Shopaholic to the Rescue

SEVEN

I find Danny at a corner table in Bouchon, which is a posh, linen-tablecloths kind of restaurant. He’s deeply tanned (it’s got to be fake), he’s wearing a baby-blue biker jacket, and he’s sitting with a very blond, very pale girl with no makeup except deep-purple lipstick.

“Danny!” I hurry over and throw my arms around his skinny frame. “Oh my God! You’re alive!”

I haven’t seen Danny since he tried to cross the Greenland ice sheet for charity; he had to be airlifted out because he grazed his toe, or something, and go for a recuperative holiday in Miami.

“Only just,” says Danny. “It was touch and go.”

It was so not touch and go. I’ve spoken to his business manager: I know the truth. Only he said not to contradict Danny, because Danny thinks he nearly died.

“Poor you,” I say. “It must have been terrifying! All that snow and…er…wolves?”

“It was a nightmare!” says Danny fervently. “You know, Becky, I’ve left you a bunch of stuff in my will, and you were this close to getting it.”

“Really?” I can’t help feeling interested. “You’ve left me stuff? Like what?”

“Some clothes,” says Danny vaguely. “My Eames chair. A forest.”

“A forest?” I gape at him.

“I bought this forest in Montana. You know, for taxes? And I figured Minnie could go play in it or whatever—” He breaks off. “This is Ulla, by the way.”

“Hi, Ulla!” I wave a cheery hand, but Ulla just blinks nervously, mutters, “Hi,” and returns to work. She’s sketching something in a large artist’s pad, and as I glance over, I see it’s a close-up of the flower arrangement on the table.

“I just hired Ulla as my ‘inspiration finder,’ ” says Danny grandly. “She’s already filled that pad.” He gestures at it. “My whole new collection will be Las Vegas–inspired.”

“I thought it was going to be Inuit-inspired?” I object.

Last time I was in contact with Danny, he was talking about raw bone and Inuit crafts and the infinite expanse of whiteness, which he planned to represent in a pair of oversize men’s culottes.

“Inuit meets Las Vegas,” says Danny, without missing a beat. “So, did you gamble yet?”

“I don’t dare.” I shudder. “This woman has just told me gambling is like crystal meth and if I dip my toe in, I’ll get sucked in forever.”

I’m hoping he’ll say, That’s bullshit, but Danny nods gravely.

“It could happen. My school friend Tania never recovered from one night of online poker. It took hold of her and she was never the same person again. It was a pretty tragic story.”

“Where is she now?” I say fearfully. “Is she…dead?”

“Pretty much.” He nods. “Alaska.”

“Alaska’s not dead!” I say indignantly.

“She went to work on an oil rig.” Danny takes a swig of wine. “She’s very successful, actually. I think she runs the whole thing. But before that, she was a gambling addict.”

“So it’s not a tragic story at all,” I say crossly. “She ended up being boss of an oil rig.”

“Do you have any idea what it’s like, being boss of an oil rig?” counters Danny. “Have you seen those places?”

I always forget how exasperating Danny is.

“Anyway,” I say, a little sternly. “None of this is the point. The point is—”

“I know what the point is!” Danny cuts me off, sounding triumphant. “I’m, like, ten steps ahead of you. I have fliers, I have leaflets, I have pens, I have T-shirts….”

“T-shirts?” I peer at him.

Danny takes off his biker jacket to reveal a T-shirt printed with an image of Tarquin. It’s a black-and-white picture taken from a fashion shoot which Tarkie did a while ago, and it shows him naked from the waist up, with rope twined round his torso, his eyes staring soulfully into the camera. It’s an amazing shot, but I recoil in dismay. Suze hates that picture. She thinks it makes Tarquin look like some gay supermodel. (Which, to be fair, it does.) She will not be happy to see it reproduced on a T-shirt.

At the bottom is printed FIND ME and Suze’s mobile number.

“I have a whole bunch,” says Danny proudly. “Kasey and Josh are handing out the fliers, all round Caesars Palace.”

“Kasey and Josh?”

“My assistants. See, what we do is, we get his face out there. First rule of finding a missing person. My PR people are trying the news channels; I have someone talking to the milk-carton guys—”

“Wait a sec.” The truth suddenly dawns on me. “They’re handing out pictures of Tarquin right now?”

“They’re going to cover the whole city,” boasts Danny. “We printed ten thousand.”

“But we’ve found him!”

“What?” Danny actually jolts in shock.

“Well, kind of,” I amend. “I mean, we’ve spoken to him. We’re having breakfast at the Bellagio in the morning.”

“The Bellagio?” Danny looks utterly affronted. “Are you serious? I thought he’d been kidnapped. I thought he was being brainwashed.”

“Well, Suze still does. At least, she can’t relax until she actually sees him….Anyway, show me the fliers,” I add hastily. “You’re amazing, Danny. Absolutely brilliant. Suze will be so grateful.”

“I produced three varieties,” says Danny, mollified. “Ulla, the fliers?”

Ulla hastily reaches into her big leather bag and pulls out three leaflets, which she passes over the table. Each has a different, stunning black-and-white picture of Tarkie looking like a moody gay-porn star—all from the same fashion shoot. One reads FIND ME, like the T-shirt, one reads WHERE AM I?, and the third reads I AM LOST, and they all have Suze’s mobile number.

“Cool, huh?”

“Er…” I clear my throat. “Yes! Wonderful!”

I cannot let Suze see these.

“I don’t think Kasey and Josh need to hand out all the fliers,” I say carefully. “Maybe not all ten thousand.”

“But what will I do with the rest?” Danny looks perturbed for a moment—then his brow clears. “I know. An installation! Maybe my next collection will be based on this experience!” His face brightens. “Yes! Entrapment. Kidnap. Bondage. Very dark, you know? Very noir. Models in shackles. Ulla!” he exclaims. “Write down: Bonds, chains, sacking, leather. Hot pants,” he adds after a moment’s thought.

“I thought your next collection was going to be Inuit meets Las Vegas?”

“OK, then, the one after that,” he says easily. “So where’s Suze?”

“Oh.” My mood instantly falls. “She’s with Alicia. Remember Alicia Bitch Long-legs? Well, she married this guy called Wilton Merrelle, and—”

“Becky, I know who Alicia Merrelle is,” Danny cuts me off. “She’s a pretty big deal. Her house is, like, all over Architectural Digest.”

“You don’t have to remind me,” I say dolefully. “Oh, Danny, it’s awful. She’s taken Suze away from me. The two of them spend the whole time together. Suze has totally lost her sense of humor, and it’s all because of Alicia—” I break off and rub my nose. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Well.” Danny thinks a moment, then shrugs philosophically. “People move on. Friendships end. If you love Suze, maybe you need to let her go.”

“Let her go?” I gaze at him, stricken. He wasn’t supposed to say that.

“People change, life changes….It’s the way of the world. Maybe it’s meant to be.”

I stare down at the tablecloth, my head a miserable whirl. It can’t be meant to be that I lose Suze to Alicia Bitch Long-legs. It can’t be.

“So how is she these days, Alicia?” says Danny. “Still the sweet thing she always was? Still trying to wreck people’s marriages?”

I feel a wash of relief. At least Danny knows what Alicia’s really like.

“She pretends to be a reformed character,” I say darkly. “But I don’t trust her. She’s up to something.”

“No way.” Danny perks up. “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “But she has to be. She always is. Keep your eye on her.”

“Got it.” He nods.

“Not that you’ll see her tonight.” I hunch my shoulders gloomily. “Here we are in Las Vegas. I’ve spoken to Tarquin and Dad and we know they’re safe. We should be celebrating. But Alicia and Suze are refusing to have any fun. They’re going to have an early night. Can you believe it?”

“Well, I’ll have fun.” Danny reaches over and clasps my hand with his warm, dry fingers. “Don’t look blue, Becky. What shall we do? Hit the casino?”

“I’m meeting Luke there in a little while,” I tell him. “Although I’m a bit…you know. Freaked out.”

“Why?”

Honestly, wasn’t he listening?

“Because!” I make agitated gestures with my hands. “Crystal meth!”

“You’re not taking that seriously?” Danny laughs. “Becky, gambling is fun.”

“You don’t understand! I’m the type of personality to get hooked! My whole life might spiral away in a toxic mix of addiction and dependence! You’ll try to help me, but you won’t be able to!”

I’ve seen true-life movies about drug addiction. I know how it goes. One minute you’re saying, I’ll just have one puff, and the next minute you’re in court with unwashed hair, fighting for custody of your children.

“Relax.” Danny gestures for the bill. “Let’s go and hit the tables. If you start to look anything like an addict, I’ll drag you away. Promise.”

“Even if I swear and spit at you and say I don’t care about my friends and family anymore?” I say fearfully.

“Especially then. C’mon, let’s go see if we can lose all Luke’s money. Joke!” he adds at my expression. “Joke.”

—

It only takes a few minutes to reach the casino, and as we enter, I take a deep breath. So this is it. Las Vegas proper. The beating heart of the city. I look around, almost dazzled by the neon and patterned carpet and shiny outfits. Everyone seems to be gleaming in some way or other, even if it’s just their diamond-encrusted watch glinting in the lights.

“Did you get any chips yet?” asks Danny, and I reach for my complimentary chips. Luke gave me his too, so I’ve got loads.

“I’ve got fifty dollars’ worth,” I say, totting them up.

“Fifty?” Danny stares at me. “You can barely get a bet on a table for that. You need three hundred, at least.”

“I’m not spending three hundred!” I say in horror. God, gambling’s expensive. I mean, you could get a really nice skirt for three hundred dollars.

“Well, I bought five hundred’s worth earlier,” says Danny, his eyes gleaming. “So I want to get going.”

“Five hundred?” I gape at him.

“I’ll make ten times that much, you wait and see. I’m feeling lucky tonight.” He blows on his hands. “Lucky fingers.” His glee is infectious, and as we turn to survey the room, chips in our hands, I can’t help feeling thrilled. And terrified. Both.

I’ve never been anywhere like this. Even the air is infected with gambling. You can practically sense it in people’s breath as you walk past the tables, a kind of heightened, tense feeling, like when you’re in the queue outside a sample sale. All around I can hear roars and exclamations from tables as customers win or lose, mixed with the clicking of chips and the clinking of cocktail glasses on trays held by skimpily dressed waitresses. And all the time, the continual background bleeping of the machines.

“What shall we play?” I demand. “Roulette?”

“Blackjack,” says Danny firmly, and ushers me toward a big table.

It all looks so grown-up and serious and real. As we slide into a pair of empty seats at the table, no one even looks up to say hello. It’s a bit like sitting at a bar, except the bar is covered in fabric, and instead of handing out drinks, the croupier is dealing out cards. There are two elderly men at the table and a girl in a tuxedo and a sparkly trilby, who looks very bad-tempered.

“I don’t know how to play!” I whisper in a panic to Danny.

At least…I sort of know how to play. It’s the same as twist, isn’t it? I play twist with Mum and Dad every year at Christmas. But are there special rules in Las Vegas?

“Easy,” Danny says. “Put down some chips. Twenty dollars.” He takes the chips from my hand and places them firmly in a circle on the table. The croupier is a Japanese-looking girl and she barely acknowledges my chips, just waits till everyone has bet, then deals out the cards.

I’ve got a six of hearts and a six of spades.

“Twist,” I say loudly, and everyone stares at me.

“You don’t say ‘Twist,’ ” says Danny, glancing at my cards. “You want to split.”

I don’t know what that is, but I’ll trust Danny.

“OK,” I say boldly. “Split.”

“Don’t say ‘Split,’ ” mutters Danny. “Put your extra chips here”—he points at the table—“and make a ‘V’ with your fingers.”

“OK.” I follow his guidance, feeling suddenly very cool and professional. The dealer separates my two cards and deals again.

“Oh, I see!” I exclaim as she gives me an eight of clubs and a ten of hearts. “I have two piles now! I’m bound to win!”

I look around the table, watching as everyone plays. This is actually quite fun.

“Becky, you’re up,” murmurs Danny. “Everyone’s waiting.”

“Oh, right.” I peer at my cards. One pile totals fourteen and the other totals sixteen. What should I do? Twist or stick? Er…My mind flips backward and forward, undecided.

“Becky?”

“Yes, give me a second….” God, this game is hard. I mean, it’s really hard. How do I decide? I close my eyes and try to channel the betting gods. But they’re clearly on a tea break.

“Becky?” prompts Danny again.

Everyone at the table is frowning at me. Honestly. Don’t they realize how difficult this is?

“Ummm.” I massage my brow. “I’m not sure. I just need to think….”

“Ma’am?” Now the croupier is looking impatient. “Ma’am, you need to play.”

Argh. Gambling is so stressy! It’s like trying to decide whether to buy a marked-down coat in the Selfridges sale, when there might be a better one at Liberty, but if you leave this one, it might get snapped up by someone else….

“What shall I do?” I appeal around the table. “How do you all stay so calm?”

“Ma’am, it’s gambling. You just make a choice.”

“OK, twist,” I say at last. “Hit. Whatever. On both of them. Ooh, shall I double down?” I turn to Danny. I don’t know what double down is, but I’ve heard it in films, so it must be a thing.

“No,” he says firmly.

The croupier deals a nine and a ten, finishes the round, and scoops my chips toward her.

“What?” I say in bewilderment. “What just happened?”

“You went bust,” says Danny.

“But…is that it? Doesn’t she even say anything?”

“No. She just takes your money. And mine too. Bummer.”

I stare at the silent croupier, feeling a bit affronted. There should be more ceremony to gambling, I decide. Like when you buy something expensive and they hand it to you in a nice bag and say, Good choice!

In fact, I reckon shops beat casinos full stop. You spend the same amount of money, but in shops you get stuff. I mean, look, I’ve sat on a stool for about five seconds and I’ve spent forty dollars, and I’ve got nothing.

“I’ll have a pause,” I say, sliding down off my stool. “Let’s get a drink.” I check my phone and see a new text. Luke’s on his way.

“Sure,” agrees Danny. “So, are you addicted to gambling yet, Becky?”

“I don’t think so,” I say, prodding my feelings. “Maybe I’m not a natural gambler after all.”

“You lost,” says Danny wisely. “Wait till you start to win. That’s when you can’t stop. Oh, hey, Luke.”

I look up to see Luke striding toward us through the casino, his dark hair glossy under the lights and a confident set to his chin.

“Danny!” He claps Danny on the back. “Have you thawed out yet?”

“Don’t joke.” Danny shudders. “It’s still too raw to talk about.”

Luke meets my eye, and I shoot him a tiny grin. The thing about Danny is he takes himself very seriously. But he’s so sweet, you just kind of go with it.

“So, Becky, have you made our fortune yet?” asks Luke.

“No, I’ve lost,” I say. “I think gambling’s rubbish.”

“You haven’t gotten started yet!” says Danny. “Let’s hit another table.”

“Maybe,” I say, but don’t move. I’m still not convinced by this whole gambling lark. If you lose, then that’s crap, obviously. And if you win, then that’s great, but you might get addicted.

“Don’t you want to, Becky?” Luke looks at me curiously.

“Kind of. Except…what if I do start winning and get hooked?”

“You’ll be fine,” says Luke reassuringly. “Just decide on a strategy before you begin and stick to it.”

“What kind of strategy?”

“Like: I’ll gamble for this long, then stop. I’ll spend this much, then walk away. Or simply ‘quit while you’re ahead.’ What you should never do is throw good money after bad. If you lose, you lose. Don’t try to bet yourself back into winning.”

I’m silent for a moment, processing all this. “Right. OK.” I look up at last. “I have a strategy.”

“Great! So what do you want to play?”

“Not blackjack,” I say firmly. “It’s a stupid game. Let’s play roulette.”

We head to an empty roulette table and sit down on the high chairs. The croupier, a bald guy in his thirties, at once says, “Good evening, and welcome to my table!” with a twinkly smile, and I already like him better than that last croupier. She was a total misery. No wonder I lost.

“Hi!” I smile back and put a single chip on red, while Luke and Danny opt for black. I watch, mesmerized, as the roulette wheel spins round. Come on, red…come on, red….

The ball clatters into a pocket, and I blink at it in astonishment. I won! I actually won!

“That’s my first ever win in Las Vegas!” I tell the croupier, who laughs.

“Maybe you’re on a lucky streak.”

“Maybe!” I put my chips on red again and focus on the table. It’s quite a sight, the spinning wheel. It’s almost hypnotic. We’re all staring at it, unable to draw our eyes away, until it finally slows and the ball falls into a pocket….

Yes! I won again!

—

OK. Roulette is the most excellent game in the world. I don’t know why we ever wasted our time on that stupid blackjack. It’s half an hour later and I’ve won so many times, I feel like the gambling goddess. Luke and Danny have both kept just about even, but I’ve accumulated a massive great pile of chips, and I’m still going strong.

“I’m brilliant at this game!” I can’t help gloating as I win yet another stack of chips. I take a swig of margarita and survey the table, pondering my next move.

“You’re lucky,” Luke corrects me.

“Luck…talent…same thing…”

I take all my chips, concentrate for a moment, then put them on black. Luke slides some chips onto odd and we all watch, rapt, as the wheel spins round.

“Black!” I whoop as the ball clatters onto ten. “I won again!”

Next I put my chips on black and then red, then red again. And somehow I keep on winning! A group of guys on a stag night come over, and the croupier tells them I’m on a winning streak, and they all start chanting, “Beck-ee! Beck-ee!” every time I win. I can’t believe I’m doing so well. I’m charmed!

And you know what? Danny was right. Gambling is totally different when you’re winning. I’m in the zone. The rest of life has disappeared. All I can see is the roulette wheel, blurring as it spins around and then settling down…and I’ve won again.

One of the stag guys, called Mike, taps me on the shoulder. “What’s your method?”

“I don’t know,” I say modestly. “I just concentrate, you know. I kind of channel the color.”

“You a regular?” asks someone else.

“I’ve never gambled before in my life,” I say, heady with the attention. “But maybe I should!”

“You should, like, move to Las Vegas.”

“I know!” I turn to Luke. “We should totally move here!”

I pick up all my chips, hesitate a moment, then plonk them all on number seven.

“Really?” says Luke, raising his eyebrows.

“Really,” I say, and take another swig of margarita. “Let’s just say I feel a vibe about it. Number seven.” I address the whole group. “That’s my number. Seven.”

A couple of the stag guys begin to chant, “Se-ven, se-ven!” Some of them quickly put their chips on seven too. As the wheel spins, we’re all gazing at it like possessed people.

“Seven!” The table erupts as the ball clatters into the seven slot. I won! Even the croupier leans over to high-five me.

“The girl’s on fire!” exclaims Mike.

“Which number next, Becky?” demands another of the stag guys.

“Tell us, Becky!”

“Becky!”

“What do we bet, Becky?”

Everyone’s waiting for me to bet again. But I’m not looking at the wheel anymore. I’m looking at my chips and doing a quick sum. Two hundred…four hundred…plus another…Yes! I can’t resist a tiny fist pump.

“What?” demands one of the stag guys eagerly. “What you got for us, Becky?”

I turn to the croupier with a triumphant smile. “I’m cashing in, please.”

“Cashing in?” Mike’s jaw drops. “What?”

“I’ve done enough gambling.”

“No, no, no!” Mike is practically gibbering in dismay. “You’re on a roll. You play! Play on!”

“But I’ve made eight hundred dollars,” I tell him.

“That’s great! Keep going, girl! Put your chips down!”

“No, you don’t understand,” I say patiently. “Eight hundred dollars gets me this gorgeous jacket for Luke.”

“What jacket?” Luke looks puzzled.

“I saw it in Armani, when I was going round the Shoppes. It’s gray cashmere. Let’s go and look at it.” I squeeze his arm. “It’ll so suit you.”

“A jacket?” Mike looks uncomprehending. “Honey, are you insane? You’ve got the magic touch! You can’t leave the table now!”

“Yes, I can. That was my strategy.”

“Your strategy?”

“Luke said, have a strategy. So I decided my strategy was: Win enough money to buy the Armani jacket. And I have.” I beam triumphantly. “So I’m stopping.”

“But…but…” Mike seems almost speechless. “You can’t stop! You’re on a winning streak.”

“But I might not win anymore,” I point out. “I might lose.”

“You won’t lose! She’s winning, right?” He looks around at his friends for support.

“Becky for the win!” chimes in one of them.

“But I might start losing,” I explain carefully. “And then I won’t be able to afford the jacket.”

Don’t they understand anything?

“Becky, don’t go.” Mike drunkenly puts an arm round my shoulders. “We’re having a blast, aren’t we?”

“Oh, it’s been fab,” I say at once. “You’ve been great company. And I do enjoy gambling, kind of…but I’ll enjoy buying Luke this jacket more. Sorry,” I add politely to the croupier. “I don’t mean to be rude. You’ve got a lovely roulette table.” I hear Luke give a sudden snort of laughter. “What?” I demand. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing, my love,” he says, picking up my hand and kissing it. “Except I wouldn’t worry about your descent into gambling-addiction hell just yet.”

—

The jacket looks amazing on Luke. I knew it would. It’s very close cut and slimming and brings out the chocolaty highlights in his hair. I can see all the assistants watching in admiration as he comes out of the changing room and looks at himself in the big mirror. I’m only sorry Danny isn’t here to admire him too, but he’s still gambling with the stag night guys.

“Perfect!” I say. “I knew it would suit you!”

“Well, thank you,” Luke says, beaming at his reflection. “I’m very touched.”

I take out my winnings and carefully count out the cash, as an assistant packages up the jacket in a lovely square box.

“And now,” says Luke, as we head out of the shop, “let me reciprocate, in the tiniest way. I meant to give you this earlier.” He hands me a printed-out email. “One of the teams in the London office is advising Mac, so they’ve offered all the staff a ninety percent discount voucher. For one glorious moment I thought she meant Apple Mac….” He gives a comical sigh. “But of course it’s makeup. So you can have mine.”

“Right. Thanks.” I skim the offer. “Wow. Ninety percent!”

“Where would they stock it?” He looks around. “Barneys? Shall we head there?”

“Actually…don’t worry,” I say after a pause. “Let’s not bother. It’ll be really boring for you.”

“You don’t want to go?” Luke seems surprised.

I’m studying the document, trying to work out my own reaction. The thought of choosing makeup for myself—even if it’s reduced—is giving me this weird, twisting feeling in my stomach.

Oh God, I don’t know what’s going on with me right now. I loved buying that jacket for Luke. And I loved buying the little jigsaw for Minnie. But somehow I can’t go and buy makeup for myself. It’s not…I feel so strange…I don’t…

I don’t deserve it. The miserable thought flashes through my head, making me wince.

“No, thanks.” I force a cheery smile. “Let’s go up and relieve Mum and Janice from babysitting duty.”

“You don’t want to walk around anymore? Look at the lights?”

“No, thanks.”

All my elation from earlier has melted away. The moment that Luke suggested treating me, it’s as though a voice popped up inside my head to berate me. But it’s not the nice, even-tempered, Golden Peace voice telling me to “buy with meaning” and “do everything in moderation.” It’s a harsher voice, telling me I don’t deserve anything at all.

We walk together away from the Shoppes, toward the elevators, letting the clamor of people and music wash over us. Luke keeps darting me thoughtful little glances, and at last he says, “Becky, sweetheart, I think you need your mojo back.”

“What mojo?” I say defensively. “I haven’t lost any mojo.”

“I think you have. What’s up, darling?” He swivels me round and puts his hands on my shoulders.

“Well…you know.” There’s a lump in my throat. “Everything. It’s all my fault, this trip. I should have gone to see Brent sooner. I should have listened to Dad more. No wonder Suze—”

I break off, my eyes hot, and Luke sighs.

“Suze will come round.”

“But I was talking to Danny about it, and he said friendships end, and I should let Suze go.”

“No.” Luke shakes his head firmly. “No, no. He’s wrong. Some friendships end. You and Suze are not going to end.”

“I think we already have ended,” I say miserably.

“Don’t give up! Becky, you’ve never been one to give up! OK, you’ve been in a bad place and Suze has been in a bad place…but I know the pair of you and I know you’re in it for the long haul. You’ll be grandmothers together, exchanging tips on knitting baby booties. I can see you now.”

“Really?” I say with a flicker of optimism. “Do you think so?”

I can actually picture us as old ladies. Suze will have long white hair and an elegant walking stick and still be stunningly beautiful, just with a few lines. And I won’t be beautiful but I’ll wear great accessories. People will call me the Old Lady in the Fabulous Necklace.

“Don’t give up on Suze,” Luke is saying. “You need her. And she needs you, even if she doesn’t realize it right now.”

“But all she can see is Alicia,” I say hopelessly.

“Yes, and one day she’ll focus properly and see exactly who and what Alicia is,” says Luke drily as he jabs the elevator button. “Meanwhile, remember you are still her friend. She asked you to come on this trip. Don’t let Alicia psych you out.”

“OK,” I say in a small voice.

“I mean it, Becky,” Luke insists, almost fiercely. “Are you going to let Alicia walk all over you? Fight for your friendship. Because it’s worth it.”

He sounds so forceful, I can feel a tiny smidgen of positivity returning.

“OK,” I say at last. “OK. I’ll do it.”

“Attagirl.”

By now we’ve reached our hotel room. Luke takes out the key, swipes it, and pushes open the door—and I freeze dead in shock. Wh—

Whaaat?

“Good evening, Rebecca, Luke,” comes a familiar icy voice.

—

OK, am I dreaming? Or did I have too many margaritas? This can’t be true.

But I think it is. Elinor, my mother-in-law, is sitting bolt upright on a pouf in a DVF wrap dress, gazing at me with that gimlet stare she has.

“Mother!” Luke sounds equally shocked. “What are you doing here?”

I feel an inward wince as I glance up at his face. The relationship between Luke and his mother has never been straightforward, but recently it’s plummeted to a new low. Two days ago, in L.A., I staged the least successful mother-son reconciliation ever. Luke stalked out. Elinor stalked out. My dreams of being a Kofi-Annan–style conflict-resolver kind of disintegrated. I know Luke’s been feeling raw ever since. And now, with no warning, here she is.

“Elinor came to my rescue!” says Mum dramatically, from where she’s sitting on the sofa with Janice. “I had no one else to turn to, so I rang her up!”

No one else to turn to? What’s she talking about? She’s got a whole RV full of people.

“Mum,” I say cautiously. “That’s not true. You’ve got me, Suze, Luke—”

“I needed someone influential!” Mum waves her wineglass at me. “Since Luke refused to use his contacts…”

“Jane,” says Luke. “I’m not sure what you expected me to do—”

“I expected you to pull out all the stops! Elinor couldn’t have been more helpful. She understands. Don’t you, Elinor?”

“But we’ve found Dad!” I expostulate. “We’ve tracked him down!”

“Well, I didn’t know that when I rang Elinor, did I?” says Mum, unabashed. “She came rushing here to help. But, then, she’s a true friend.”

This is insane. Mum barely knows Elinor. It’s not as though we’re one of those big happy families that blend together and have one another on speed-dial. As far as I know, our basic family arrangement, to date, is as follows:

Elinor looks down on Mum and Dad (too suburban).

Mum resents Elinor (too snooty).

Dad quite likes Elinor but thinks she’s a stiff old stick (fair point).

Luke and Elinor are barely talking.

Minnie loves everyone, especially “Grana” (Mum) and “Lady” (Elinor). But she’s asleep in bed, so she’s not much help.

So. Nowhere in this scenario is Mum and Elinor are best friends. In fact, I didn’t even know Mum had Elinor’s number. As I glance at Luke, I see a darkening frown on his face.

“What are you expecting my mother to do?” he says flatly.

“We’re going out now, to discuss the situation,” says Mum. “She’s never been to Las Vegas before and neither have we, so we’re going to have a ladies’ night out.”

“Girl power!” chimes in Janice eagerly.

“You look nice, Elinor.” I can’t help adding my bit. “Lovely dress.”

It was me who suggested that Elinor wear a wrap dress instead of her endless stiff suits. And, look, she’s taken my advice again! She’s in a black-and-white print dress, which fits her perfectly—I think she must have had this one altered—and makes her look so much more feminine. Next I’m going to suggest layering her hair. (One thing at a time, though.)

I can tell Luke is pissed off with Mum, although he’s trying to hide it.

“Mother,” he says. “Please don’t feel you have to be dragged into this. It was inappropriate of Jane to call you.”

“Inappropriate?” retorts Mum. “Elinor’s family, aren’t you, Elinor?”

“She’s been in ill health recently,” says Luke. “The last thing she needs is to be drawn into some family drama. Mother…” He turns to Elinor. “If you haven’t already eaten, I suggest the two of us go out for a late dinner. Becky, you don’t mind, do you?”

“No,” I say hurriedly. “Not at all. You go.”

“Because the truth is…” Luke sounds awkward as he addresses Elinor. “Well, the fact is, I didn’t behave well the other night. And I’d like to make it up to you. I think we need an opportunity to build bridges….” Luke pauses, rubbing his neck, and I know he’s finding this hard, especially in front of everyone. “And I have some apologizing to do. Please let me start with dinner.”

“I appreciate your words, Luke,” says Elinor after a stiff little pause. “Thank you. I think, if you are willing, that we could…” She seems just as awkward as Luke. “We could…draw a line under the past and begin again?”

I catch my breath and glance at Luke. I can’t quite believe I’m hearing the words “draw a line” and “begin again.” They’re making up! Finally! Hopefully they’ll have a lovely long bonding dinner and talk it through and everything will be different from now on.

“Wonderful!” Luke’s face breaks into a relieved smile. “I can’t think of anything I’d like better. Why don’t I book us a table, we’ll have dinner, maybe talk about that holiday in the Hamptons we were planning—”

“I haven’t finished,” Elinor interrupts. “I appreciate your words, Luke, and I would like to put our past difficulties behind us. But I have decided that tonight…” She pauses. “I will go out with Jane and Janice.”

My jaw actually drops. Elinor and Mum? Out together? In Las Vegas?

“That’s right.” Mum pats Elinor’s shoulder. “You come and have fun with us.”

“Girl power!” exclaims Janice again. Her cheeks are pink, and I wonder how many mini-bottles of wine she’s had.

“You want to go out with them? Not me?” asks Luke, as though he can’t believe it.

To be fair, it is quite unbelievable. When Elinor first met my family, she was so snobby, she behaved as though all the Bloomwoods had some sort of plague.

“Jane has some photographs of Minnie she has promised to show me,” says Elinor. “I should like to see her babyhood. I missed so much of it.”

Her eyes flicker as though with some distant emotion, and I feel an uncomfortable twinge. Poor Elinor has been on the outskirts of this family for too long.

“Quite right, Elinor! You have a look through my iPhone and I’ll send you any piccies you like,” says Mum, pulling on her jacket and standing up. “You could make a collage for your kitchen. Or…I know! You like jigsaws, don’t you? Well, then, have a jigsaw made of a picture of Minnie! They’ll do it at Snappy Snaps.”

“A jigsaw?” Elinor frowns thoughtfully. “A jigsaw of Minnie’s likeness. What a good idea.”

“Oh, I’m full of good ideas.” Mum starts bustling her to the door. “Come on! Ready, Janice? Elinor, have you ever gambled before?”

“I play baccarat in Monte Carlo from time to time,” says Elinor stiffly. “With the de Broisiers. An old Monaco family.”

“Good! Then you can show us how it’s done. I need to let off some steam, Elinor, I don’t mind telling you. Bye, Becky love. I’ll see you at the Bellagio tomorrow morning, nine sharp. Your father had better be ready for some home truths. Now, Elinor, do you enjoy a cocktail?”

As the door closes, Mum is still talking. And Luke and I just gape at each other.