Going La La (34 page)

‘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 breath 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.

‘You’re one lucky son of a bitch,’ congratulated Reilly, clapping him on the back and shaking his head. ‘I’ve got to hand it to you, that was something.’

‘Yeah, well done,’ said Frankie, her cheeks flushed with excitement, her arms around Reilly’s waist.

Dorian grinned. He couldn’t believe his luck. His head stopped spinning and, remembering who he was and where he was, his vanity took over and he wiped his mouth with a napkin and smoothed down his hair, which had become fluffy and tousled in all the excitement. Rubbing his hands together, he watched as a waitress dressed in a skimpy gladiator’s costume, revealing a Roman bust that was definitely not made of marble, wiggled towards him carrying a magnum of Dom Perignon. ‘The management offers you their warmest congratulations,’ she beamed as she recited the oft-repeated patter. ‘How many glasses do you need, sir?’

Dorian looked at Reilly, who shook his head. ‘No, thanks.’

‘You’re not going to celebrate with me?’ Dorian looked disappointed.

‘We’re going to pop back to the room to freshen up,’ explained Frankie, resting her head against Reilly’s shoulder.

Rita rolled her eyes and grinned. She knew exactly what freshen up meant. And it didn’t involve cold water and flannels. ‘OK,’ she said, winking conspiratorially and nudging Dorian. ‘But don’t be too long. The band’s on soon.’ She nodded towards the dance floor, decorated with hundreds of helium balloons and silver and gold streamers, where, in the middle of the raised stage, a drum kit, keyboards and a microphone had been set up. A troupe of sequined dancing girls and the perma-tanned crooner himself – Tom Jones – were all set to pelvis-thrust Vegas into the twenty-first century.

Watching Frankie and Reilly weave through the floor, all love-birdy and wrapped around each other like elastic bands, Rita felt a pang. It was New Year’s Eve and she didn’t have a fella. Even Valeen and Bunt had each other.

‘Are you OK?’ Dorian caught her expression.

‘Yeah,’ she breezed, trying to hitch herself on to her barstool. Wearing a miniskirt while under the influence of half a dozen Long Island Ice Teas, two Tequila Sunrises and a couple of glasses of champagne made it slightly tricky. Like trying to get into the saddle. At the third attempt she gave up pretending to be modest and, hitching her skirt up past her G-string, finally got her leg over. ‘I’m all right, you know me.’ Lighting a cigarette, she tried to cheer herself up with a reassuring lungful. ‘It’s just this time of year, counting down to a new century, singing “Auld Lang Syne” and all that.’ Finishing off her drink, she fished around in the bottom of her glass for an ice cube and attempted to suck it dry of alcohol. ‘It just makes me wish I had someone to share it with.’

‘You’ve got me,’ said Dorian quietly, passing her a champagne flute. They clinked glasses and he took a sip. Now that his adrenalin had stopped pumping, he realised he was suddenly feeling rather slushy. And rather pissed.

Rita looked at Dorian through the blurry veil of alcohol. His two faces came back into focus.

‘Thanks,’ she said, and then began giggling as a thought struck her.

‘What’s so funny?’

Rita smiled. ‘If neither of us pulls tonight, at least we can snog each other at midnight.’

Dorian leaned drunkenly towards her, steadying himself on her bare legs as his stool tipped dangerously. ‘You don’t have to wait until midnight.’

Rita looked at his hand, the fingers still wrapped around her thigh. She realised she rather liked his hand being there. In fact, to be honest, she was actually beginning to feel quite turned on. ‘Do you ever give up?’ she murmured, conscious that her words were beginning to slur.

Dorian leaned closer. ‘Do you want me to?’

Rita deliberated. What with Randy, and then Matt, it felt like for ever since she’d had a shag, and looking at Dorian, pissed and horny, he had shag written all over his perspiring forehead. ‘No,’ she whispered, shaking her head.

And, like athletes springing from their starting blocks, they lunged at each other, grappling like two horny teenagers at two a.m. in a nightclub, probing tongues, wandering hands, fiddly bra straps, straining hard-on. Rita hadn’t enjoyed herself so much in ages.

Reilly looked at Frankie lying next to him in the mammoth bed. Her long limbs sprawled lazily across the mattress, half covered by the sheets, hair over her face, eyes closed. Champagne glasses lay next to the bed, together with an empty bottle of Moët and a bowl of half-eaten strawberries. Sleepily he traced his finger across Frankie’s shoulder blade, before moving his hand slowly down her spine.

It was hard to believe they’d only been seeing each other for a week. It felt as if he’d known her for ever. Watching her now, half sleeping, he couldn’t imagine being without her. Neither of them had talked about what was happening between them. To be honest, at first he’d thought that she was probably on the rebound from her ex-boyfriend. That this was just going to be a holiday romance and he was the bloke to make her feel better, to boost her confidence and help her lick her wounds until she’d recovered enough to get back on her feet again. But even after that first night together, he’d hoped that just maybe it was going to be something more. That night had been electric. Mind-blowing. He couldn’t think of any other words to describe it. And it wasn’t just the sex, although, yeah, that had been great. It was just being together. Talking, laughing, looking at each other, the way she smiled, smelled,
was
. Everything about her just clicked. As if she’d flicked a switch inside him that had been turned off for a long, long time.

At first he’d tried to persuade himself he was getting carried away, that he’d been so long without a woman he was confusing love with lust. That Frankie was only interested in a fling, nothing heavy. He’d tried to play it down on the phone from Mexico, but he couldn’t stop thinking about her the whole time he was working, couldn’t stop counting the days until he flew back to LA. He knew it was too much to hope for that she’d feel the same way about him when he got back. For God’s sake, they’d slept together once and then he’d fucked off to Central America. But that was the most amazing thing about all of this, because when he saw her again, on Dorian’s balcony, wrapped up in that moth-eaten old blanket, she’d looked at him and he’d known, right there and then, that he’d got nothing to worry about. She felt the same way.