SIX

Two hours later, my head is a whirl of lights and music and traffic noise. And, above all, bleeps. Las Vegas is the bleepiest city I’ve ever known. It’s like, everywhere you go there’s a live band playing at full volume, and the only instruments are slot machines, and they only play one track: bleep-bleep-bleepy-bleep. And they never stop. Except when they occasionally disgorge money, which would be the percussion section.

I actually have a headache from all the clamor, but I don’t care, because we’re having a brilliant time. We’ve driven up and down the Strip in a limo which the Venetian concierge fixed up for us, and we’ve hopped out at this hotel and that hotel, and I feel as though I’ve been round the world. I even gave Minnie “Parisian Poulet” for supper. (It was chicken strips.)

Now we’re back at the Venetian, which feels quite calm and normal compared to some of the places we’ve been. (Well, “normal” bearing in mind that the sky, clouds, canals, and St. Mark’s Square are all fake.) Luke has gone off to the conference center to work through a backlog of emails. Mum and Janice have taken Minnie to investigate gondola rides, and I’m wandering round the shops. Or, rather, “Shoppes.” (Why do they call them “Shoppes”? Isn’t that olden-days English? And surely we’re supposed to be in Italy?)

There are loads of Shoppes, from designer stores to galleries to souvenir outlets. It’s pretty impressive, as malls go. As I walk along, the air is a perfect temperature and the fake sky is blue with wispy clouds. There’s an opera singer wandering around in a velvet dress, trilling some lovely aria. I’ve just been in to Armani and seen a gray cashmere jacket which would look stunning on Luke. (Except it’s eight hundred dollars, so I hesitated. I mean, he should try it on first, at least.) The whole thing is amazing, and I should be having the time of my life. But the truth is, I’m not.

I keep picturing Suze’s face and feeling a great rolling sadness. It’s as if she doesn’t want to know me. But she’s the one who begged me to come on this trip. She’s the one who stood, holding my hands, saying, “I need you.” It makes no sense.

I lost Suze once before, when I’d been away on honeymoon. But that was different. That was drifting apart. This is more like she’s cutting me off.

By now I’ve wandered into the Big Souvenir Store, and as I start to fill my basket, my chest is heaving in distress. Stop it, Becky, I tell myself desperately. Come on, focus on the souvenirs. I have a snow globe of the Las Vegas skyline, and some dollar-sign fridge magnets, and a load of T-shirts saying WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS. I reach for an ashtray in the shape of a shoe, wondering if I know anyone who smokes….