At once he texts back:
Conference center still. Few more emails to deal with. Where are you?
I heave a sigh of relief at just being in contact with him, and type:
I’m at the Shoppes. Luke, do you think Suze is ever going to be my friend again? I mean, I know things went bad between us in L.A., but I’m doing my best now and she doesn’t even seem to notice and the only person she cares about is Alicia and
Oh. I’ve run out of space. Well, he’ll get the message.
It’s only after I’ve pressed SEND that it strikes me: Maybe it was a mistake to launch into an outburst. Luke isn’t brilliant at responding to endless angsty texts. In fact, I have a sneaking feeling that whenever I send a really long text to him, he doesn’t read it at all. Sure enough, a few moments later my phone beeps with a new text:
You need a distraction, my love. I’ll be done in a while and then I’m taking you to the casino. I’ll text when I’m on my way. Your mother will babysit Minnie, all fixed up. xxx
Wow. Gambling! I feel a thrill of excitement, mixed with trepidation. I’ve never gambled in my life, unless you count the lottery. I mean, we always used to have a family flutter on the Grand National, but that was Dad’s thing and he placed the bets. I’ve never been into a betting shop or even played poker.
On the other hand, I have watched loads of James Bond movies, and I think you can learn quite a lot from them. Like: Stay impassive. Raise your eyebrows while you sip a cocktail. I’m sure I can do all that, it’s just, I’m not sure of the actual rules.
I pause at a coffee outlet and am getting myself a latte when I see a woman nearby, sitting at a bistro table, with a bleached-blond ponytail. She’s in her fifties, I’d say. She’s wearing a black denim jacket decorated with rhinestones and is playing some kind of card game on her phone. On the table in front of her is a massive great cup filled with change for the slot machines, and on her T-shirt is printed ROCKWELL CASINO NIGHT 2008.
She must know about gambling. And she’ll want to help a newcomer, surely? I wait till she pauses in her game, then approach her table.
“Excuse me,” I say politely. “I was wondering, could you give me some gambling advice?”
“Huh?” The woman looks up from her phone and blinks at me. Oh my God, she has dollar signs on her eyelids. How on earth did she do that?
“Er…” I try not to stare too blatantly at her eyes. “I’m a visitor and I’ve never gambled before, and I’m not sure how to do it.”
The woman stares at me as though suspecting a scam.
“You’re in Las Vegas and you’ve never gambled?” she says at last.
“I’ve just arrived,” I explain. “I’m going to a casino later on, only I don’t know which games to play or where to start. I wondered if you could give me any tips?”
“You want tips?” The woman’s eyes are still fixed on me, unblinking. They’re quite bloodshot, I notice. In fact, underneath all the rhinestones and makeup, she doesn’t look in great shape.
“Or maybe you could recommend a book?” I suggest, as the thought strikes me.
The woman ignores the question, as though it’s too stupid to answer, and looks down at the card game again. I don’t know what she’s seen, but it makes her give a sudden, ugly scowl.
“You know what?” she says. “My tip is, don’t do it. Don’t go near it. Save yourself.”
“Oh,” I say, discomfited. “Well, I was only planning on having a quick go at a roulette table or something.”
“That’s what we all said. Are you an addictive type?”
“Um…” I pause, trying to be scrupulously honest with myself. Am I an addictive type? I suppose you could say I am a bit. “I do like shopping,” I confess. “I mean, I’ve shopped too much in the past. I took out too many credit cards and it got a bit out of hand. But I’m much better now.”
The woman gives a short, humorless laugh.
“You think shopping’s bad? Wait till you start gambling, hon. Just the feel of the chips in your hand. The rush. The buzz. It’s like crystal meth. You only need one hit and that’s it. You become a slave. And that’s when your life starts to spiral. That’s when the cops move in.”
I stare back at her, freaked out. She’s actually quite ghoulish, close up. Her face muscles don’t move properly, and I can see where her hair extensions begin. She jabs at her phone and another card game appears on the screen.
“Right!” I say brightly, and start to back away. “Well, thanks for your help, anyway….”
“Crystal meth,” the woman repeats in sinister tones, and locks her bloodshot eyes on mine. “Remember that. Crystal meth.”
“Crystal meth.” I nod. “Absolutely. Bye!”
—
Crystal meth?
Oh God. Should I be going to a casino at all? Is this all a bad, bad idea?
It’s almost an hour later and I’m still feeling unnerved, even though I’ve been on a soothing gondola ride with Mum and Janice and Minnie. Now Mum and Janice have gone off for another “sneaky cocktail,” as Mum put it, while Minnie and I are upstairs in our hotel room. Minnie’s playing “shops” and I’m kind of playing too, only I’m also trying to put on my makeup whilst simultaneously worrying about my potential descent into gambling addiction.
Will I literally get hooked straightaway? Like, on the first spin of the roulette wheel? I have a sudden horrific vision of myself hunched over a casino table, hair askew, eyeing Luke with dazed eyes, muttering, “I’m going to win. I’m going to win,” while he tries to pull me away and Mum sobs quietly in the background. Maybe I shouldn’t even go down there. Maybe it’s too dangerous. Maybe I should just stay here in the room.
“More shops!” Minnie grabs the last remaining crisp packet out of the minibar and puts it proprietorially in front of her. “Shop, Mummy, shop!”
“Right.” I come to and hastily move the crisps away before she can squish them into bits and we have to buy them.
Parenthood is all about learning from experience. And the valuable rule I’ve learned today is: Don’t say “minibar” in front of Minnie. She thought I meant “Minnie bar” and that this was her own special cupboard, full of lovely things for Minnie. And it was impossible to explain. So in the end I let her get everything out, and the carpet is strewn with little bottles and packets. We’ll put them all back later. (If it’s one of those electronic ones, we may be in trouble, but Luke will call the front desk and sort it out. He’s good at that kind of thing.)
I’ve already “bought” a bottle of tonic and a Toblerone from Minnie, and now I’m pointing at an orange juice.
“Please may I have an orange juice?” I say, brushing on mascara at the same time. I put out my hand for the bottle, but Minnie holds on to it firmly.
“You can’t have one,” she says sternly. “Must wait. We don’t have any money.”
I blink at her in surprise. Who’s she copying?
Oh.
Oh God. Actually, I think it’s me.
Which makes me seem like a really mean, horrible mummy, but, honestly, it’s the only way I can deal with her when we’re out shopping.
Minnie’s speech has really come along recently. Which is wonderful, obviously. Every parent wants to hear their child articulate their innermost thoughts. The only teeny issue is, it turns out quite a lot of Minnie’s innermost thoughts are about what she wants.
She doesn’t yell “Miiiiiiine” anymore, which used to be her catchphrase. Instead, she says, “I like it.” We’ll walk around the supermarket and all she keeps saying is, “I like it, I like it, Mummy,” more and more earnestly, as though she’s trying to convert me to some new religion.
It’s not even as though she likes sensible things. She grabs for mops and freezer bags and packets of staples. Last time we went out shopping, she kept telling me, “I like it, pleeeeease,” and I kept nodding and putting the things back on the shelves, out of reach, until she suddenly flipped and yelled, “I want to buuuuuy something
!” in such desperate tones that all the nearby customers started laughing. Then she stopped and beamed around, and they all laughed even more.
(I do sometimes wonder if that’s what I was like when I was her age. I must ask Mum.)
(Actually, on second thought, I’m not sure I want to know.)
So my new tactic when we go shopping is to tell Minnie that we don’t have any money. Which she kind of understands. Except then she accosts total strangers and says, “We don’t have any money,” in a sorrowful voice, which can be embarrassing.
Now she’s addressing Speaky, her dolly, in stentorian tones. “Put. It. Back.” She confiscates a packet of peanuts from Speaky and eyes the doll fiercely. “Is. Not. Yours.”
Oh God. Is that what I sound like?
“Talk kindly to Speaky,” I suggest. “Like this.”
I take Speaky and cradle her in my arms, whereupon Minnie grabs her possessively from me. “Speaky is crying,” she tells me. “Speaky need…a sweetie?”
She has a sudden mischievous glint in her eye, and I can’t help wanting to laugh.
“We haven’t got any sweeties,” I tell her, totally straight-faced.
“This is a sweetie?” She picks up the Toblerone uncertainly.
“No, that’s a grown-up boring box,” I tell her. “No sweetie.”
Minnie stares at the Toblerone, and I can see her little brain working hard. She’s never actually eaten a Toblerone, so it was a pretty good guess on her part.
“It’s not a sweetie,” I reiterate matter-of-factly. “We’ll buy a sweetie another day. Now it’s putting-away time.”
I can see Minnie’s conviction wavering. She might think she knows everything, but at the end of the day, she’s only two and a half.
“Thank you!” I take it neatly from her grasp. “Now, can you count the bottles?”
This was a genius move, as Minnie adores counting, even if she always misses out “four.” We’ve managed to get all the bottles back in the minibar and are just moving on to light snacks and refreshments, when the door opens and Mum appears, with Janice in tow. Both are flushed in the face, Janice is wearing a plastic tiara, and Mum is clutching a cup full of coins.
“Hello!” I say. “Did you have a good cocktail?”
“I won over thirty dollars!” Mum says with a kind of grim triumph. “That’ll show your father.”
Mum makes no sense. How will that show Dad anything? But there’s no point questioning her when she’s in this mood.
“Well done!” I say. “Nice tiara, Janice.”
“Oh, it was free,” says Janice breathlessly. “There’s a dancing competition later, you know. They’re promoting it.”
“We’re going to take a breather while you go out with Luke, and then we’re going to hit the town,” says Mum, waving her cup for emphasis. “Do you have any false eyelashes I can put on, love?”
“Well…yes,” I say, a bit surprised. “But I’ve never known you to wear false eyelashes, Mum.”
“What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,” she says, giving me a meaningful look.
What happens in Vegas? OK, does she just mean false eyelashes or something else? I’m wondering how I can ask her tactfully if she’s all right or actually going off the rails, when my phone bleeps with a text.
“It’s Danny!” I say, feeling a lift of delight. “He’s here! He’s downstairs.”
“Well, if you’re ready, why don’t you go down and see him, love?” says Mum. “We’ll give Minnie her bath and put her to bed. Won’t we, Janice?”
“Of course!” says Janice. “Dear little Minnie is never any trouble.”
“Are you sure?” I wrinkle my brow. “Because I can easily do it—”
“Don’t be silly, Becky!” says Mum. “I don’t see enough of my grandchild these days. Now, Minnie, come and sit on Grana’s knee.” She holds out her arms for Minnie to run into. “We’ll have a nice story and play some games and…I know!” She beams. “Let’s have a lovely yummy Toblerone!”
SEVEN
I find Danny at a corner table in Bouchon, which is a posh, linen-tablecloths kind of restaurant. He’s deeply tanned (it’s got to be fake), he’s wearing a baby-blue biker jacket, and he’s sitting with a very blond, very pale girl with no makeup except deep-purple lipstick.
“Danny!” I hurry over and throw my arms around his skinny frame. “Oh my God! You’re alive!”
I haven’t seen Danny since he tried to cross the Greenland ice sheet for charity; he had to be airlifted out because he grazed his toe, or something, and go for a recuperative holiday in Miami.
“Only just,” says Danny. “It was touch and go.”
It was so not touch and go. I’ve spoken to his business manager: I know the truth. Only he said not to contradict Danny, because Danny thinks he nearly died.
“Poor you,” I say. “It must have been terrifying! All that snow and…er…wolves?”
“It was a nightmare!” says Danny fervently. “You know, Becky, I’ve left you a bunch of stuff in my will, and you were this close to getting it.”
“Really?” I can’t help feeling interested. “You’ve left me stuff? Like what?”
“Some clothes,” says Danny vaguely. “My Eames chair. A forest.”
“A forest?” I gape at him.
“I bought this forest in Montana. You know, for taxes? And I figured Minnie could go play in it or whatever—” He breaks off. “This is Ulla, by the way.”
“Hi, Ulla!” I wave a cheery hand, but Ulla just blinks nervously, mutters, “Hi,” and returns to work. She’s sketching something in a large artist’s pad, and as I glance over, I see it’s a close-up of the flower arrangement on the table.
“I just hired Ulla as my ‘inspiration finder,’ ” says Danny grandly. “She’s already filled that pad.” He gestures at it. “My whole new collection will be Las Vegas–inspired.”
“I thought it was going to be Inuit-inspired?” I object.
Last time I was in contact with Danny, he was talking about raw bone and Inuit crafts and the infinite expanse of whiteness, which he planned to represent in a pair of oversize men’s culottes.
“Inuit meets Las Vegas,” says Danny, without missing a beat. “So, did you gamble yet?”
“I don’t dare.” I shudder. “This woman has just told me gambling is like crystal meth and if I dip my toe in, I’ll get sucked in forever.”
I’m hoping he’ll say, That’s bullshit, but Danny nods gravely.
“It could happen. My school friend Tania never recovered from one night of online poker. It took hold of her and she was never the same person again. It was a pretty tragic story.”
“Where is she now?” I say fearfully. “Is she…dead?”
“Pretty much.” He nods. “Alaska.”
“Alaska’s not dead!” I say indignantly.
“She went to work on an oil rig.” Danny takes a swig of wine. “She’s very successful, actually. I think she runs the whole thing. But before that, she was a gambling addict.”
“So it’s not a tragic story at all,” I say crossly. “She ended up being boss of an oil rig.”
“Do you have any idea what it’s like, being boss of an oil rig?” counters Danny. “Have you seen those places?”
I always forget how exasperating Danny is.
“Anyway,” I say, a little sternly. “None of this is the point. The point is—”
“I know what the point is!” Danny cuts me off, sounding triumphant. “I’m, like, ten steps ahead of you. I have fliers, I have leaflets, I have pens, I have T-shirts….”
“T-shirts?” I peer at him.
Danny takes off his biker jacket to reveal a T-shirt printed with an image of Tarquin. It’s a black-and-white picture taken from a fashion shoot which Tarkie did a while ago, and it shows him naked from the waist up, with rope twined round his torso, his eyes staring soulfully into the camera. It’s an amazing shot, but I recoil in dismay. Suze hates that picture. She thinks it makes Tarq
uin look like some gay supermodel. (Which, to be fair, it does.) She will not be happy to see it reproduced on a T-shirt.
At the bottom is printed FIND ME and Suze’s mobile number.
“I have a whole bunch,” says Danny proudly. “Kasey and Josh are handing out the fliers, all round Caesars Palace.”
“Kasey and Josh?”
“My assistants. See, what we do is, we get his face out there. First rule of finding a missing person. My PR people are trying the news channels; I have someone talking to the milk-carton guys—”
“Wait a sec.” The truth suddenly dawns on me. “They’re handing out pictures of Tarquin right now?”
“They’re going to cover the whole city,” boasts Danny. “We printed ten thousand.”
“But we’ve found him!”
“What?” Danny actually jolts in shock.
“Well, kind of,” I amend. “I mean, we’ve spoken to him. We’re having breakfast at the Bellagio in the morning.”
“The Bellagio?” Danny looks utterly affronted. “Are you serious? I thought he’d been kidnapped. I thought he was being brainwashed.”
“Well, Suze still does. At least, she can’t relax until she actually sees him….Anyway, show me the fliers,” I add hastily. “You’re amazing, Danny. Absolutely brilliant. Suze will be so grateful.”
“I produced three varieties,” says Danny, mollified. “Ulla, the fliers?”
Ulla hastily reaches into her big leather bag and pulls out three leaflets, which she passes over the table. Each has a different, stunning black-and-white picture of Tarkie looking like a moody gay-porn star—all from the same fashion shoot. One reads FIND ME, like the T-shirt, one reads WHERE AM I?, and the third reads I AM LOST, and they all have Suze’s mobile number.
“Cool, huh?”
“Er…” I clear my throat. “Yes! Wonderful!”
I cannot let Suze see these.
“I don’t think Kasey and Josh need to hand out all the fliers,” I say carefully. “Maybe not all ten thousand.”
“But what will I do with the rest?” Danny looks perturbed for a moment—then his brow clears. “I know. An installation! Maybe my next collection will be based on this experience!” His face brightens. “Yes! Entrapment. Kidnap. Bondage. Very dark, you know? Very noir. Models in shackles. Ulla!” he exclaims. “Write down: Bonds, chains, sacking, leather. Hot pants,” he adds after a moment’s thought.