I peek at him, with his furrowed brow, and breathe a sigh of relief that he’s not that kind of weirdo. Because Chris would always pester and try to cajole, but, especially in cattle class—with toilets so narrow anyone bigger than a size eight struggles to even turn round—it just wasn’t my idea of fun. I’m not a prude, however many times Leah used to call me one when we were younger, or the few times Chris tried to push things and then got shitty about how I was frigid and harped on about my responsibility for his needs.

It turned out that Leah hadn’t entered the U.S. on her current passport and hadn’t had an ESTA for a few years. We sail through border control at McCarran Airport. Well, not sail exactly; the crawling queue stretches for hours. Luckily, as first-class passengers, we don’t have to wait as long as all that.

And at least the queue is a spectacle in and of itself. I can see a group of guys about my age, six of them dressed in jeans and T-shirts while the seventh is in a ballet tutu and a pair of fairy wings. They are hammered, almost incapable of standing. In front of them is another stag party. This time the stag has been dressed as a giant baby, complete with a nappy and an oversized dummy hanging round his neck. There is a stain down the nappy that I really hope is red wine. Further down the queue I spot a family: Mum, Dad and two teenage daughters, all wearing onesies in the design of the American flag. At least they will be warm when they step outside: March in Vegas is winter, and it is currently about ten degrees Celsius out there. The two guys in their Hawaiian shirts and flip-flops are going to be freezing, as are the two women I assume are their girlfriends with their overly made-up faces and tiny bodycon dresses.

We finally get to the front of the queue, to find that the man from border control is a bear with a long beard and a permanent smile on his face. It is a little disconcerting to have such an affable man ask you to place your right hand on the fingerprint scanner. Especially as you are holding your breath and praying that it doesn’t flash up with some kind of error. Fingerprints are like retinal scans—unique, formed in the uterus by the developing baby touching its tiny closed universe.

But the bear is not paying much attention to the scanner. “Business or pleasure?”

“Pleasure. Just a few days away.” I try to smile, fingers still pressed against the glass.

“Well, have fun. And good luck!”

And I’m through and nothing bad has happened and Tom grabs my hand and swings my arm as he skips—literally skips—down the corridor to claim his suitcase. “I took the liberty of having the hotel concierge pick you up an outfit for this evening.” he says. “Then you have tomorrow to shop while I deliver my very dull speech.”