The Accidental Honeymoon

Chapter Three

I glance at the $1,000’s worth of chips, fascinated that such little, unremarkable pieces of plastic could be worth so much money. They’re so gold I can see my reflection in them, and every time I look at them and catch sight of myself, it reminds me how different my hair looks now.

After what felt like a lifetime in the chair, I am now the proud wearer of very long, very blonde hair, or ‘Playboy Bunny hair’ as the lady from New York described it. With my light, bright, fresh peroxide colour, the long length curled at the ends, combined with my hastily bought midlife quarterlife thirdlife-crisis outfit (I am nearly thirty after all) – I can see what she means. From the new clothes, to the hair extensions, to all the new make-up I bought from the hotel shop, I look nothing like myself right now, and that’s fine by me.

Casinos are bizarre places, really. The room is split into sections, one end littered with green felt tables and the other home to rows and rows of brightly flashing, very noisy slot machines. It’s such a nice, sparkly, glamorous place at a quick glance. I’ve noticed a few people on winning streaks and, as miserable as I am, it cheers me up to watch people winning. A bit of good luck and they come alive, jumping up and down, victory dancing, grabbing their nearest and dearest (or just the nearest random person sometimes) in celebration. But when you stop and look, you can see the darker side to these places, those with anguished looks on their faces and just a few chips on the table in front of them. As their luck runs thin, so does their money. Just one good hand will turn things around for them, but sometimes it simply doesn’t come. It’s kind of depressing to watch and makes you wonder how much they’ve lost and what it will mean for them in the real world, after they leave the flashing lights and the free booze of timeless Las Vegas.

Without windows or clocks, it’s impossible to tell what time of day it is, or how long you’ve spent here without keeping an eye on your own watch. I can understand why people spend so much time here.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here, but I’ve been hovering by this Blackjack table for a while now – the only card game here I actually know how to play. John was going to bring me here tonight, teach me how to gamble, have me as his lucky charm, blowing on his dice like you see in the movies.

I watch as a forty-something, dark-haired man runs a hand through his hair as he waits with bated breath for the dealer to reveal his hand.

‘Blackjack,’ the dealer announces casually as he turns over his other card to reveal an ace. With the king the dealer was already showing, this hand is lethal and, with no chips left, the dark-haired man skulks off.

The dealer takes no joy from winning, effortlessly moving everything back into its place on the table, ready for the next player. The dealer looks over at me and raises his eyebrows, silently asking if I’m planning on playing. If I don’t do it now, I never will, so I climb onto the stool as gracefully as possible in my short dress and place my chips on the table.

‘Place your bets, please,’ the dealer says robotically.

I glance down at my golden chips, and take one final, long, hard look at myself in them. When the porter handed them to me, there was a little note with them saying they were complimentary chips and therefore could only be played, and not simply cashed out, otherwise I’d be spending this $1,000 on room service right about now.

From what I’ve observed, Blackjack is an amalgam of luck and skill. Luck comes from being dealt the right cards, but you need some skill to know what to do with them. But what if you left it entirely down to fate?

Confidently, I bet my entire $1,000. It was only yesterday I caught John cheating on me, and I’ve no idea what I’m supposed to do. On the one hand, if he could hurt me, betray me and completely obliterate my trust like he has, then how can I be with him? On the other hand, we were engaged, we lived together and we loved each other… is that really something I should just throw away in an instant?

The dealer places my cards down in front of me, giving me an ace and a four.

I stare at my cards a moment too long.

‘That’s five or fifteen,’ he tells me, suspecting I can’t count. ‘Aces are one or eleven.’

He loves me, he loves me not.

‘Thank you,’ I reply, although I knew that. ‘Hit me please.’

If the next card is a winner, he loves me.

‘Queen – so that’s fifteen,’ the dealer tells me.

‘Hit.’ He loves me not.

‘A five – that’s twenty.’

The dealer is showing a queen, so if he gets another ten or an ace then I’ll lose… or, I could see if luck is on my side, hit one more time, and if by some miracle I get my five-card trick, then John loves me, this was all a big mistake, and everything will go back to the way it was.

‘Hit,’ I tell him.

The dealer goes to turn his card before stopping himself just in time.

‘I’m sorry, miss. Did you say hit?’

I nod.

‘Miss, you have twenty.’

‘Hit,’ I repeat.

He looks at me for a moment, puzzled. I think he’s trying to work out if I know what I’m doing or not.

‘Seriously,’ I add.

He shrugs his shoulders and does as I wish.

‘King – thirty – bust,’ he says, sighing deeply in an I-told-you-so kind of way. Of course it turns out to be the king of hearts delivering this final blow to my love life. I don’t know what I thought I was going to achieve with this silly game.

So that’s that then. I hop down from my stool and stroll off, conscious of the dealer’s eyes on me. I guess he’s never seen anything like that before.

As I make my way towards the casino exit, I wonder what to do with myself now. Other than the brief mutterings of the dealer, I haven’t really spoken to anyone since I was in the salon. Now I think about it, I’m glad. I don’t really want to speak to anyone. A free dinner in a beautiful restaurant seems like a silly thing to waste, but I cannot think of anything sadder than sitting there on my own, ploughing my way through three courses of Vegas’s finest on the off-chance it makes me feel better.

I step into the lift and take a look at the map of the hotel. I don’t really want to be around too many people, but I definitely don’t want to go back to my room alone. I browse the list until the perfect place pops out at me: the rooftop garden. It’s not exactly the warmest evening, so hopefully there won’t be too many people there. I can get some air, clear my head and try and think about what the hell I’m going to do.

Obviously breaking up with someone you live with causes a lot of upset, both emotionally and in your day-to-day life, but I have problems that are more immediate: going home to England for my cousin’s wedding without a fiancé. I know what you’re thinking – why can’t I just be honest with everyone? Well, the truth is, I made no secret of the fact I was moving to LA for a bigger and better life, but it hasn’t exactly worked out that way. My mum and my auntie have always measured me and my cousin against each other – they had us months apart, after all. They’ve always had this rivalry about whose daughter was doing the best. I never managed to bag the job I wanted, but I had John… and now, suddenly, I have nothing. No job, no home, no fiancé. My cousin, on the other hand, has it all. She’s marrying the man she loves in a wedding that is sure to be spectacular, her fiancé is a rich businessman who gives her everything she could possibly want – he’s even started her own business for her, selling candles. So you can see why I don’t want to go home with nothing, in the midst of all this wedding stuff. Not only would it be so embarrassing, having to admit it to everyone, but everyone would pity me. And it would certainly take the focus away from my cousin, which my auntie would no doubt think I’d done on purpose. No, I’ll have to lie. Tell them John is away for work or something.

Looking at my reflection in the mirrored lift doors, I can’t get over how different I look. Hair, make-up and clothes can make such a huge difference. Whether I look better or not, I’m all dressed up with nowhere to go. Ever. Just up in this lift to a rooftop garden where no one in their right mind would be hanging out.

Seeing the sadness in my own eyes only upsets me more. How could he do this to me? Even if you decide you don’t love someone anymore, you break up with them. You don’t do this to them.

As fast as I wipe my tears, more fall from my eyes, streaking my foundation. It was probably a little too dark for me anyway, which only enhances the white pathway each tear has left on my cheeks.

As the lift grinds to a halt, I hurriedly wipe my tears, but it doesn’t matter. The doors open to reveal nothing but plants and fairy lights.

It’s beautiful up here. As I make my way towards the edge to look at the view, my new stupidly high heels keep getting stuck in the pebbles. I can’t help but feel mad at myself for buying them as I kick them off.

Once I get to the glass fence and take in the sights properly, it’s worth it. The view from up here is even more stunning than the one from my room. God, every inch of this trip has been so romantic to far – well, it could have been. A beautiful room with a gorgeous view, champagne, dinner, this stunning garden… it would all be so nice with someone to share it with.

Tears leap from my eyes again.

The more I think about it, the more I’m sure it will be fine to tell people John is away for work. Well, he does work away a lot, touring with different orchestras. But we’ve had this trip planned for months, and I spoke to my mum about our flight times the night before I caught him… Maybe a work emergency? Are pianist emergencies even a thing?

‘Erm… hey,’ I hear a man’s voice call from behind me.

I don’t want him to see my face, so I keep looking over the edge of the terrace.

‘Hi,’ I reply coolly, not exactly pulling it off.

‘Everything OK up here?’ he asks.

‘Fine, fine,’ I reply. ‘Thank you.’

‘Erm…’

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Why can’t people just leave me in peace?!

‘Want to come over here and have a chat about stuff?’

I furrow my brow. What the hell is this guy’s deal? Is he hitting on me?

‘I’m fine where I am, thank you,’ I say politely, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave me alone.

‘Look, that money you lost… it might have meant a lot to you, but it’s not worth getting upset over.’

For a moment I laugh, because that’s the least of my problems. But then it occurs to me this person has been watching me. Streaming eyes and messy make-up no longer matter to me as I turn around.

‘Are you following me?’ I ask accusingly.

‘I saw you, at the table. I saw you lose, I saw that you were upset and then I saw you come up here. And now you’re standing too close to the edge for my liking, so…’

‘You think I’m going to jump?’ I shriek.

‘When you took your shoes off…’

‘Oh, yeah, I took my shoes off. I’m definitely going to kill myself.’

I can’t exactly see the person I’m talking to. He’s standing in the shadows under a particularly tall plant that blocks the light above it.

I wouldn’t normally be so outspoken; this is not me at all. I feel like I’m spectating someone who isn’t me because she doesn’t look like me, sound like me, or act like me. Perhaps my new look is empowering me – then again, maybe it’s the champagne.

‘All right, there’s no need to be sarcastic,’ he replies. ‘Just… won’t you come over here, sit down and talk to me for a second?’

If I want to shake this one, I’m going to have to convince him I’m not suicidal. Things might be bad, but they’re not that bad.

I wipe my eyes and walk over to where he’s standing.

‘See, not jumping,’ I tell him, finally coming face to face with my stalker.

He’s tall – 6’2” maybe – with broad shoulders and huge arms. I can’t see under his T-shirt, but I can tell from the way it clings he’s an absolute unit of a man. He has stylish brown hair and strong facial features, but his sharp jawline contrasts with his adorable dimples, which, in spite of his hulking muscles, give him this soft, approachable look. He must be a security guard of some kind, given his size and the fact he’s up here and on my case.

‘That’s better,’ he says softly. ‘So, go on, what’s his name?’

‘Whose name?’ I ask.

‘The guy who’s driven you to crying on the rooftop.’

‘What makes you so sure it was a guy?’ I ask angrily.

The man gestures at the outdoor sofa in front of us, instructing me to sit down. I do, but only because I suspect I’m about to be placed under hotel arrest for something.

‘Look, I’ve seen it a million times. Pretty young thing like you, you come in with one of the high rollers, he tries to keep you sweet, gives you a few of his chips to play with…’

‘What are you talking about?’ I ask, my frustration with this man increasing.

‘I saw you, playing with the golden chips, the complimentary ones we give to high rollers. And I saw you playing badly, so you’re obviously not a gambler. I’ve seen it countless times, pretty girls come in with rich guys who are definitely going to leave their wives.’

I can’t help but notice the sarcasm in his sentence – I thought Americans weren’t into that?

‘So, you think I’m some pissed-off mistress wasting my boyfriend’s money?’

Just when I thought I couldn’t feel any worse. I’m not just upset, though, I’m angry, and I think the slow and steady stream of alcohol I’ve consumed today has made me seriously sassy and outspoken.

‘Do I look like an adulterer’s piece of arm candy to you?’ I ask genuinely.

‘I mean…’

Oh. I’d forgotten about my makeover. But even so, how dare he judge me.

‘Well, what are you, some meathead, jumped-up member of security who stalks vulnerable young women?’

He laughs.

‘Not security, as such.’

‘No? Then let me guess, you dress up as a cop in some kind of budget Magic Mike show?’

He splutters a laugh.

‘What makes you say that?’ he asks, clearly equal parts offended and amused.

‘You’re not the only one who can make snap judgements. You’ve go to be one or the other – what are you, fifteen per cent body fat?’

‘Fourteen,’ he replies casually. ‘My goal is twelve, but have you tried the crème brûlée here?’

‘Are you always this arrogant?’ I ask.

‘Only when provoked,’ he laughs.

His cheeky smile infuriates me.

‘So, what?’

‘So, I watch the games on CCTV, keep an eye out for cheaters. I saw you, playing your weird hand with chips usually reserved for high rollers – it’s my job to keep an eye out for things like that. But I saw something else: I saw that you were upset. I saw you crying in the elevator, I saw you approaching the edge on the terrace, taking your heels off… It sounds stupid now,’ he laughs, ‘but I thought you were going to do something stupid. I was worried about you and couldn’t just leave you to it.’

‘Thanks,’ I tell him, finally softening. ‘I’m sorry I thought you were a stripper.’

‘I’m sorry I thought you were a prostitute,’ he laughs. ‘Kidding,’ he adds quickly, probably having seen the unimpressed look that is no doubt on my face.

I let out a little laugh. It’s hard not to be charmed by him, even when he’s being cheeky.

‘Just remember that whatever life throws at us, we can fix it,’ he tells me casually.

He’s over simplifying things, but I appreciate the thought, and there is some truth to it. Things are bad sometimes, but we deal with them.

‘Well, I’d better get back to work. I’m Jack, by the way,’ he tells me, offering me his hand to shake.

‘I’m Georgie,’ I reply. ‘I’ll be sure to remember your name for my Tripadvisor review – this hotel’s suicide prevention service is second to none.’

As our hands separate, Jack pulls a bouquet of artificial flowers seemingly from the thin air between our hands.

‘For the lady,’ he says jokily, adopting an English gentleman’s accent.

‘Wow…’ I laugh. ‘Aren’t you a cool guy.’

Jack wiggles his eyebrows at me.

‘I’ve always got something up my sleeve. See you around, Georgie.’

‘See you,’ I call after him.

‘I’ll probably see you first… because of all the cameras…’

I examine the artificial flowers he gave me – rainbow-coloured carnations. As flowers go, they’re pretty ugly, but I can’t help smiling at them. Jack hasn’t just given me flowers, he’s given me a tiny shred of hope in the biggest mess I’ve ever been in – a far more impressive trick than pulling flowers out of thin air, don’t you think?

Chapter Four

Make-up is a wonderful thing. Not too long ago I watched a video of a Korean teenage boy doing make-up tutorials on YouTube. He gave himself a Kardashian-style makeover with nothing but a few beauty products. His lips were fuller, his cheeks perfectly contoured and his eyebrows seriously on fleek – it almost made me feel a little inadequate, that a boy could effortlessly wing his eyeliner, but whenever I try to do mine, in an attempt to make them even, I apply too much and end up looking like Amy Winehouse circa ‘Rehab’.

I might not be as skilled as that guy is, but I’ve done a pretty good job at patching up my face so I can go back out – yes, you heard me, I am taking myself out. As much as I want to curl up in a ball, drink myself stupid and cry myself to sleep, that’s not what I’m going to do. I’m going to keep a smile on my face, go and enjoy my freebie three-course dinner (for two) and I’m going to do it all without a man by my side.

It’s a nice idea, to think I can take a couple of hours off from my heartache, but considering it’s been on my mind every second of the day since it happened, I’m not going to hold my breath – but I am going to go for dinner.

I check that I’m ready in the floor-length mirror. My eyes look a little red still, but my make-up is fixed. Liv did a great job with my extensions; I’d believe this were my real hair, had I not just paid a lot for it and endured the lengthy process of having it fitted.

My dress is red, short, strapless and tight. My thighs are probably a bit too big to be so exposed, this strapless bra isn’t doing much to support my boobs and I feel like I hold my tummy in on autopilot when I suspect someone is looking at me. I’m probably only a few pounds overweight, but I just don’t think my short arse is carrying it well. Stepping back into my heels goes a long way to making my legs look longer and a bit slimmer, taking me from 5’5” to 5’9”, but they’re shoes, not liposuction.

My outfit is as on as it can be, my make-up is fixed, my hair is still salon-perfect and I’m ready to go.

I walk out of my room with my head held high and head for the lift, ready to negotiate the map of the massive Black Diamond Hotel. This place really does have everything under one roof, I’d much rather stay here than head home to Blackpool for a family wedding.

I trace the map with my finger, following the route I’ll need to take to get to the restaurant. Luckily it doesn’t seem too complicated. Despite the size of this place, I’m not going to be needing a compass.

I’ve got the lift to myself, so I adjust my outfit in the mirrored doors. Walking seems to have driven my dress up a little too high.

As I make the short trip from the lift to the restaurant, I take my time, careful not to stumble over in my high heels or pop out of my dress, or anything else that might embarrass me. Between flashing the porter and Jack thinking I was a prostitute who was going to jump off the roof, I think I’ve felt as mortified as I can possibly feel today.

Tottering through the bar in my heels, the muscular figure of a man propping up the bar catches my eye.

‘Jack?’

The man turns around.

‘Georgie, hey. Buy you a drink?’ he asks.

‘What’s that you’re drinking?’ I ask. I didn’t expect to see him ever again – let alone so soon.

‘Bourbon,’ he replies, raising his glass. ‘Want one?’

I scrunch my nose as I take a seat on the stool next to him. It doesn’t seem like this is his first drink, and – I know I don’t know the man – but he doesn’t seem himself.

‘Not really a fan,’ I tell him. ‘I’d love a Sea Breeze, though, please,’ I tell the barman.

Jack takes a generous sip of his drink.

‘They let you drink on the job?’ I ask curiously.

‘Nope.’

‘No more work tonight?’ I persist. That cheeky charm I witnessed earlier seems to be in short supply.

‘No more work ever,’ he corrects me casually. ‘I was fired.’

‘What? But it’s less than an hour since I saw you. What’s changed since…’

My voice trails off into silence.

‘It doesn’t have anything to do with me, does it?’

Jack knocks back the remaining contents of his glass before turning to face me, taking my hand in his reassuringly.

‘This is not your fault,’ he insists. ‘I left my post unattended, something happened, I missed it. That’s that. There are no second chances in this town. The house has to win.’

‘Jack, I’m so sorry. Please, let me speak to your boss, explain what happened.’

I give his hand a squeeze back to show him I’m serious and, for a split second, we just look into each other’s eyes. I can see something in there. Just a glimmer of the guy I met earlier, who turned my bad day around.

‘It’s fine,’ he tells me. ‘Or at least it will be after a few more of these.’

He says this loud enough for the benefit of the barman, who pours another shot into his glass.

‘A wise man once told me that whatever life throws at us, we can fix it,’ I tell him. Jack can’t help but smile at his own words being repeated back to him.

‘All right, all right,’ he laughs. ‘But come on, I’ve earned a bit of a pity party.’

I think for a second.

‘How would you like to upgrade your pity party to a pity meal with champagne?’ I ask. ‘It’s the least I can do.’

‘You don’t owe me anything,’ he insists.

‘You’d be doing me a favour,’ I tell him. ‘Come on, don’t make me have dinner on my own.’

‘All right, fine,’ he jokily concedes. ‘But I need to drown my sorrows.’

‘Well, so do I,’ I tell him. ‘Plus, someone told me this restaurant has excellent crème brûlée.’

Jack steps off his stool, collects our drinks in his hands and nods towards the hostess.

‘Come on,’ he insists. ‘I still know people that work here. We won’t need to wait for a table.’

Chapter Five

If you’d told me this time last week I’d be single and having dinner with a gorgeous man who wasn’t my fiancé, I wouldn’t have believed you. And yet here I am, in Las Vegas of all places, sitting opposite Jack.

I’ve been asking him loads of questions about his job. I had no idea there were so many ways to cheat in casinos – well, try to at least.

As Jack explains each technique to me, he demonstrates them with an old, battered playing card from inside his wallet.

I’ve learned about card marking, which is basically what it sounds like: making a mark on cards so you know what they are before they’re turned over. He’s also shown me a multitude of ways to hide cards on your person, or quickly swap them with ones in your pocket, or trade cards with the person next to you.

‘I shouldn’t be telling you this stuff,’ he laughs. ‘You might just go back into the casino and clean up.

‘I won’t, I promise,’ I giggle. ‘I just find this fascinating.’