by Adele Parks
*
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.
29. The Wonder of You
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…’
I watch my wife with undeniable fascination. She is a chameleon. One minute she’s drinking with me in pubs, treating me to her wit and honesty, trailing me through memories that I’d long ago shut away, allowing me to be delighted by those said memories. The next, she is cold and dull. Or am I being too kind? Calling her a chameleon is too poetic. Is she just a whore?
Obviously, it’s unlikely to be a comfortable situation for either of us. But I would understand her better if she stuttered and stammered throughout our meetings. She doesn’t. She appears calm, cool and aloof. I’m angry at, and jealous of, her ability to disengage. Am I so disposable? Bella is the ultimate iceberg. When you meet her, you get to see about five per cent of what’s available. The rest is submerged in dark, murky waters. I am a fated Titanic.
On the other hand, Laura is an open book. She oozes integrity and sincerity from every pore. She’s fun, good in the sack, interesting and no pushover. So why do I find myself continually looking at Belinda’s boobs throughout dinner (currently strapped up, high and inviting)?
We eat a bit and drink an enormous amount. Or, at least, everyone except Belinda drinks an enormous amount. Laura and Philip are knocking them back because they are on holiday and are carefree. I drink a lot because I’m in the middle of some sort of ghoulish nightmare and haven’t the moral fibre or immoral impudence to manage the situation without the aid of alcohol. I imagine Bella – because, hell, there’s no sign of Belinda tonight – isn’t drinking to demonstrate how much more self-control she has than me.
I’m insulted and furious that she treats me with such contempt in front of her ‘husband’. She practically ignores me. She hasn’t congratulated me on winning the King of Kings heats, even though she’s here as my guest. She doesn’t manage so much as a polite good-mannered chuckle when I make a joke. She can’t even be bothered to chat. I can see she might not feel comfortable enquiring about my most wild and romantic moments, my marital status or even which woman first broke my heart. Accepted. But she could chat about some of the non-consequential things that mates chat about – the weather, football results, how to make a decent whisky sour.
Whisky sour. Good idea. I’ll have a double as a chaser to this second bottle of champagne.
What power does Belinda McDonnel wield over me? It was the same way back when… She was playing out some childish romantic notion of eloping and I was just the sap prepared to go the distance. Why did I instantly agree to tell grade A lies to my new girlfriend to help her out? How did I let her trick me into believing that we were back on a path that was developing into something like a genuine friendship? Because here’s the thing, this will make you laugh – I thought I meant something to her. The other night, when we were sat in All Bar One, the alcoholic equivalent to Starbucks, cookie-cut but reliable, I believed that there was a connection between us. I thought we’d started to weave gossamer-thin threads of deliberation, laughter and trust that amounted to the beginnings of an authentic relationship. But it was nothing. It meant nothing. I was deluded. Bella Edwards is a hard, manipulative, controlling bitch. And I am a weak, feckless and gullible idiot.
She’s got great legs.
Really fantastic for her age. Like, they’ve got better. I’ve always found the back of the knee particularly erotic and Bella’s is toned and strong-looking.
The whisky sour has been and gone. I’ve drunk too much.
‘How much have you had to drink?’ whispers Bella, as if she’s read my mind. I didn’t think we could still do that. She’s taken the opportunity of Philip chatting to the pianist and Laura visiting the loos, to interrogate me.
‘Not enough,’ I reply sullenly.
‘I think you should go easy.’
‘I don’t give a fuck what you think.’
Bella looks astonished, and that’s satisfying. Who is she to tell me how much I should drink? I order a beer just to annoy her.
Laura comes back to the table. ‘Stevie, baby, you’d better not drink much more. You have the photo shoot tomorrow. You don’t want to feel too rough,’ she says, with a smile.
‘You might be right, gorgeous,’ I lean across the table to kiss her. I kiss her in a way that yells randy. I gently bite her lower lip and push my tongue into her mouth. I let the bottom of my beer glass nudge up against her nipple. I’m not sure who I’m trying to get a reaction from, Laura or Bella. I’m too drunk to care.
Philip rejoins the table. ‘Ah, young love.’
‘Exactly that,’ I agree with a grin.
I still haven’t actually told Laura that I love her, not in so many words. I’m not trying to play games. The opposite. I don’t want to say anything too definite, with this mess hanging over my head. Laura doesn’t play games, she doesn’t even want to. It’s one of the many great things about her. She’s refreshingly uncomplicated.
Women are so unnecessarily complex. I mean besides Belinda – who is off the scale when it comes to creating needless difficulties in her life and the lives of those unfortunate enough to come into contact with her – other birds are not much better. They lie about their age, the number of men they’ve slept with and their weight, as a matter of course. They lie about fancying married men, their mates’ boyfriends and men with money, without batting an eyelid. They lie about the colour of their hair, their ability to eat chocolate and stay thin and how much exercise they do each week. It’s so pointless. We know you lie! Men know women lie!
But Laura is different. She thinks like a guy. That first evening out together, she commented that getting to know someone is complicated enough without pretending to be something you’re not. I choked on my beer. She is so right. It’s so simple. So obvious. Her doctrine is the polar opposite to the doctrine Bella lives by.
And the one I’m living by. Holy fuck. Hardly a comforting thought.
‘Hey, buddy, I told them who you are,’ says Philip and he points towards the pianist.
‘Who I am?’ I ask. Who the hell am I? Laura’s boyfriend or Belinda’s husband? My head is spinning.
‘An Elvis King of Kings finalist. The pianist was really impressed.’ I shrug modestly. ‘He wants you to get up and sing something.’
‘Go on, baby. Go for it,’ Laura screeches excitedly.
‘No, I’m too pissed,’ I object.
‘I’ve never heard you perform,’ says Philip, ‘I’d really like to.’
‘Please, please, please,’ says Laura, giggling.
Other diners tune into the commotion and start to encourage me. They call out tracks they would like me to sing, and it’s a buzz, there’s no denying it. I’ve been in similar situations in the UK, at wedding parties if the guests are drunk enough, which they usually are. At the competition heats the crowds get fervent but there’s nothing like the enthusiasm of the Yanks. They have no
embarrassment about encouraging or complimenting. It’s charmingly refreshing. Notably, Bella is not cajoling me on to the stage – she never has. It’s her reticence as much as everyone else’s encouragement that does it for me.
I walk towards the stage, wobbling slightly, it’s alcohol, not nerves. I’d only noticed a pianist before I stood up, but in true Vegas style, a small band has materialized where it was needed. Beside the pianist, there is now a drummer and some guys on strings. They all flash me hundred-watt grins and ask what’s it to be.
Good question.
Drunk, there’s a serious chance that I’ll become pathetically slushy, indiscreet or angry. It seems impossible to choose a song without it appearing loaded and especially significant. Outright, I reject ‘Love Me Tender’, ‘Don’t Be Cruel’ and ‘Hard Headed Woman’ although just thinking about the last option makes me snigger to myself. And there’s the question who am I singing for? Laura or Belinda? Both will assume I’m singing for them. Whether I belt out a showpiece or croon a ballad, they will layer on tricky significance. As women, they won’t be able to help themselves, they will find a deeper meaning where none is intended. So, what I choose matters. I wish I knew the words to ‘Old Shep’. That alone would be safe.
I look back at the table. Laura is standing, looking shiny and Amazonian. She grins, waves and then puts her fingers in her mouth to wolf whistle. She looks thrilled for me and thrilled to be with me. I see nothing in her but uncomplicated pleasure. I smile back at her. I turn to Belinda. Bella is looking grave and nervous. She seems to be shrinking before my eyes. She’s struggling to meet my stare. I see nothing but regret and mess.
Both women fascinate me.
I start to sing ‘The Wonder of You’. I have no idea which one I’m singing to.
30. Good Rocking Tonight
Philip
‘Wow, can that man hold a tune!’
‘He’s not bad,’ says Bella.
