Husbands (26 page)

‘We could do, we’re free tonight and tomorrow,’ says Stevie. ‘I have a dress rehearsal on Friday evening and, of course, the main event on Saturday, but there’s nothing to stop us seeing a show if that’s what you want to do. What were you thinking of?’

‘I don’t know – there’s everything. Music, magic, comedy. Hey, this place offers dirty girls and cold beers.’ I point to an advert in the book and giggle at the audacity of such a straightforward appeal.

‘There’s no Shakespeare or even Noel Coward, though, is there?’ Bella cuts through my giggling. ‘So there isn’t quite everything.’

Bella once saw a production of
The Doll’s House
and has an English Lit degree so she’s a bit painful when it comes to theatre visits.

‘Ah, but did you know that Noel Coward once performed here?’ asks Philip.

‘No, I didn’t,’ admits Bella. I see her struggle to adjust her predetermined view of Vegas as sleezy and cheesy and reconcile it with this new information. I decide to help her out by changing the subject.

‘Or, we could go to a nightclub. The choice is huge. Anyone fancy BiKiNiS Beach and Dance Club, a fourteen-thousand-square-foot indoor beach party? The mind boggles. Cleopatra’s Barge, with a floating lounge, would you believe?’

‘I’m too old for togas,’ says Philip with a grin.

‘Me too,’ I agree.

‘You’re a baby,’ he counters, with his usual charm and sincere wish to be kind.

‘Sadly, it’s universal law that women should stop showing spare flesh far earlier than men.’

‘I disagree,’ chorus Stevie and Philip. We all laugh.

‘There’s Club Armadillo, a Texas Station gambling Hall, Club Madrid, Club Rio, Coyote Ugly bar and dance saloon, somewhere called Curve, where fashionable attire is required, apparently.’ Although I am only up to D in the alphabetical listing of the clubs available for us to visit, it’s clear that Las Vegas is a playground for grown-ups. It is a city full of fun and temptations. ‘Dragon, that’s in our hotel. Another one called Drais. The guidebook promises lots of beautiful people at that one.’

‘How shallow,’ mutters Bella, and then she grins. ‘We should go.’

We drive to our hotel, which is simply called THE Hotel. I love the arrogance. THE Hotel is a hotel built
within another hotel, the Mandalay Bay – crazy, huh?

The foyer is a mass of stunning slabs of dark marble, we walk for a hundred miles through it to reach the desk. I’m quite surprised at how tasteful it is. The hotels pictured in the guidebook are chintzy and tacky, although sumptuous. This hotel is much more stylish, yet everything is still vast and opulent. The colours are muted and the materials are leather and walnut rather than Dralon and gold-embossed. The plant pots are about a metre wide and two high. The leather armchairs could comfortably seat entire families. I feel like a shrunken Alice in Wonderland.

Two beautiful female receptionists greet us with the kind of cool professionalism I would associate with New York, if TV programmes are anything to go by. They direct us to our suites and tell us our luggage will already be there, which I doubt but turns out to be true. The USA certainly is the country where service is taken seriously. The beautiful receptionists wish us a nice day. We return the pleasantry and they chorus, ‘Uh huh.’

The suite is breathtaking, far more palatial than I could have dreamt of. The main bathroom is bigger than my sitting room. I run around opening cupboards and wardrobes. I gasp at the size of the TV and bath. I marvel at the variety of beers in the fridge. I bounce on the bed, climb into the bath (fully clothed) and generally run around behaving like a child on Christmas Eve. I only stop now and again to snog the lips off Stevie.

‘I know it sounds naff but I want you to know, Stevie, that you’re already the King of Kings in my eyes and you will be no matter what happens on Saturday night,’ I say, as I pull away from a clinch.

‘Really?’ he asks, with great seriousness.

‘Really,’ I assure him, with a great grin.

I start to rummage through my case, searching for my cozzie. I want to get to the pool as quickly as possible. I have an appointment with the afternoon sun.

‘Give me five minutes and then I’ll be ready for a dip. I told Bella and Philip we’d meet them by the pool.’

Stevie looks disappointed: clearly after the long lingering kisses, he was imagining we’d christen the suite first. ‘Can’t we just spend some time alone together?’ he asks, as he puts his arms round me and backs me towards the bed.

‘No, you randy bugger, we can’t. I want a suntan. And despite it being July, because I live in London I haven’t changed from my pale blue shade yet and I’m striving for a golden bronze colour.’ I gently but firmly push his hands away from my boobs and continue the hunt for my cozzie.

‘OK, OK, I know a determined woman when I see one. But I’m too fidgety and excited to sit by the pool. Let’s go sightseeing instead. Alone. Alone is the important bit. Selfishly, I want to keep you to myself.’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ I do, really. I want to be alone with him too, but it seems a bit rude.

‘Come on, Laura, we’ve brought them here, they can look after themselves for a bit. Besides, I bet they fancy a bit of quality couple time too.’

I allow myself to be persuaded, mostly because what Stevie wants is what I want too.

*

Vegas is hysterical.

It’s bloody hot without the luxury of air con, even so we reject the monorail and decide to walk along the Strip. We start, as is tradition, at the famous neon sign that states ‘Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada’ – risking life and limb running in front of cars to secure our photo opportunity – then we cross back to the west side of the street and start to walk north. Instantly we are thrust into one of Vegas’s busiest junctions, where Tropicana Avenue crosses the Strip and connects casino hotels on all four corners. Thousands of pedestrians ride up and down elevators and escalators or rush and stride across the elevated walkways. Stevie and I stare at one another slightly fazed and momentarily purposeless.

‘Look at that, we’re in New York.’ I point to a hotel fashioned as the New York skyline.

‘That’s so Vegas, baby,’ laughs Stevie. ‘You can see the Statue of Liberty, Brooklyn Bridge, even the Empire State Building and you don’t have to leave Nevada. You’ve always wanted to see the Empire State Building, haven’t you?’

‘I still do. I’m not going to be fobbed off,’ I joke even though I’m secretly pleased that Stevie has remembered my ambition. We spend a few moments admiring the Chrysler Building, Times Square and the Manhattan Express and then wander on. It quickly becomes apparent that Vegas is a city that’s all about more. That which could be said is shouted, that which could be sung is belted out. Las Vegas, even on a hot afternoon, is a twinkling, flashing and glittering extravaganza. The city soars and scrambles, up, out and across, while neon signs
of every shape and size imaginable jostle for attention.

The fantastical playground is a source of constant surprise. Stevie and I are amused by just about everything we see; it would in fact be impossible to take any of it seriously and still be certifiably sane. Only in Vegas can you see the Arc de Triomphe, Montgolfier’s balloon, the Eiffel Tower, the Colosseum and an Egyptian pyramid without having to walk further than twenty metres. Only in Vegas can you watch a perfect dawn and splendid sunset, every hour, indoors, while doing your shopping, or stand by the kerb as a volcano erupts every fifteen minutes, or watch a sea battle between scantily clad sirens and nasty-looking pirates.

During this show a super-fit guy starts chatting to me about the weather (a bit of a non-starter, I thought, as we are in the desert and the weather is basically hot, day in, day out). I hold tightly to my bag, wondering if he’s going to grab it and dash off. It’s not until Stevie stares him down, and the guy merges back into the throng, that I understand. ‘Was he coming on to me?’ I ask. Stevie nods and grins. I blush, embarrassed. ‘Did I lead him on?’ I had chatted in an animated way, it’s natural, I’m excited. ‘Did I come across as flirty?’

Stevie laughs. ‘It’s not your fault! The man has eyes, and you’re gorgeous. He was bound to try his luck.’

I’m gorgeous. The thought makes me giddy but, even so, I spend the rest of the day avoiding eye-contact with tasty men and worrying about VPL. I have not thought about Visible Panty Line for years. But, if I’m the sort of woman men chat up in the street, I might be the sort whose arse they look at too. No one wants to be
objectified but I find it difficult to be indignant. Stevie’s attention and affection are creating a halo of attractiveness around me and I like it. I like being desired.

We continue on our sight-seeing tour, stopping to feel (fake) rain fall in The Palms Casino Hotel and to watch the fountains of Bellagio, where a thousand gallons of water spray from thousands of spouts, all of which are choreographed as part of a music and illumination show. We see a double-sized statue of David – like Michelangelo’s wasn’t impressive enough? We walk by shop after shop after shop. We stop in many of them but even I, with my skill in browsing, feel satiated by about seven thirty, when we find ourselves, hot and sticky, in ‘Paris’ and desperate for a rest.

‘Do you fancy a coffee?’ asks Stevie.

‘No, something stronger. Let me buy you some champagne. We should celebrate. I’m so thrilled to be here, Stevie.’

We enter Paris, Las Vegas, a hotel casino distinguished by one of the city’s more prominent landmarks, a fifty-storey replica of the Eiffel Tower, which thrusts through the roof of the casino and rises 540 ft into the air. We buy a ticket to the eleventh floor where there is a piano bar and a restaurant.

Stevie and I are shown to a window table. It’s dark now and we both gaze in amazement at the city below us. The neon city of sin looms below like a large set on a sci-fi movie. It defies belief, an orgy of fantasies made flesh, a place where money is no object but at the same time money is the only object.

‘I’m shattered,’ I say.

‘Still smiling, though?’

‘Who wouldn’t be? I’m having a blast. I’ll work through my tiredness by drinking champagne.’

‘I like that sort of stamina,’ says Stevie with a grin. I blush as I recall the night before when he and I showcased our stamina in quite a different way. The blush is one of pleasure at the memory, not shyness.

‘Do you think we should go back to the hotel and see if we can track down Bella and Philip?’ I ask.

‘No need to. Let’s just enjoy the champers. Do you know what Dom Perignon, the blind, French monk who invented champagne, said on his first tasting?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘“Brothers, come quick! I am tasting stars!”’

‘How did you know that?’ I ask, impressed.

‘I read it on this matchbox,’ Stevie confesses. He shrugs and flicks it towards me. I pick it up and sneakily slip it into my pocket. I already know tonight is the sort of night I want to keep souvenirs from.

I take a sip of the chilled champagne and think how wonderfully accurate the quote is. Life feels so fine. I look at the enormous bags of shopping around us. We’ve mostly limited ourselves to silly, cheap and cheerful purchases – pressies for Eddie, and for Amelie’s kids – but Stevie did insist on buying me a dress in Armani Exchange. I demurred, insisting that the trip was treat enough and that he didn’t need to go buying me designer clothes.

‘Hardly designer, it’s a diffusion brand, darling,’ said Stevie with a grin. He was gently mocking Bella, who had explained what a diffusion brand was only earlier that day.
We, the uninitiated into designer wear, were unaware that diffusion brands are the ‘more accessible’ i.e. cheaper labels within a design house.

‘Even so, you can’t afford it on your wages,’ I insisted.

‘The treat will be mine when I see you in it,’ insisted Stevie. The dress in question is a backless denim sundress. I couldn’t pretend I didn’t love it.

The piano tinkles moody lounge music, the neon lights flash below us and Vegas looks like an enormous Santa’s grotto. The champagne is cold and Stevie’s hot, things could not be more perfect and romantic. Tonight is the type of night when lovers speak of love. I take a deep breath.

‘Stevie, I just wanted to say—’

‘Hi, guys, how’s it going? Of all the bars in all the towns, you had to be in this one.’ Philip does a poor Humphrey Bogart but we all understand what he’s trying to achieve.

I try to look pleased at the interruption, after all, it was my idea to invite Phil and Bella along on the trip and my main motivation was so that they could bond with Stevie. It would be unfair of me to want to monopolize him now. It’s just that we were having such a perfect time. I smile brightly and tell myself we can
all
have a perfect time now. Philip is grinning too. Bella and Stevie are not.

‘Can we join you?’ asks Philip. He’s already pulling up chairs to our table.

Bella sits next to Stevie. She looks fantastic in another designer dress, there’s definitely nothing diffusion about it. She looks like she’s spent the day in the spa and
hairdresser’s. I look like I’ve spent it trawling around a boiling and clammy city. I lament my lack of lipstick.

‘So, what have you guys been up to?’ asks Phil brightly.

I briefly fill him in on our day’s adventures. ‘And you two?’ I ask politely.

‘Well, I’ve spent it with my nose in a book by the pool and Bella has spent the day at the spa and the hairdresser’s, haven’t you, darling?’

Figures.

‘I’m so nervous of the sun nowadays. I rarely sit out in it. I’d rather go to a spray booth,’ says Bella. I think she knows she sounds lame because she looks nervously at Stevie. ‘Besides, I wanted to take it easy. I’ve had a headache ever since we arrived at the airport. It’s the Las Vegas theme tune that is doing it.’

‘What are you talking about?’ asks Stevie.

‘The constant, tuneless chords of money dropping into slot machines. It’s everywhere and it’s horrid.’

I swig back my champagne and cross my fingers that the conversation is going to improve.

Stevie

I believe there is a God. But he’s not a benevolent old chap, a cross between your favourite uncle and Santa Claus. Of course he isn’t. If he was, there wouldn’t be war, or famine, or Celine Dion’s music, would there? The God I believe in is more witty than Oscar Wilde and more implacable and unrelenting than Simon Cowell. Philip was right, ‘Of all the bars…’