Jules dared not breathe as the dealer turned the final card. The river.

Not a seven, she thought, please not a seven.

It was a king. The king of clubs.

Jules’s hand flew to the bridge of her nose and she closed her eyes. She had won. It was over.

‘Pfft. Alors,’ said Celeste, pulling her stole tighter around her shoulders.

The dealer gathered the chips from the middle of the table and pushed them over to Jules. A fruit cocktail of chips. She touched them with her fingertips, hardly believing it was true.

*

As they left the table, Celeste sidled up to her. During the course of the game, her make-up had smudged, one shoulder of her dress had fallen down. Up close, she looked older, the glamorous sheen rubbed off. She put her red lips close to Jules’s face and spoke slowly, every word carefully enunciated and laced with gin. ‘Put… it… all… on… red,’ she said, winking.

Jules walked shakily to the toilets, found an empty cubicle, mercifully cool, and sat on the closed ceramic seat, taking deep breaths, the heat and tension in her body beginning to evaporate. She’d done it. She’d really done it. She popped out her shoulder, clicking her fingers, the way Paul did sometimes when he listened to jazz in the kitchen while he seasoned steak and chopped vegetables.

She’d made around £165,000 in twenty-four hours, more than she’d intended to, successfully avoiding her husband and evading the attention of her friends. The additional £15,000 could even cover the cost of their IVF cycle next week. She couldn’t resist relishing in the pride that consumed her. She wished she could tell someone. She felt bad keeping this all from her friends, but it was so close to being over now. She was so close to her next cycle of IVF, and they were sure they had the mix right this time, to stop her body attacking its own embryo… She was so close to her dreams coming true.

Fear tapped away at the edges of her subconscious. What if it didn’t work? What if… she needed another cycle, and then another? What if they realised there was something else they could try, a different procedure or cocktail of drugs? Could she persuade Paul, to try again? It would be easier if she had the funds ready. Soon she was back inside one of her gambling apps, at a virtual poker table this time, but as real as the one she had just left. I’ll only gamble £5,000, she promised herself. I can make that back easily tomorrow morning. £5,000 and if I win, wonderful, and if I lose, I’ll walk away.

An hour later and she was another £30,000 up. Enough for two more cycles. She’d done it. She’d really fucking done it! She abruptly dropped her phones in her bag. She wished, fleetingly, that she could chop her hands off to stop her going back in for more. Chopping her hands off right then seemed a more realistic prospect than closing down all her apps and leaving them alone. She retrieved her phones again and turned them off. She considered flushing them down the toilet – her money was safe in her account until she transferred it – but it would be such a pain having to remember her passwords and set them up again. She drummed her fingers against the silk of her dress, then scooped the fabric into her palms, squeezing it as she fought the urge to succumb. Thoughts whizzed through her head. She needed to find her friends. She needed to celebrate. Why do we celebrate so little these days? she wondered. You become an adult and what do you get to celebrate? When did life get less fun?