‘Bloody hell, it’s a bit better than Blackpool illuminations,’ gasped Rita, as Dorian pulled up outside Caesar’s Palace and they emerged from the coolness of the airconditioning and into the baking heat of the Nevada desert.
‘Are we staying here?’ whispered Frankie, taken aback as the shiny-shoed, waistcoated porters swept down upon them and began loading up their luggage. She’d been expecting to stay at some cheap twenty-bucks-a-night motel with fag burns in the carpet, quilted headboards and cellulite-enhancing aquarium lighting in the bathroom. Despite its neon tackiness, this place didn’t look cheap.
‘Absolutely,’ chirped Dorian, doing his hamstring stretches, as if he was limbering up for a marathon. Catching her worried expression, he let out a snort of laughter. ‘Don’t look so worried. It’s on me.’
‘Dorian’s a high roller,’ yawned Reilly, who’d been asleep since Death Valley. Blinking in the bright sunlight, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. ‘In Vegas that’s the name they give to the big gamblers.’ Grabbing his dusty Stetson, he put his arm around Frankie’s shoulder, pulling her towards him as they followed the porters scurrying across the forecourt. ‘The casinos love him,’ he whispered, sleepily nuzzling into her neck.
Dorian overheard as he marched ahead towards the entrance. ‘You won’t have to pay for anything. Hotels, room service, food, drink . . . it’s all free,’ he declared, waving his arms enthusiastically around in the air as if he was conducting his own symphony.
‘Free?’ parroted Rita, trying to keep up in her skyscraper heels as they were ushered on to the moving walkway that swept them past a full-size replica of Michelangelo’s David. She made a mental note to buy herself a pair of shoes she could actually walk in – after being in LA for six months she’d got out of the habit. ‘Everything?’
‘Only if you play your cards right,’ smirked Dorian, suggestively slipping his arm around her waist as they entered a vast labyrinth of slot machines, mirrors, multicoloured lights and green baize.
Rita pulled a face. Something told her he wasn’t talking poker.
As Dorian steered Rita deftly through the sliding doors and into the smoked-glass VIP reception area, Frankie loitered behind, gazing at the rows of shorts’n’vest brigade with buckets of dimes, feeding the slot machines like animals at the zoo. ‘Do you gamble?’ She looked up at Reilly.
‘Sometimes. It depends if I’m feeling lucky.’
‘And are you?’ Her voice was quiet against the jingly, jangly soundtrack of the amusement arcade which sprawled out before them in all directions, as far as the eye could see.
Reilly couldn’t help smiling. Ever since that night at his house, he hadn’t been able to believe how lucky he was. That someone like Frankie would be interested in someone like him. Putting both arms around her waist, he pulled her closer. ‘What do you think?’
Over the last week, Frankie had broken every rule of the dating game: 1) leaving seventy-two hours between each phone call, 2) inventing a hectic social life when arranging a date and 3) playing it cool and not inviting him in for coffee even if you’re gagging for it – and instead had spent every moment, waking and sleeping, with Reilly. For the first time in her adult life, she’d ignored what all those women’s magazines, her best mate Rita and years of experience had taught her about how to keep a bloke guessing with all those complicated bluffs and double bluffs. She didn’t want to play games. She just wanted to be with Reilly. It was as simple as that.
And so throwing the rulebook out of the window, they’d spent every day together. Days walking barefoot along Malibu beach watching the dolphins turning somersaults over the surf, driving to Santa Barbara in his beaten-up Bronco and drinking beer as the sun set in orange and pink marbled streaks over the eighteenth-century Mission high on the hill. Evenings spent having barbecues in his garden – her with her veggie burgers and Chardonnay, him with his sixteen-ounce steaks and Jack Daniel’s – and afterwards curling up like cats in his hammock, swapping childhood stories, looking at old photographs and talking about their lives until their words turned into drunken kisses and they couldn’t keep their hands off each other any longer.
Frankie was completely unprepared for any of it. After Hugh she’d never expected to find someone who could make her laugh one minute and feel horny as hell the next. Everything was too good to be true, even the sex was amazing. Not in a gymnastic, throwing-your-head-back-and-wailing-to-the-moon kind of way, but in a deliciously intimate, unhurried, Barry White feel-like-we’re-making-love kind of way.
But wasn’t it always supposed to be great in the beginning? Lying naked next to Reilly one afternoon, bathed in the afterglow of orgasm and stubble burn, Frankie pondered the question. The beginning of what? She stopped herself right there before she got carried away by the lust and thrust of it all. If splitting up with Hugh had taught her one thing, it was that relationships couldn’t be predicted. There were no guarantees. Who knew what would happen in the future?
After all, it wasn’t as if she and Reilly had talked about how they felt about each other. They hadn’t had any of those awkward ‘what happens now?’ chats, where each person is afraid to say how they feel, in case they’ve completely misjudged the situation and the other person feels exactly the opposite. Maybe Rita was right, maybe it was just a fling and she was reading too much into it. Maybe Reilly was only interested in a fling. A few weeks of sex, with no strings attached. Looking at it from his point of view, he probably assumed it was just a holiday romance, something short and intense, and that it would be over as soon as she left LA.
The thought saddened her and she stared up at the ceiling. So much had happened over the past couple of weeks, it was difficult to know what to think. But one thing was for certain, she couldn’t stay in LA for ever. Very soon she was going to have to face the grim reality of going back to London and trying to pick up the pieces of her life. Finding a room to rent, paying off her debts, probably signing up with a temp agency until she sorted out what to do about her career. She sighed. Just thinking about it depressed her. Turning her head against the pillow, she looked across at Reilly, his bare torso half covered by a sheet, and she couldn’t help smiling. For the moment reality could wait.
‘I think I’m going to burst,’ mumbled Dorian, abandoning a king prawn and pushing away a plate piled high with translucent pink carcasses. ‘I can’t eat another thing.’
‘Me neither,’ groaned Reilly, eating the last mouthful of steak and leaning back against his chair. He would have loosened his belt if he’d had one.
Lunch had been Dorian’s idea, even though it was after four o’clock, and so after checking in to their lavish penthouse suites they’d gone downstairs to find something to eat. Less than an hour later they’d become victims of the Las Vegas buffet. A huge, winding zigzag of tables groaning with mounds of seafood which jostled alongside gigantic platters of cold meats, cheeses, breads, salads, fruits, which in turn led into avenues of chiller cabinets of shiny desserts glistening under the lights – cheesecake, gâteaux, Mississippi mud pies, chocolate chip cookies . . . The calories just went on and on and on.
Faced with more food than Sainsbury’s, Frankie had been taken aback. So this was where people from LA went to pig out when they’d had enough of the Zone. Forget less is more. This was gimme more, and more and more, until I simply can’t eat any more. And all for $6.99.
‘Anyone for pudding?’ yelled Rita, from the dessert counter. For the first time since puberty, she wasn’t on a diet, and it was all thanks to the director of Malibu Motel, who, after being struck with the ‘totally awesome’ idea of making Tracy Potter a plump British receptionist, had instructed her to put on ten pounds. Ironically, in a cruel twist of fate, now that she’d been given free rein to eat anything she wanted without feeling guilty, Rita had discovered she didn’t want to and had lost three pounds in a week.
Ignoring the Mississippi mud pie, she reappeared with a bowl of fruit salad. ‘You didn’t answer so I’ve got four spoons
and we can all dig in,’ she breezed, plonking the bowl down on the table. Forget Del Monte and a few diced-up bits of pear with a fluorescent pink cocktail cherry thrown in for colour, this was a delicious combination of exotic fruits.
‘Thanks, but I’m going to have to pass.’ Holding up his hands in defeat, Dorian stood up. Catching sight of his silhouette in the wall-to-wall mirrors, he tried adjusting the waistband of velvet trousers that had suddenly become more than a little snug. And then gave up and put his jacket back on. ‘Anyone fancy a game of blackjack?’
‘Yeah, why not?’ said Reilly, scraping back his chair. It was a couple of years since he’d been to Vegas and he was in the mood for gambling. Especially seeing as they were with Dorian, whose reputation preceded him like a red carpet. Since they’d arrived they’d been getting lots of nodding, smiling and any-friends-of-Mr-Wilde-are-always-welcome-type handshakes.
‘Come on, guys, it’s time to watch the professional at work.’
‘Only on one condition,’ said Rita, chewing thoughtfully on a mouthful of kumquat.
Dorian paused in anticipation. Perhaps his persistence had paid off. ‘What?’
‘This time you’ve got to keep your clothes on.’ Rita let out a snort of laughter that boomeranged around the restaurant, causing the rest of the diners to pause mid-mouthful and stare across at Dorian, who’d blushed the colour of his raspberry velvet suit.
Trying to hide his acute embarrassment at being reminded of his humiliating defeat at strip poker, Dorian gave a tight-lipped smile. He had a delicate ego and he bruised easily. Something which Rita seemed to delight in. Turning on his Gucci loafers, he set off towards the bright lights of the casino. Something told him she was never going to let him live that down.
36
Walking into the casino was like entering another world. A completely sealed environment where plastic chips replaced money, natural daylight was replaced by multicoloured neon, and the absence of any clocks meant that time had no meaning and the outside world ceased to exist. Lost in a maze of bottle-green baize, roulette wheels and crystal chandeliers, everyone was suddenly equal. From the dinner-jacketed multi-millionaires on their red velvet thrones gambling with hundred-thousand-dollar chips to the peroxide OAPs on metals buffets betting dimes, everybody was pursuing the same goal. Everybody was hoping that on the next turn of the card or yank of a slot-machine handle they’d strike it lucky, hit the jackpot, win a million. And if it didn’t happen this time, it could be the next, or the next, or the next. No wonder Vegas was addictive.
‘I’m Valeen and this is my husband, Bunt.’ Across the craps table, a heavily made-up woman wearing a strapless, low-cut dress and too much gold jewellery grinned broadly at Frankie. ‘We’re celebrating our ruby wedding anniversary, aren’t we, honey?’ Putting down her lipstick-smeared martini glass, she affectionately patted her cigar-smoking husband’s paunch. ‘Forty years, can you believe it?’
Frankie smiled politely and shook her head. Valeen only looked about forty-five. Perhaps she’d been a child bride. In fact, thinking about it, hadn’t she once read a special report about Middle America and under-age brides in Marie Claire? But watching closely, Frankie suddenly noticed the crêpe-papery cleavage and dappled age spots on her hands and realised that Valeen wasn’t a child bride from Oklahoma, but a high-maintenance sixty-something from Texas who’d had a couple of facelifts, eyebag removal, a chin tuck and one of those ski-slope-type nose jobs that had been popular back in the 1970s.
‘Did you get married here in Vegas?’ Aware that she was staring, Frankie made an attempt at conversation.
‘We sure did,’ beamed Valeen, delighted at finding someone to tell her life story to. ‘At the little white chapel of the Lord. It was the happiest day of our lives, wasn’t it, honey?’ She looked adoringly at Bunt, who puffed gruffly on his cigar and continued gambling. Bunt, it seemed, was a man of few words. ‘We’d only known each other two weeks, but I knew he was the one. I knew I’d love him for the rest of my life.’
Frankie nodded as Valeen gushed on. It was like the lyrics of a Country and Western song.
‘Is that your husband?’ Valeen winked, taking a swig of martini and raising her plucked-out-and-then-painted-back-on eyebrows towards Reilly, who was sat further along the table drinking beer and discussing gambling techniques with Dorian and Rita, who were getting drunk on free champagne.
‘Oh, no.’ Frankie smiled, suddenly feeling self-conscious. ‘We’re . . .’ She groped around for the right word. What could she say? That they were lovers? That he was her boyfriend? That they were having a fling? She felt herself blush with embarrassment. ‘We’re just seeing each other. It’s nothing serious.’ She glanced at Reilly, who caught her eye and smiled back, reaching out a hand to squeeze her thigh.
‘Not from where I’m sitting honey,’ drawled Valeen. ‘No, sir-ee.’
It was seven thirty and they’d been gambling in the casino for nearly two hours. Not that anyone was aware of the time. Fuelled by the never-ending rounds of free drinks, Marlboro Lights and exhilaration, Frankie had never imagined losing money could be so enjoyable. Being a complete novice, she’d blown the fifty bucks that Reilly had given her in less than five minutes at the blackjack table, followed shortly by Reilly, and then Rita, who won two hundred at poker and then promptly lost it at roulette. Only Dorian was on a winning streak.
‘Come on, Mr Chips,’ yelled Rita, creasing up with laughter and drunkenly clinging on to the gambling table as Dorian counted up his winnings. ‘Put your money where your mouth is.’ Mr Chips was Rita’s new nickname for Dorian, who, after a successful flutter at the poker table, was up ten thousand dollars.
Stacking his multicoloured chips into towering piles, he rose to the challenge. Dorian always loved being a showman. ‘OK, I’ll bet the lot on one roll of the dice.’
Rita whooped excitedly.
‘Can I be Demi Moore and kiss the dice?’ Frankie laughed, taking a sip of her margarita as Dorian accepted the two small red cubes from the croupier.
‘Only if I can be Robert Redford.’
‘Don’t even think about it,’ murmured Reilly, wrapping his arms protectively around Frankie. ‘This woman is worth more than a million dollars of anyone’s money.’
‘Hey, are you folks from England?’ hollered Valeen, who was feeling left out at the other side of the table. Draining her martini she plucked the olive from the toothpick and waved her empty glass at a passing waitress.
‘Of course,’ laughed Rita, and then immediately regretted it.
Valeen shrieked and clasped her crêpe-paper cleavage with her diamond-encrusted hands. ‘Oh, my lord, I just adore your royal family,’ she whooped, eyes bright, emotion quivering in her voice. ‘Your queen is such an amazing lady. But, and I say this with no disrespect to dear Liz, I’ve always thought she could do with a little help with her style, don’t you think?’ Valeen broke off to accept a fresh martini, spilling it on her dress. ‘Bunt always says I could give her a few tips. You know, show a little leg, some cleavage, maybe try more blusher and a few highlights.’ She patted her Ivana Trump-style thatch of yellow hair. ‘I mean, it doesn’t do no harm to help yourself a little, does it? It can still be subtle. Why, look at me.’ And laughing loudly, she threw back her head, revealing her cosmetic surgery scars and rattling the clip-on diamanté earrings that made her ear lobes droop like a King Charles spaniel’s.
‘Would everyone place their bets?’ The croupier finished moving things around on the table, as a few people began gathering around to watch. With any game, if the stakes were high, it created interest. People love to watch gambling.
A few players round the table placed ten or twenty bucks. There was a hundred from the small guy in glasses and a herring-bone blazer. Bunt chewed pensively on his cigar before eventually putting down five hundred, while Dorian took a deep breath and moved his chips across the green baize. ‘I’ll bet everything on seven.’
There was a collective intake of breat
h from around the table. It was double or nothing. If he threw a seven he’d win another ten thousand dollars. Any other number, he’d lose everything.
‘OK, here goes,’ he whispered, shaking the dice.
‘Give it some welly,’ shrieked Rita, high on champagne and adrenalin.
With a flick of his wrist, he threw the dice. It was one of those moments when, if it had been in a movie, everything would have been slowed down, frame by frame, allowing the audience to watch the small scarlet rocks breaking free from the palm of his hand, escaping through his fingers and soaring through the air. Passing the excited, anxious, mesmerised faces of the crowds gathered around the table and then descending, falling, until they landed on the table.
Frankie held her breath as they hit the table, bounced once against the sides, twice more on the green, rolled and then came to a halt. There was a second’s pause – as long as it took to register. A five and a two. A total of seven.
‘Fucking hell, I can’t believe it,’ whooped Rita, breaking the suspense and bringing the film up to speed. Leaping from her stool, she knocked over her glass, splashing Valeen’s cleavage. Not that Rita noticed. She was too busy shrieking, ‘I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it,’ like a police siren and elbowing out of the way a couple of shaggy perms in marble-wash jeans who were nuzzling up close to Dorian, dollar signs flashing in their eyes like fruit machines. Finally grabbing him by his lapels, Rita panted breathlessly, ‘You were bloody amazing,’ before kissing him full on the lips.
Frankie wasn’t sure what was more thrilling for Dorian, his twenty-thousand-dollar winnings or being kissed by Rita. She watched as he resurfaced. He looked stunned. As did Rita, who’d just realised what she’d done. And for a moment they both stared at each other, neither of them saying anything.