by Maggie Ford
* * *
Fortunately her father’s bronchitis hadn’t developed until after Christmas, so he had been able to spend it with them. Nor, thank God, had it amounted to too much this winter. Instead, Aunt Victoria’s husband died of pneumonia two months into 1964, to be buried in bitter cold February weather with all the family around him except Hugh, no one knowing where to contact him.
Helen had come home from a day in London with her friend to a phone call from Uncle Harold’s daughter, Sheila, telling her of his death. It hit her a little savagely after having had such a lovely day despite the cold.
She and Carolyn had seen Cleopatra, starring Elizabeth Taylor and Rex Harrison, after shopping at the sales, though the Mary Quant dresses they’d both treated themselves to had been impulsive and expensive and they’d needed to go to the pictures to calm themselves down. As Helen said to Carolyn, “I’m a bit too old at thirty-six to carry off this sort of thing. It makes me look like a mod!” But Carolyn, five years younger, had put her straight, saying that her slim figure could carry anything off – even sackcloth, she’d added laughingly and not a little enviously. Carolyn’s was a much fuller figure but it hadn’t stopped her going in for the bold designs and short skirts of Mary Quant. “If I fancy I can wear it,” she’d said, “then I’m definitely sure you can. And I think we should have our hair cut in the new short style to go with it.”
Very daring, they had gone on to the pictures, completely new women, Carolyn giggling that she hated to think what her husband would say when he saw her hair. Helen said nothing. After that romantic Christmas when she thought Edwin had altered, he had gone back to being consumed by the business. She was left alone day after day, night after night, and he was so preoccupied that she knew when he came home he wouldn’t even notice her new hairstyle, nor would she point it out to him.
She had felt no compunction in thinking of Hugh again as she went with Edwin to buy black for them both for the funeral. It was of course a dismal affair, as are all funerals and, as she had expected, there was no sign of Hugh.
“It’s quite disgusting of him,” sighed Victoria to her daughter Sheila. She didn’t sob or weep, merely dabbed her eyes and shrugged off anyone who came to offer a sympathetic arm. “I’m all right,” she tersely told them all. The only one she would speak to was Sheila, ignoring even her daughter’s husband as she sat with their two-year-old boy on her lap as coldly as if he were a cushion she had picked up.
“Hugh is exactly like his uncle, my brother Geoffrey, caring nothing for others, going off into the blue without a word. He thinks himself free of any responsibility – not to the family, not to the business, not to Edwin… How Edwin puts up with it I do not know. After all he has done for that ungrateful man, not to hear a blessed word…”
In fact it was two months later that Edwin heard from his cousin – pages of frustration and bitterness addressed to him from Las Vegas, USA. He told no one of it, not even Helen, he was so furious at what his cousin had to tell.
Sixteen
Hugh couldn’t believe the run of luck he’d had this past year. And there he had been last September thinking his life had come to an end. He’d been thrown out of the cast to make way for a famous name – money, that’s what it boiled down to, his name not good enough for a West End play that even before it opened was going to be great box office. Of course, with a name it would, and he was out. Along with much of the cast, it was true, but that hadn’t made it any easier to digest. But now – now they could all take a fucking jump. He was in the money and doing all right.
Tonight he was wandering along the Strip in Las Vegas. It was one o’clock in the morning. The night breeze was warm even in April and his face was lit up not just by a million coloured electric bulbs but by utter self-confidence. He had money in his wallet and a girl on his arm – his girl, who had said yes when he’d proposed to her on arriving here one week ago. He would make a little more money in one of these casinos and on Saturday they’d visit one of those little chapels that dotted this city, specialising in instant marriages.
He’d met Amanda on stage, and when they’d both been dropped from the cast they had consoled each other in mutual misery with several gin and tonics and whisky and sodas. They’d gone on to the neat stuff, Amanda had produced a couple of small white pills to help them feel even better, and they’d formed an alliance.
The next day, feeling like shit, he had bet his last few quid on a horse. It coming up trumps he’d recklessly gambled his whole winnings on another. That too had won. Despite Amanda pleading for him to walk away while he could, he knew he was on a winning streak and it would be stupid to back out.
On a roll from all he’d made, he’d gambled the lot on an accumulator – a “Yankee” – four horses to place or win in different races, any winnings to go on to the next. It was a long shot, but he had felt reckless. Knowing he couldn’t pull out once it started, his heart had been in his mouth as the first horse came in, the winnings automatically going on to another horse to win or place in the next race. That too came in, the growing winnings going straight on to his third choice. He remembered how he had felt sick, knowing it was too good to be true to expect the fourth to come in. Yet it had. He’d practically staggered away from the racecourse with a pot of around twenty-five grand, having had enough sense to heed Amanda’s frantic advice to leave while he was winning. She’d been right. Half tempted to have just one more stab, he’d used great will power and backed off to see the nag he would have laid money on come in nowhere. He’d been elated. Lady Luck was looking after him.
He could still recall the build-up of excitement in his belly and remembered saying to himself that the theatre could stuff its allure and that Letts Restaurant was way, way behind him. There had come an overwhelming desire to tell Edwin what he’d won and that he too could get stuffed, but better senses prevailed. Don’t tell people too much. Instead he’d get out and see the world. See Paris. See the USA.
He’d settled for the USA to start with, saw the bright lights of New York, took in a few shows, then jetted off to the west coast. He’d taken Amanda to San Francisco – too cold – then down to Los Angeles – warmer – driving his brand new American car down the Big Sur Highway. They bathed in the Pacific, took a suite in a high-class hotel, went sightseeing then, with the money dwindling, drove off to where it all went on – Las Vegas.
It seemed he couldn’t lose. Playing the tables he might have lost some here, a little there, but more often he won. This evening his wallet was bulging; tomorrow he would bank some of it – it was too easy to have it stolen. There was money already in the bank. It was a good feeling to write cheques without fearing they’d bounce.
Yesterday he hadn’t been able to resist it any longer – he had written to Edwin and Helen telling them all about his stupendous luck. Edwin would be green with envy – all this money being made without having to work for it, to put in all those hours bending to the whims of bloody customers. Edwin was a sucker if ever there was one.
He’d also told them about Amanda and mentioned that they were getting married here – next Saturday, just a week away. His head was reeling from all his success. What was the song? “The Man who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo”. But this was Las Vegas and it was he who was going to break the bank.
“Where do you fancy, darling?” Masterfully tightening his grip around Amanda’s small waist, he glanced up at the myriad lights all around them before returning his gaze to her.
She smiled up at him. It was a sweet smile, capable of turning his innards to jelly – the bright red lips parting to show small, even, white teeth, her pert little nose lifting, her blue eyes made bluer and more startling by that dark eye make-up girls were wearing these days. She was full of enticement, the waft of her Christian Dior perfume, the warmth of her flesh through her summer dress turning him on right here in the street.
“Let’s try the Oasis again, you’ve been so lucky there this past week,” she purred, and suddenly he d
idn’t want to try any of them but take her back to the hotel and make love again.
It was what he should have done. Instead he conquered his desire and they went on in under the huge glittering facade of the casino. But from the very first bet on his favourite game, roulette, something told him that he had made a wrong choice.
* * *
A pale dawn grew rosy but Hugh, with eyes trained on the expert fingers of the blackjack dealer, took no heed of it. Inside the casino, its vast cavern bereft of windows, the lights were never switched off entirely although, as morning came, some were. Another sign of a new day was a decrease in punters though, like him, some die-hards stayed on under the begrudging cold glow above any table still occupied. While the slot machines clattered on, fewer of them were in use, but hopefuls still lingered, many of them housewives who’d enthusiastically flown in to spend a few days’ housekeeping money and would either fly out again or leave by less comfortable Greyhound coach depending on whether they had made money or lost it. An army of cleaners were sweeping up the debris of the night before, but Hugh noticed nothing, his whole attention riveted in mesmeric desperation on the dealing of the cards.
He had a good enough memory. He knew he was pretty good at counting cards. For God’s sake, he was an actor, wasn’t he? He could memorise lines, and if he could do that, he could count cards, at least to some extent. But with Amanda moaning about going back to the hotel, saying she was tired of waiting around for him to win, how could anyone concentrate?
Perhaps it was he who was at fault, out of his depth at blackjack with its fast dealing, hardly giving him time to divide his cards, lay bets on each, seeing them scooped up again and again as he made a wrong decision. The cards weren’t being good to him. He was a fool to have left the roulette tables where he’d felt comfortable. He wasn’t comfortable here, but now here he meant to stick at it. In time his luck would turn. Even roulette hadn’t served him well these last few days. Things had to change. Damn Amanda, worrying him like this, just as he was beginning to feel his fortune turning. It would turn, so long as he stuck with it, so long as he didn’t lose everything he had. Maybe he could borrow off Amanda, but somehow he didn’t think so.
Amanda was sulking, her staccato complaints expressed at regular intervals. “I want to go back to the hotel, Hugh. I’m worn out. I’ve had it. You can’t keep on losing. We’ll have nothing left. Let’s get some rest and you can try again later. Your luck’s bound to come back. Come on, darling, let’s call it a day.” But he ignored her. The next hand would bring a return of that winning streak he’d been enjoying all week.
It didn’t. Nor did the next, or the next. How could luck change so quickly? How could it go on so long? What had put the jinx on it all? Swearing to himself, he kept going. Things had to change. They would soon. They had to. He was almost out of cash. If things didn’t change soon he’d have to get to the bank.
The sun came up. Amanda wandered out to feel its warmth on her weary, smoke-paled face. She came back in, went to the ladies’ room to freshen up and to the restaurant to have breakfast, ludicrously inexpensively. With the casino bringing in enough cash from idiots like Hugh they could afford to practically throw the food at customers – it was a dollar for a breakfast enough to feed three. She returned to Hugh to glare up at his glum features.
“Not won anything then?” she accused.
Hugh shook his head testily.
“You’d have seen if I had,” he snapped and Amanda’s lips quivered from tiredness and disappointment and resentment, all the joy of Las Vegas, its casinos, flashing neon signs, sparkling entertainment, vast hotels, desert sunshine and relaxing landscaped swimming pools, vanished from her mind.
“You don’t have to be nasty with me, darling. It’s not my fault you’ve been losing. I only asked.”
“Then don’t!”
Amanda fell silent. Hugh watched the dealer’s slim fingers. A girl had taken over, the man going for a well-deserved sleep. She was fresh and alert, supple fingers flicking the cards dexterously. Hugh put in his selected chips, picking up each card in turn – a two, a five, a three, great! He increased his bet, his heart in his mouth. Another three! Thirteen! His heart was racing.
Stupid to stick on thirteen. A dilemma, one he hated. So temptingly near a five card trick. What were the chances of her going over twenty-one? He might yet recoup his losses. If the next card were under a nine, it would suit him fine.
She couldn’t beat it except with a pontoon, a picture and an ace. Should he take a chance on a really large bet? Nothing ventured nothing gained, or was he being foolhardy? But perhaps his luck was turning…
“I’ve had enough!” snapped Amanda, breaking his concentration. “I’m going back to our hotel. If you don’t want to come, I’ll go on my own.”
Caught out by having her walk off, his ability to think distracted, Hugh picked up several chips of large denominations for that fifth card. He knew seconds before it slid towards him that he’d done the wrong thing. Picking up the card, Hugh gazed at it in a kind of numb disbelief. A bloody nine! Twenty-two! All he’d wanted was anything under that. An eight or under and he’d have cleaned up. Even in this fate denied him. Of all the fucking luck! In dismay he saw the hand scooped up, his chips with it.
“Now look what you’ve done,” he hissed, but Amanda had turned on her high heels, already making for the exit.
A split second later he was hurrying out after her.
“I might have won if you hadn’t been so bloody touchy,” he snapped, catching her up. “I was about to make up my mind whether to stick or not and when you put your damned spoke in, I’d just decided to stick. She might have bust and I’d have got something back. Now I’ll never know. My luck was just beginning to change, I know it was.”
“So you’ve been saying all night,” she said without turning.
She was striding ahead of him, addressing thin air although he was right behind her. “You’re nearly out of money. So what are you going to do if you don’t start winning soon? Rob a bank?”
“Don’t be so damned stupid.” He was angry too. “There’s still money in my account. I can use that.”
“And when that’s gone?”
“I won’t go on losing. No one goes on losing forever. It’s against the law of averages. I’m not worried so why should you be?”
“I’m just tired. I need to get back to our hotel and rest. Then this afternoon I’ll be down by the pool and I’ll stay there the rest of the day, get a deeper suntan. What you do is up to you. I don’t care!”
At a loss, he followed her around like a puppy, spending the morning in bed, making love to her as she slowly melted to him, lounging restlessly by the pool, finally going to the bank to draw some money.
There was less there than he had thought. Several large cheques had made a hole in it. Clenching his teeth, Hugh drew what was left and closed his account. Tomorrow with his winnings he would open another. Roulette tonight. He’d had enough of blackjack.
By the evening what he’d drawn had all disappeared. Amanda got a taxi back to the hotel, leaving him to it. By the time he followed her back, around two in the morning, his gold watch had gone to pay the debt he’d run up at the table.
A hole inside him as large as the one in his pocket was more than he could bear. Tonight, however, Amanda refused to let him make love to her.
“Don’t you love me any more?” he asked plaintively. She didn’t reply. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“How?” she asked.
“We’ll get married. Tomorrow. You said you wanted us to get married.”
“What on?”
“Sorry?” From lying beside her on the bed he sat up.
“I said, what on? How’re you going to pay for it?”
“I can hock my cigarette case and my lighter. They’re gold. They’ll bring in a few bob, enough to get married on.”
“I’m not getting married on borrowed cash.” She too sat up. “And anyway, I know you�
��ll go straight back and gamble it. Then where will we be? How would we ever get home to England? I don’t want to stay here.”
“I might win. I will win. We’ll be in the black again and we can—”
Amanda shot out of bed, for once wearing a filmy black nightie rather than sleeping naked as she usually did. She’d refused to take it off, said she was worn out and needed to sleep. He had understood and forgiven her, but now he was rankled. She was having her own back on him for losing. Silly bitch!
“No, Hugh!” she burst out. “No, I’m not going to marry you. You’re a loser. You always will be.”
He stared at her. “But I’ve been winning like mad for nearly a year.”
“And it’s come to an end. I’m not prepared to stand by, living on the breadline while you try to get back your so-called winning streak. I want to be the wife of someone with a regular, well-paid job, someone respectable, not some – tuppenny-ha’penny gambler.”
Hugh gave out with a burst of cynical laughter. “You? Marry someone respectable? A second-rate actress? You must be joking.”
For a moment she stared at him, then she turned and rushed to the huge wardrobe and dragged down her suitcase. “That’s it! I’ve had enough of this. I wouldn’t marry you now if you were the last man on earth! I’m going home. I might be a second-rate actress to you but I’d sooner go back to acting than stay here and watch you gamble all your money away. The theatre’s a dicey enough business but nowhere near as dicey as what you do.”
She began throwing clothes into the case. “I’ve had it, Hugh!”
He watched helplessly, too stunned to stop her as she strode about the room dragging her things from drawers. He felt all in. “Amanda, don’t go. Give me one more chance and I’ll prove I can look after you, keep you happy. This is just a hiccup. It happens.”
He held out an imploring hand. “Look, stop doing that. We’ll go down to the Strip. Caesar’s Palace… no, The Golden Nugget, where we began and I won like mad – remember, just over a week ago? That’s where my luck was.”
