Part 18 (1/2)

'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 G.o.d. 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 G.o.d 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 wh.o.r.e?

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 t.i.tanic.

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 b.o.o.bs 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, h.e.l.l, 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 friends.h.i.+p? 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 relations.h.i.+p. But it was nothing. It meant nothing. I was deluded. Bella Edwards is a hard, manipulative, controlling b.i.t.c.h. And I am a weak, f.e.c.kless 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 f.u.c.k what you think.'