Part 21 (1/2)

'It wouldn't be an affair. I'm married to them both.'

'Think about what you've just said, Bella. For G.o.d's sake, think.'

'Yes, yes,' I mumble. I don't convince myself so I'm certain I haven't persuaded her. 'Got to go.'

I hang up as Phil walks into the room.

34. Shake, Rattle and Roll.

Laura.

When I enter the hotel bar at precisely 8.45 p.m. Bella and Phil are already waiting for me. Phil gives a low wolf whistle and Bella claps.

'You look wonderful,' says Phil.

'Perfect fit. Aren't I clever?' says Bella, smiling. 'You look stunning.'

And they're right. The dress is a winner. It swishes, whooshes and swirls in all the right places. I feel very s.e.xy and very feminine. It's backless and my back is one of my strong points (many a joke has been made about that over the years glad to see the back of you etc etc, ho ho ho). Bella is wearing a black c.o.c.ktail dress, cla.s.sical and understated. I get the feeling she's being deliberately discreet so that I can s.h.i.+ne. I'm touched by the completeness of her generosity.

Stevie returns from his photo shoot at exactly nine o'clock, as promised. It's immediately clear that the dress has the desired effect.

'Wow! You are beautiful.'

'Thank you, sir.' I play with an earring and try to act cool, calm and collected.

Stevie swoops in to kiss me on the cheek and whispers, 'One hundred per cent knockout.'

I grin. 'You're looking quite gorgeous yourself.'

Stevie is still wearing his Elvis costume. For the purpose of the PR shoot the contestants were all provided with identical outfits, although I understand that in the actual compet.i.tion they can rediscover a little individuality. No doubt to amuse us, Stevie has met us in the bar wearing his costume.

'Pretty fly for a white guy,' I laugh. And I can't resist flinging my arms around him. Sod cool, calm and collected.

'Are you going to get changed?' asks Bella.

'Don't. We'll get free drinks all night if you wear that get-up,' says Phil, laughing.

'I imagine I'll have to sing for my supper if I do,' says Stevie. 'It might get a bit tedious when we arrive at the third bar of the evening and another bouncer insists I do ”Jailhouse Rock” and the guy behind the bar wants ”Hound Dog”.'

And as if to prove his point we are immediately interrupted.

'Oh. My. G.o.d. You are so the real thing!'

While not strictly accurate, obviously, Stevie is not the real thing Elvis is dead and even if you buy into the conspiracy theories and believe that he's not dead, just living as an obese geriatric on some island somewhere it's patent that Stevie is not your man. Stevie weighs only about a hundred and seventy pounds and there isn't a single indication of rigor mortis.

'Can we have our picture with you?'

The gaggle of tiny, skinny, blonde women hand Bella the camera and barge past me as though I am invisible, despite the designer dress. For all their size, smiles and giggles it's clear that these women are tough. They have hard bodies that have trod mills and partic.i.p.ated in endless aerobic cla.s.ses; their c.u.mulative total of time spent in gyms must be decades. I am somewhat comforted to see that they are not as young as I thought on first impression. The expertly applied make-up, long manicured nails and bleached hair are smoke and mirrors, which means they pa.s.s for late twenties at a distance but up close they have at least ten years on that.

They pout and preen and pose. They kiss Stevie's cheek, take photos and liberties one of them pinches his b.u.t.t, another pinches his crotch. I'd say he enjoyed it up until the crotch pinching then he hurriedly shooed them on their way.

I breezily laugh at the incident, hoping to disguise the fact that I want to drill my stiletto heels into their faces.

Stevie decides to have a drink in his suit but it soon becomes apparent that we aren't going to get much peace. Everyone behaves as though he is G.o.dfather to their child. Some buy drinks and beg him to sing a verse. Others push past us, his girlfriend and friends, and demand photos. One couple has heard about the King of Kings final.

'Really?' says Stevie, clearly awash with pride but trying to look nonchalant. 'So, erm, did you see an advert or a press article? I understand that they are really pus.h.i.+ng the event in local papers and radio. I'm not blowing my own trumpet but I do think that the organizers have done a good job with bringing a certain amount of gravitas to the whole event.'

'Actually, we are here with the Italian King,' says the guy.

'He's my brother,' says the girl, smiling. 'We will be supporting him.'

'Oh. Of course,' says Stevie, nodding his head with understanding. Stevie looks around, 'Is he here now? I think I know the guy you mean. I met an Italian at the photo shoot.'

'No, he is not here now. He is resting. Tomorrow is the dress rehearsal show. He does not want a hangover.'

I wonder if Stevie feels chided. 'Erm, tell him good luck.'

'He doesn't need luck. He is very good,' smiles the loyal sister.

I resist challenging her to a duel at dawn as I'm pretty sure that Stevie will hold his own when it comes to the compet.i.tion. Instead I say we have to go: we're keen to get to the casino.

We can't decide which one to visit, we're spoilt for choice. In the end, we opt for Bally's: it isn't a million miles away and Phil wants to see the showgirls. Stevie doesn't seem as interested, but then he's swilling in the attention from the groupies. We decide to walk there rather than take a cab as it's a lovely, mild evening and we all agree a walk would be pleasant. To tell all, I'm enjoying turning heads and I know we are a mesmerizing spectacle. Stevie is Elvis, I am the lady in red (or at least fuchsia pink) and Bella and Phil are just their usual gorgeous selves.

The approach to Bally's is dramatic. We travel up a very long escalator flanked by cascading water, lighted pylons and giant palm trees. It almost bothers me that I am becoming acclimatized to such ostentatious nonsense. As we approach the entrance, a sound and water show involving a wave machine and fountains erupts. No doubt a wonderful spectacle although I imagine it becomes a tiny bit repet.i.tive and annoying if you are staying here.

'Water is very much the flavour here,' comments Bella. 'Apparently, in the multi-million-dollar show Jubilee, the ”t.i.tanic” sinks every night on stage.' She is reading this from a poster that depicts scantily clad ladies unsuitable dress for the t.i.tanic, I would have thought.

'What a giggle. We'll have to go,' I say.

'Yes, let's do that later, but where to now?' asks Stevie.

We are faced with the most enormous mash of lights, signs, slot machines, c.r.a.ps tables, roulette wheels and poker games. Everything is reddish-pink: the people playing, the drinks, the walls, the dealers and the machines. I'm not sure if the ruddy complexions are the result of the hue cast by the lights or the possibility of winning cold, hard cash. It's a noisy, rowdy, exciting spectacle.

'Well, not to the baccarat room,' says Phil. 'I've been reading about it and apparently that's where players go if they are willing to wager hundreds of thousands of dollars on a single hand. These guys are called ”whales” in gaming parlance.'

We all agree that such high rolling is astounding. Bella looks white with shock: she isn't keen on gambling she won't even buy a lottery ticket.

'That's madness,' she cries. 'No one wins but the house. Gambling is for losers, in the harshest sense of the word.'

'Not the most helpful att.i.tude, darling,' Phil points out. 'Not here, in Las Vegas in the middle of a casino.'

'I can't help myself, I hate these places,' she mutters.

It's clear that Bella is not going to feel comfortable on the green baize map but after some time we collectively persuade her that a hand of blackjack, or twenty-one as it's known to some, is worth a shot. The odds are better. Bella's compet.i.tive spirit kicks in and she starts to enjoy playing against the dealer, particularly when she can set her bet as low as five dollars. I want to try poker but Stevie teases me and says it won't be my game.

'Why not?'