yelling—just cool observation.
And then she felt Bette’s hand on her thigh.
Mallory glanced at Alec, and he was looking at her in a way that, given their ability to communicate wordlessly, made her strongly suspect that Bette’s other hand was on Alec’s thigh.
“I’m going to use the restroom,” Mallory said, sliding out.
She made her way back down the staircase. Passing all the elaborately dressed women on the way to the restroom, she once again felt plain and unprepared for where the night had taken her.
The seclusion of the bathroom was a great relief. She didn’t have to pee, so spent a few minutes looking at the display of hair care products, powder, combs, mouthwash, candy, gum, and multicolored condoms set out for the patrons’ use. Mallory took a peppermint candy, and left.
“Hey,” Alec said.
“Jesus! You scared me. The men’s room is on the other side.”
“I know—I wanted to talk to you.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. You doing okay?”
“Yes. I’m fine.” She could tell he wanted to say something, that he was assessing her readiness to hear it. “What is it?”
“Are you open to the possibility of a three-way with Bette tonight?”
Mallory lost her breath. “You think that could really happen?”
He looked at her very seriously and nodded. Mallory wished she hadn’t drunk the first glass of champagne so quickly. It was hard to process what he was asking of her. Yes, she knew he fantasized about having sex with her and another woman—but didn’t all guys say things like that? She’d never thought the moment would actually arrive. And now maybe it had. And it felt like a moment of truth. Here she was, complaining—at least to herself—that their sex life had grown rote and was on the wane. And there he was—the man she loved more than anything—telling her what he wanted sexually. If she said no, she would have no one to blame but herself if their relationship lost its spark.
“If that’s what you want,” she heard herself saying.
Alec looked into her eyes, kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose, her lips.
“I love you, sweetheart,” he said. “I only love you—you know that,
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