I stare at the ten-page Middle East article I need to summarize for today’s bulletin and wonder what marked the point of no return in my fall under Raphael d’Arcy’s spell.

A bird twitters something incomprehensible but resolutely upbeat outside the window.

You’re not helping, little friend.

The obvious culprit for my undoing was the “last” kiss Raphael sweet-talked me into back in January. More specifically, my unexpected passion for it.

But it’s also possible that my fate had been sealed in December, when a snowman who went by Olly made my heart flutter. His banter made me laugh, and his sweet kiss made me giddy. I hadn’t felt that way in a very long time.

Not since the calamity.

In fact, it doesn’t really matter which of Raphael’s kisses did me in. What matters is that I couldn’t resist him then and I can’t resist him now.

Once a wench, always a wench, as medievals would say.

“What is your opinion, Mia?” Delphine asks, interrupting my musings.

“About the Middle East?”

“No, silly, about beauty.”

“Er…”

“She wasn’t listening to us,” Barbara says to Delphine. “She was focused on her work.”

Ahem.

“Barbara was saying beauty is useless in this day and age,” Delphine recaps for me.

“Not exactly.” Barbara raises her index finger. “What I was saying is that beauty was more important back when women had no rights.”

“Do you agree with that as a historian?” Delphine asks.

I smile. “Archival records and troubadour poetry would support that hypothesis.”

Barbara pushes her hair back and gives Delphine a smug little shrug. “Ha!”

“Fine,” Delphine says. “Maybe beauty is less important these days than it used to be, but it’s still great to have.”

“Sure,” Barbara concedes magnanimously.

“True beauty is like a Chanel bag,” Delphine says. “Very few own the real thing. Most of us can only afford counterfeits.”

“What do you mean by counterfeits?” I ask.

Delphine makes a sweeping you-name-it gesture with her hand. “Bleached hair. Contouring. Nose jobs. Breast implants.”

“Which only proves my point,” Barbara says. “Beauty is a nonessential luxury item. Like you said—a Chanel bag.”

“Except some women would die for it,” Delphine says with a wink.

Barbara shrugs a perhaps. “But I’m sure more women would die for a career or a legacy.”

“Pff.” Delphine waves dismissively. “Nobody’s willing to die to leave a good name, ma cocotte.”

I just might.

There’s little I wouldn’t do if I could turn back the clock and make sure a certain drunken gang bang never happened. Or that it could be erased from my real-life timeline. And from the memory of everyone involved.

That fateful night had started innocently enough with some college kids drinking (OK, binge drinking), smoking pot, and having a good time. We’d finished our second year and were celebrating the achievement in a huge shared apartment in central Strasbourg. As the hour grew late and the bottles emptied, most people—including all of my friends—either left or dropped off in one of the bedrooms.

I was sleepy, too, and plastered under the combined effect of wine and weed in a way I’d never been before.

Why didn’t I just conk out like the others?

But no, I stayed awake, albeit teetering on the edge of consciousness. I didn’t even puke until after three young men undressed me and had sex with me on the couch. Consensual sex. Wasted as I was, I did participate—or, should I say, made pathetic attempts at participating—in the “fun.”

That I remember.

What I don’t remember is who those men were, if there were other people present, and whether anyone filmed our antics.

It would appear someone did after all, judging by the letter I received last week.

It’s no biggie, I tell myself. We’re not in the Middle Ages or in Taliban-controlled Afghanistan. Even if some a-hole posted my foursome online for everyone to see, there’d be no Morality Police bursting in to arrest me and no outraged mob to stone me for slutty behavior. We’re in France, Toto. A country where women may get fined by gendarmes for showing too little skin on a public beach.

I must stay calm and carry on.

It’s the only sensible thing to do.

Rationalizing like this helps… somewhat, until notions like shame, public humiliation, and ruined academic career pop into my head. They attack on a level that’s too base for logical arguments.

But even those I can deal with.

What unravels me beyond the salutary reach of reason is the image of Màma and Pàpa receiving a tape from a “well-wisher.” Watching it. Recognizing their daughter. Taking the measure of the abyss between what they thought of her and what she is.

I plunge both hands into my hair and muss it, trying to reshuffle my thoughts.

Middle East, Mia. Concentrate on the Middle East!

That’s what pays my rent and makes sure I can stay in my PhD program and still be able to afford best quality Bolognese and carbonara for my spaghetti.

Raphael’s attention span in regards to women is about as long as Dory’s in Finding Nemo. He’ll get tired of me any day now. If, in the meantime, my work becomes sloppy, I’ll lose my job on top of losing my lover.

And, bam, no more enchanted nights and no more carbonara.

Speaking of carbonara, I had the best one ever the other day in a discreet Italian restaurant close to Raphael’s place. That sauce had the perfect ratio of parmesan, bacon, and pepper. As if that wasn’t enough, the fettuccine it accompanied was so good I would’ve enjoyed it with no sauce at all.

Eva will never hear this from me, but the carbonara they make in that place is better than hers.

I can make that affirmation because it’s the third time I’ve had it since the original epiphany back when Raphael and I were “dating.”

True to his word, he had taken me to dinner five times and then to a Daft Punk concert at L’Olympia. Only after that was I invited to “visit with the President of DCA” in his spacious penthouse apartment near Odéon.

That was on January 30th.

In February and March, I “visited” with Raphael in his humble abode some more. A lot more, in fact. But whenever I suggested we go to my place for a change, his answer was a polite no. Instead, one Friday night in February he whisked me off to a charming hotel in London. Another Friday in March, he flew me to Venice. And this month, he drove me to Deauville and to Tours in his flashy Ferrari.

Those trips were lovely, and I’m truly grateful for them. But I can’t help wishing we’d gone to Ninossos instead. Raphael owns an unspoiled little island south of Crete in the Mediterranean Sea. It’s rocky with a narrow strip of sand, an unusual-looking villa up on a hill, and a plantation of magnificent olive trees.

I know all that from the large prints that adorn nearly every wall in Raphael’s apartment, showing the island in every season and time of day.

Looks like that place is really special to him.

Maybe that’s why he’s never offered to take me there.