Shopaholic to the Rescue

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….

But the thoughts keep piling in. Is this it? Is our friendship over? After all these years, all our ups and downs…are we really at the end of the line? I just can’t work out what’s gone wrong. I know I didn’t behave brilliantly in L.A. But did I really wreck things this badly?

There’s a rack of jewelry made out of dice, and miserably I stuff a couple of necklaces into my basket. Maybe Mum and Janice will like them. In the old days, I would have bought matching ones for Suze and me and we would have thought it was hilarious, but I don’t have the confidence to do that now.

What am I going to do? What can I do?

My feet are taking me round and round the shop and I keep passing the same items, over and over. I have to stop. Come on, Becky, focus. I can’t just keep walking and brooding. I’ll get these things and then see if Mum has had any joy with the gondolas.

The shop is pretty busy and has three checkout lines. As I finally reach the front of the queue, a pretty cashier in a sparkly jacket dimples at me.

“Hi! I hope your shopping experience today was enjoyable!”

“Oh,” I say. “Well…yes. It was great, thank you.”

“If you could grade it for us, we’d really appreciate it,” she says, ringing up my items. She hands me a little card, which reads:

MY SHOPPING EXPERIENCE TODAY WAS:

⎕ Awesome. (We’re so pleased!)

⎕ Only OK. (Uh-oh—any reason why?)

⎕ Terrible. (So sorry to hear that! Please tell us the problem!)

I take the pen from her and stare at the card. I should tick Awesome. There was nothing wrong with the store, and I got what I wanted. I have no complaints. Come on. Awesome.

But somehow…my hand won’t do it. I don’t feel Awesome.

“That’ll be sixty-three ninety-two,” says the girl, and peers at me curiously as I give her the money. “Are you OK?”

“Um…I don’t know.” To my horror, tears are suddenly trembling on my lashes. “I don’t know what to tick. I know I should choose Awesome, but I can’t tick it, I just can’t. I’ve fallen out with my best friend, and that’s all I can think about, and so nothing’s Awesome right now. Not even shopping.” I stare at her miserably. “I’m sorry. I won’t waste your time anymore.”

I hold out my hand for my receipt. But the girl doesn’t give it to me. She’s gazing at me in concern. She’s called Simone, I notice from her name tag.

“Well, are you happy with your purchases?” She opens the carrier bag for me to see them, and I stare at all the stuff, feeling a bit dazed.

“I don’t know,” I say despairingly. “I don’t even know why I’ve bought all this stuff. It’s meant to be presents for people. You know. Souvenirs.”

“OK…”

“But I don’t know what I’ve bought for who, or anything, and I’m only supposed to buy meaningfully. I went on a whole program at Golden Peace.”

“Golden Peace!” Her eyes light up. “I did that program.”

“No way.” I stare at her.

“Online.” She flushes faintly. “I couldn’t afford to visit. But, you know, they have an app, so…I was in big trouble, spending-wise. You can imagine, working here….” Simone gestures around at the shop. “But I kicked my problem.”

“Wow.” I blink at her. “Well, then, you know what I’m talking about.”

“ ‘Buy calmly and with meaning,’ ” she quotes.

“Exactly!” I nod in recognition. “I have that in a frame!”

“ ‘Why are you buying?’ ”

“Yes!”

“Do you need this?”

“Exactly! We had a whole session about that one issue—”

“No.” Simone looks at me directly. “I’m asking you a question. Do you need this? Or are you just trying to soothe yourself?” Simone has taken the snow globe out of my bag and is holding it in front of me. “Do you need it?” she persists.

“Oh,” I say, disconcerted. “I don’t know. Well, I mean, obviously I don’t need it. Nobody needs a snow globe. I thought I’d give it to…I don’t know. Maybe my husband.”

“Great! Will it bring him consistent joy and pleasure?”

I try to picture Luke shaking the snow globe and watching it whirl around. I mean, he might do it once.

“Dunno,” I admit, after a pause. “It might do.”

“It might?” She shakes her head. “It only might? What was your thought process when you put it in your basket?”

I stare at her, caught out. I didn’t have a thought process. I just bunged it in.

“I don’t think I need it.” I bite my lip. “Or even want it, really.”

“So don’t buy it. You want me to refund it?”

“Yes, please,” I whisper gratefully.

“These T-shirts.” Simone pulls them out of the bag. “Who are they for, and will they really suit those people?”

I look at the T-shirts blankly. I hadn’t worked out who was going to wear them. I bought them because I was in a souvenir shop and they were souvenirs.

Simone shakes her head at my expression. “Refund?” she says succinctly.

“Yes, please.” I pull out the dice necklaces. “And these. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ll give them to my mum and her friend and they’ll wear them for five seconds and then they’ll take them off, and they’ll knock around the house and in about three years’ time they’ll go to the charity shop, but no one there will want them either.”

“Oh my God, you’re right,” comes a husky voice behind me, and I turn to see a middle-aged woman pulling about six dice necklaces out of her basket. “I got these for my girlfriends back home. They won’t wear them, will they?”

“Never.” I shake my head.

“I want a refund.” A denim-clad woman at the next register has been listening in, and now she turns back to her cashier, who is a red-haired woman. “I’m sorry. I just bought a heap of crap. I don’t know what I was doing.” She pulls a diamanté Las Vegas baseball cap out of her carrier bag. “My stepdaughter is never going to wear this.”

“Sorry, you want a refund?” The red-haired cashier looks affronted. “Already?”

“She’s doing it.” The denim-clad woman points at me. “She’s returning everything.”

“Not everything,” I say hastily. “I’m just trying to shop calmly and with meaning.”

The red-haired cashier gives me a nasty look. “Well, please don’t.”

“I love that,” the denim-clad woman says emphatically. “ ‘Calmly and with meaning.’ OK, so what else in here don’t I need?” She rootles in her carrier bag and brings out a Las Vegas hip flask. “This. And this.” She produces a dollar-sign beach towel. “This is going back.”

At the far register, I can see a third woman pausing. “Wait a minute,” she says to her cashier. “Maybe I don’t need that flashing Las Vegas sign. Could I get a refund on that?”

“Stop it!” says the red-haired cashier, looking more and more flustered. “No more refunds!”

“You can’t refuse refunds!” objects the denim-clad woman. “I’m returning this too.” She plonks a shiny pink photo album onto the counter. “Who am I kidding? I’ll never put an album together.”

“I don’t want any of this!” The woman in the far line empties her entire carrier bag onto the counter. “I’m only shopping because I’m bored out of my skull.”

“Me too!”

Down the lines, I can see other women listening in and looking in their baskets and taking things out. It’s like some contagious wave of unshopping has hit the crowd.

“What’s going on?” A woman in a trouser suit is striding to the checkouts and addressing the cashiers furiously. “Why is everyone taking stuff out of their baskets?”

“All the customers are returning their items!” says the red-haired cashier. “They’ve gone crazy! That girl started it.” She points to me with a mean look.

“I didn’t mean to start anything!” I say hastily. “I just decided to—you know—think about my purchases. Buy only what I need.”

“Buy only what you need?” The woman in the trouser suit looks as though I’ve uttered something unspeakably profane. “Ma’am, could you please finalize your purchases as quickly as possible and leave the store?”

—

Honestly. You’d think I’d been single-handedly trying to bring down capitalism or something. The manageress in the trouser suit actually hissed at me as she frog-marched me out: “Did you see what happened in Japan? Do you want that happening here? Do you?”

I mean, I felt bad, because it did start getting a bit out of hand. Everyone was taking stuff out of their baskets and dumping it back on the shelves and asking total strangers, “Why are we shopping?” and “Do you need that?”—while all the sales staff were rushing around in a fluster, crying, “Everyone loves a souvenir!” and “This one is half price! Take three!”

Although it’s not my fault, is it? I mean, all I did was point out that no one is ever going to wear a dice necklace.

In the end, the only thing I ended up buying was a little jigsaw puzzle for Minnie. I didn’t feel any great buzz as I bought it, but it was a different sort of satisfaction. As I took my receipt ($7.32), I felt kind of calm. Empowered. I even took the feedback card and ticked Awesome.

But as I walk back along the parade of Shoppes, my mood starts sinking again. I pull out my phone and text Luke:

Where are you?

At once he texts back:

Conference center still. Few more emails to deal with. Where are you?

I heave a sigh of relief at just being in contact with him, and type:

I’m at the Shoppes. Luke, do you think Suze is ever going to be my friend again? I mean, I know things went bad between us in L.A., but I’m doing my best now and she doesn’t even seem to notice and the only person she cares about is Alicia and

Oh. I’ve run out of space. Well, he’ll get the message.

It’s only after I’ve pressed SEND that it strikes me: Maybe it was a mistake to launch into an outburst. Luke isn’t brilliant at responding to endless angsty texts. In fact, I have a sneaking feeling that whenever I send a really long text to him, he doesn’t read it at all. Sure enough, a few moments later my phone beeps with a new text:

You need a distraction, my love. I’ll be done in a while and then I’m taking you to the casino. I’ll text when I’m on my way. Your mother will babysit Minnie, all fixed up. xxx

Wow. Gambling! I feel a thrill of excitement, mixed with trepidation. I’ve never gambled in my life, unless you count the lottery. I mean, we always used to have a family flutter on the Grand National, but that was Dad’s thing and he placed the bets. I’ve never been into a betting shop or even played poker.

On the other hand, I have watched loads of James Bond movies, and I think you can learn quite a lot from them. Like: Stay impassive. Raise your eyebrows while you sip a cocktail. I’m sure I can do all that, it’s just, I’m not sure of the actual rules.

I pause at a coffee outlet and am getting myself a latte when I see a woman nearby, sitting at a bistro table, with a bleached-blond ponytail. She’s in her fifties, I’d say. She’s wearing a black denim jacket decorated with rhinestones and is playing some kind of card game on her phone. On the table in front of her is a massive great cup filled with change for the slot machines, and on her T-shirt is printed ROCKWELL CASINO NIGHT 2008.

She must know about gambling. And she’ll want to help a newcomer, surely? I wait till she pauses in her game, then approach her table.

“Excuse me,” I say politely. “I was wondering, could you give me some gambling advice?”

“Huh?” The woman looks up from her phone and blinks at me. Oh my God, she has dollar signs on her eyelids. How on earth did she do that?

“Er…” I try not to stare too blatantly at her eyes. “I’m a visitor and I’ve never gambled before, and I’m not sure how to do it.”

The woman stares at me as though suspecting a scam.

“You’re in Las Vegas and you’ve never gambled?” she says at last.

“I’ve just arrived,” I explain. “I’m going to a casino later on, only I don’t know which games to play or where to start. I wondered if you could give me any tips?”

“You want tips?” The woman’s eyes are still fixed on me, unblinking. They’re quite bloodshot, I notice. In fact, underneath all the rhinestones and makeup, she doesn’t look in great shape.

“Or maybe you could recommend a book?” I suggest, as the thought strikes me.

The woman ignores the question, as though it’s too stupid to answer, and looks down at the card game again. I don’t know what she’s seen, but it makes her give a sudden, ugly scowl.

“You know what?” she says. “My tip is, don’t do it. Don’t go near it. Save yourself.”

“Oh,” I say, discomfited. “Well, I was only planning on having a quick go at a roulette table or something.”

“That’s what we all said. Are you an addictive type?”

“Um…” I pause, trying to be scrupulously honest with myself. Am I an addictive type? I suppose you could say I am a bit. “I do like shopping,” I confess. “I mean, I’ve shopped too much in the past. I took out too many credit cards and it got a bit out of hand. But I’m much better now.”

The woman gives a short, humorless laugh.

“You think shopping’s bad? Wait till you start gambling, hon. Just the feel of the chips in your hand. The rush. The buzz. It’s like crystal meth. You only need one hit and that’s it. You become a slave. And that’s when your life starts to spiral. That’s when the cops move in.”

I stare back at her, freaked out. She’s actually quite ghoulish, close up. Her face muscles don’t move properly, and I can see where her hair extensions begin. She jabs at her phone and another card game appears on the screen.

“Right!” I say brightly, and start to back away. “Well, thanks for your help, anyway….”

“Crystal meth,” the woman repeats in sinister tones, and locks her bloodshot eyes on mine. “Remember that. Crystal meth.”

“Crystal meth.” I nod. “Absolutely. Bye!”

—

Crystal meth?

Oh God. Should I be going to a casino at all? Is this all a bad, bad idea?

It’s almost an hour later and I’m still feeling unnerved, even though I’ve been on a soothing gondola ride with Mum and Janice and Minnie. Now Mum and Janice have gone off for another “sneaky cocktail,” as Mum put it, while Minnie and I are upstairs in our hotel room. Minnie’s playing “shops” and I’m kind of playing too, only I’m also trying to put on my makeup whilst simultaneously worrying about my potential descent into gambling addiction.

Will I literally get hooked straightaway? Like, on the first spin of the roulette wheel? I have a sudden horrific vision of myself hunched over a casino table, hair askew, eyeing Luke with dazed eyes, muttering, “I’m going to win. I’m going to win,” while he tries to pull me away and Mum sobs quietly in the background. Maybe I shouldn’t even go down there. Maybe it’s too dangerous. Maybe I should just stay here in the room.

“More shops!” Minnie grabs the last remaining crisp packet out of the minibar and puts it proprietorially in front of her. “Shop, Mummy, shop!”

“Right.” I come to and hastily move the crisps away before she can squish them into bits and we have to buy them.

Parenthood is all about learning from experience. And the valuable rule I’ve learned today is: Don’t say “minibar” in front of Minnie. She thought I meant “Minnie bar” and that this was her own special cupboard, full of lovely things for Minnie. And it was impossible to explain. So in the end I let her get everything out, and the carpet is strewn with little bottles and packets. We’ll put them all back later. (If it’s one of those electronic ones, we may be in trouble, but Luke will call the front desk and sort it out. He’s good at that kind of thing.)

I’ve already “bought” a bottle of tonic and a Toblerone from Minnie, and now I’m pointing at an orange juice.

“Please may I have an orange juice?” I say, brushing on mascara at the same time. I put out my hand for the bottle, but Minnie holds on to it firmly.

“You can’t have one,” she says sternly. “Must wait. We don’t have any money.”

I blink at her in surprise. Who’s she copying?

Oh.

Oh God. Actually, I think it’s me.

Which makes me seem like a really mean, horrible mummy, but, honestly, it’s the only way I can deal with her when we’re out shopping.

Minnie’s speech has really come along recently. Which is wonderful, obviously. Every parent wants to hear their child articulate their innermost thoughts. The only teeny issue is, it turns out quite a lot of Minnie’s innermost thoughts are about what she wants.

She doesn’t yell “Miiiiiiine” anymore, which used to be her catchphrase. Instead, she says, “I like it.” We’ll walk around the supermarket and all she keeps saying is, “I like it, I like it, Mummy,” more and more earnestly, as though she’s trying to convert me to some new religion.

It’s not even as though she likes sensible things. She grabs for mops and freezer bags and packets of staples. Last time we went out shopping, she kept telling me, “I like it, pleeeeease,” and I kept nodding and putting the things back on the shelves, out of reach, until she suddenly flipped and yelled, “I want to buuuuuy something!” in such desperate tones that all the nearby customers started laughing. Then she stopped and beamed around, and they all laughed even more.

(I do sometimes wonder if that’s what I was like when I was her age. I must ask Mum.)

(Actually, on second thought, I’m not sure I want to know.)

So my new tactic when we go shopping is to tell Minnie that we don’t have any money. Which she kind of understands. Except then she accosts total strangers and says, “We don’t have any money,” in a sorrowful voice, which can be embarrassing.

Now she’s addressing Speaky, her dolly, in stentorian tones. “Put. It. Back.” She confiscates a packet of peanuts from Speaky and eyes the doll fiercely. “Is. Not. Yours.”

Oh God. Is that what I sound like?

“Talk kindly to Speaky,” I suggest. “Like this.”

I take Speaky and cradle her in my arms, whereupon Minnie grabs her possessively from me. “Speaky is crying,” she tells me. “Speaky need…a sweetie?”

She has a sudden mischievous glint in her eye, and I can’t help wanting to laugh.

“We haven’t got any sweeties,” I tell her, totally straight-faced.

“This is a sweetie?” She picks up the Toblerone uncertainly.

“No, that’s a grown-up boring box,” I tell her. “No sweetie.”

Minnie stares at the Toblerone, and I can see her little brain working hard. She’s never actually eaten a Toblerone, so it was a pretty good guess on her part.

“It’s not a sweetie,” I reiterate matter-of-factly. “We’ll buy a sweetie another day. Now it’s putting-away time.”

I can see Minnie’s conviction wavering. She might think she knows everything, but at the end of the day, she’s only two and a half.

“Thank you!” I take it neatly from her grasp. “Now, can you count the bottles?”

This was a genius move, as Minnie adores counting, even if she always misses out “four.” We’ve managed to get all the bottles back in the minibar and are just moving on to light snacks and refreshments, when the door opens and Mum appears, with Janice in tow. Both are flushed in the face, Janice is wearing a plastic tiara, and Mum is clutching a cup full of coins.

“Hello!” I say. “Did you have a good cocktail?”

“I won over thirty dollars!” Mum says with a kind of grim triumph. “That’ll show your father.”

Mum makes no sense. How will that show Dad anything? But there’s no point questioning her when she’s in this mood.

“Well done!” I say. “Nice tiara, Janice.”

“Oh, it was free,” says Janice breathlessly. “There’s a dancing competition later, you know. They’re promoting it.”

“We’re going to take a breather while you go out with Luke, and then we’re going to hit the town,” says Mum, waving her cup for emphasis. “Do you have any false eyelashes I can put on, love?”

“Well…yes,” I say, a bit surprised. “But I’ve never known you to wear false eyelashes, Mum.”

“What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,” she says, giving me a meaningful look.

What happens in Vegas? OK, does she just mean false eyelashes or something else? I’m wondering how I can ask her tactfully if she’s all right or actually going off the rails, when my phone bleeps with a text.

“It’s Danny!” I say, feeling a lift of delight. “He’s here! He’s downstairs.”

“Well, if you’re ready, why don’t you go down and see him, love?” says Mum. “We’ll give Minnie her bath and put her to bed. Won’t we, Janice?”

“Of course!” says Janice. “Dear little Minnie is never any trouble.”

“Are you sure?” I wrinkle my brow. “Because I can easily do it—”

“Don’t be silly, Becky!” says Mum. “I don’t see enough of my grandchild these days. Now, Minnie, come and sit on Grana’s knee.” She holds out her arms for Minnie to run into. “We’ll have a nice story and play some games and…I know!” She beams. “Let’s have a lovely yummy Toblerone!”