TRAIN THAT CARRIED THE GIRL - EXTRACT . . . .

I soon start to realise I am in couples hell. Everyone is with someone, mostly someone they are in love with. Evidently, Vegas isn’t for saddo single travellers like me. There was one other loose unattached girl; Flora from Windsor who was married and had kids, but her husband had agreed to stay behind and look after the children while she came out for what she kept insisting was, ‘the holiday of a lifetime’. Good on him, I thought. She was thirty-seven but with her boutique spray-tan and her cleavage, shown to flattering effect by a plunging, shrink-tight silver top, she could easily pass for a girl in her late twenties. Or late forties, depending on whether she had slept or not.


There seemed to be two ‘unattached’ men; actually I am struggling to express myself here because the reality was that I was the only genuinely unattached person in the group. The only one who didn’t have a wife or husband somewhere. One of them was truly one of the handsomest men I have ever laid eyes on. Extraordinarily striking. He was like a computer-generated model of ideal male beauty. He was kind of familiar. He wasn’t tall; five-ten, possibly, slim body, good jaw and a symmetrical face, mop of dark hair, with speckles of grey. He was dressed in a well-worn cream/custard yellow shirt with the sleeves tucked back; strong tanned arms. Flora was absolutely knocked sideways by him; me less so. He was good-looking but a little distant, aloof almost? Saturnine is the expression, he seldom spoke or smiled. The real great-looking guys, your Brads, your Becks, have a twinkle in their eyes, a mouth always on the edge of a slow smile. This guy was too severe.


The other one was a plonker, a braying git called Ivan. He was from Lincoln, married with children, but quite open about his intentions toward the women of Vegas. He wanted to sleep with as many as he could between now and one o’clock on Sunday. I suspect that under bright lights and mild interrogation, all the men in our party would have confessed to similar sentiments. If their wives hadn’t been there.


He and I were seated next to one another and Flora was placed down at the other end, next to her new paramour, Mr Severe. I was quietly amused by what the couriers had done. There were no queries, no questions, no tender ambiguities. They only have four days, they are here for a good time, let them get on with it.


On my other side was Rachel, from Evesham and across from her was her husband, James, who quite literally couldn’t take his eyes off me, to Rachel’s increasing embarrassment. ‘So that isn’t a Geordie accent, is it?’ she asked once we had introduced ourselves.


‘No, I moved up North when I was seventeen,’ I smiled, ‘long time ago.’


They had been to Las Vegas before. ‘The Venetian is nice,’ she said. ‘The shopping there is very, very nice. Pricey, but the quality is there.’


‘It isn’t that bad,’ James agreed. ‘I bought a new golf cart there last time and it is much better than anything I have seen in England, at over twice the price.’


‘You are on your own, aren’t you? If you want, I can go with you to the shops,’ she nodded across at James. ‘He is always looking for an opportunity to slope off.’


On an impulse, I said, ‘Do you play the slot machines?’


Our meal arrived. It looked delicious; chicken of some kind. We weren’t given a choice.


A voice next to me said, ‘The slots in Paris pay the best odds.’ It is Ivan; he too has been here before. Many times, it turns out.


He leans forward and speaks quietly and authoritatively. ‘I can show you where to go to get the best odds.’ James and Rachel are straining to hear what he is saying. ‘I have been here eight or nine times and have always won enough to pay for all my flights and hotels.’ He makes a face. ‘I normally stay at The Bellagio; wouldn’t usually be seen dead in a dump like this.’


I notice he hasn’t touched his chicken slop; it has a greasy skin on it already. Can’t say I fancy it much either. They have provided champagne, a beverage I avoid. I may drop to a ten by Sunday. ‘In England,’ he is saying, ‘by law, gambling is restricted to 3% profit margin. You may think you are pouring unlimited money into a slot machine or your horse always comes in last, but in reality, the pub or the bookmakers have to set the odds so that the punter wins 97% of the time. It is illegal to set them any higher.’


‘I never knew that,’ James says, his eyes widening.


‘It is the same whether it is horse-racing, roulette or the bingo, although I believe the National Lottery is a little lower. But here in Vegas, the odds are 99.5% in favour of the gambler. That’s why people flock here.’


I blink at these revelations. ‘Because they can win.’


He nods, ‘That’s why there are slots in the toilets,’ he continues, ‘it is quantity not quality. There are two thousand two hundred slots in this hotel alone; plus all the blackjack tables and so on …’


‘… why are there no clocks?’


He smiles conspiratorially, ‘So you can’t be distracted. That’s why you get these girls over there,’ he gestures with his eyes and I turn to see a pair of bikini-clad young women on roller skates amongst the aisles. ‘They are there to ply you with snack food and drink.’ He sits back and puts his napkin on the table, his food still untouched. Not a plonker, I am thinking now. ‘All for free,’ he adds by way of afterthought. He stands to go. ‘Coming?’ I shake my head; I don’t want either to be with him or spend any time gambling. ‘Another thing,’ he says. ‘Have you noticed there are no windows?’ I glance about; he is right. ‘So you can’t tell if it is day or night,’ he grinned.


All part of the larger beguilement.


‘I feel a bit like that myself,’ Rachel says, from behind me. ‘My body clock has gone completely haywire.’


Ivan moves away and one of the other men excuses himself and follows him.


‘What we did last time,’ Rachel is saying, ‘is we ate in Paris, they have the best food.’ Although she is self-evidently talking to me, she is looking across at James.


‘But the best breakfasts,’ he advises, ‘are at Bellagio, across the road from here. You have a choice of the most wonderful Swiss Muesli or eggs done any way …’


‘… or every way …’


‘… or every way you can possibly imagine.’


‘Don’t you have to be a guest at Paris, or Bellagio?’


He shakes his head vigorously. ‘No, no. They want you to play their slots, not ours. Are you not eating your chicken?’


I see he has consumed all of his; they both have. I push my plate towards him.


I tended to avoid people like these in my life, vanilla people. Sure of their opinions, certain of their status. In truth, it wasn’t just that my husband was so much older than I was that we rarely socialised; it was mixing with people like these, being judged.


I was wishing I hadn’t come. Shouldn’t have come. Mark should be here; we should be making love hot and naked upstairs in his room.


I wonder to myself what they would make of Aristotle. Aristotle taught the value of the Golden Mean; courage, for example, as the middle ground between rashness and cowardice; and generosity as the mean between selfishness and profligacy. I am not sure what his judgement would have been on eating greasy, mass-produced chicken in a windowless room without clocks, but his belief in living justly and wisely, involving respect and concern for others, would definitely have floundered here.


I don’t normally talk like this. It’s extraordinary that true beliefs have to hide themselves.


‘So why have you never married, Kikarin?’ James said, through a mouthful of the slop.


I gave a smile that was intended to warn him off. Usually it worked, but he glanced down at his plate at just the wrong moment and missed the nuance. He looked up, expecting an answer.


‘Maybe she’s married,’ Rachel said, taking a large swallow of her champagne. She leered back at me over her shoulder. ‘She’s probably just looking for a good time, eh?’


I tried a dismissive gesture, but it failed. I burst into tears.


‘Oh, darling, what did I say!’ she exclaimed.


‘… what’s her name again?’ I heard her whisper, ‘Kikie! I’m sorry, what did I say? I wasn’t insinuating …’


I was okay, really. I don’t get soggy; just didn’t see it coming. The other women crowded round, offering hankies and ‘there, there-ing’ at me. Flora came and crouched down and took my hand. ‘Shall I take you back to your room?’


I shook my head, ‘I’m alright. I can get back on my own. Walk will do me good, it’s just jet-lag.’ I blew my nose. I didn’t want to spoil her evening as well, especially if Mr Severe had been won round. I felt badly for having lost control, I didn’t think I was so vulnerable still to other people’s insensitivity. Mark, where are you? I need you here.


‘Somebody’s dog die?’ I heard one of the Americans say with vacant interest.


Mr Severe himself spoke; he was standing next to Flora with his chin on her shoulder. ‘I’ll walk you back to the Flamingo, Kikarin,’ he said slowly. ‘Will you stay here and wait for me?’ he asked Flora.


‘Don’t worry about me. Please,’ I said apologetically. ‘Honestly, it is ten minutes at the most to the Flamingo.’


People … my audience … were getting up to go; pushing their chairs back, making plans for the evening revels. Let me out of here. ‘Okay love, I’ll take Kikarin back to the Flamingo,’ he laughed, ‘then I’ll sprint back here for you. Why don’t you wait in the bar? Can’t take me more than …’ he hesitated, ‘… twenty-five minutes.’






‘DON’T KNOW ME, do ya?’ he said, when we finally reached the warm evening air.


‘Go on, tell me. I know we’ve met, but can’t think where. You gave the game away when you called me by my name. Are you an architect?’


He took my hand. I realise now, in retrospect, it was to prevent me from running away as fast as my legs could carry me. ‘Think back to when ya was fifteen, sixteen. You was at Hurlingham.’


‘Michael Oxley!’


‘That’s me.’ His hard mouth broke into a broad smile. ‘Still crazy about yer, Kikarin; and that amazin’ hair … you are even more gorgeous than you was then; wouldn’t have thought it possible.’


I drew my hand away as a shiver of recognition ran through me. ‘Sorry Michael, not interested. Go back to Flora. She is beguiled by your charms; I’m not.’


‘Not interested in that slag,’ he said dispassionately. ‘Couldn’t believe my eyes when you sat down at that table; how long has it been? Twenty years? You married that Lord bloke, didn’t ya?’


Remembered treachery.


We stood on the sidewalk, people pushing around us, enveloped by the heat and the desert aroma; the traffic, the neon; and the blue, green and yellow fountains shooting water in the air on the other side of the road. ‘Please Michael, leave me alone. I can get back by myself.’ How could he possibly think I would want to have anything to do with him? Resolute, I must be resolute. Like, this was a horrible mistake, nice to meet you again, bye.


I turned and walked toward the Flamingo. ‘It’s this way,’ he said from behind me. Yes, he was right, I was walking in the opposite direction. ‘I’ll get ya to the lobby,’ he murmured. ‘Give me your arm.’ He steered me through the throng of people; a couple of Harleys roared beside me and I jumped in the air. ‘What made ya cry back there?’


I shook my head. ‘That woman. She assumed I was trying to find a husband.’


‘Right. But you’ve got a husband?’


‘No, he died in June.’


He turned and looked to see where the traffic was. ‘It’s Green Man, Kikarin; quick!’ We hurried across the junction. I saw the lit-up sign for the Bellagio in front of me; so that’s where the wonderful breakfasts were served. ‘Was that the Lord? What did he die of?’


‘No, I divorced the Lord. His name was Ben, we had been married nearly ten years. He died in my arms.’


‘It’s just down here on the right, love. My son died, two years ago. Still can’t get over it. I think about him every day.’


He still held my arm, but it was becoming awkward to negotiate the crowded streets … where do all these people come from? … so I gave him my hand. Bustling elbowy people, I was glad he was there; I found the whole place rather threatening at night. Big, tough-looking men everywhere. It would be easy to be mistaken for a rental if I was just on my own.


‘We are here.’


‘Thanks,’ I said as the doors swished open in front of me; automatic on this side. Away from the clamour at last. I felt the blast of cold, air-conditioned air hit me. ‘What happened to your son?’


He half-shrugged and looked in the direction of the lifts. ‘Cycling accident. He was twelve. I’m in 2348, Kikarin, if you feel like talking?’


I thought for a moment. Surely he has changed, matured, moved on. Or maybe he hasn’t; he was vile and evil then. But he couldn’t have been kinder tonight. How strange to meet up with him here, now, a million miles from Putney. I nodded, ‘We can talk for a bit. But in my room.’


He didn’t say anything, but followed a couple of paces behind me. The elevators came in seconds and the doors parted with a metallic sigh. We went up to the 5th floor.


I made tea for us both which was okay; I had assumed that American tea would be dire, but they were English Twinings teabags. The milk was powdered, though. I was exhausted, suddenly this seemed a bad idea. He sat in the chair and I sat on my bed where I could make myself comfortable but be on my guard. It is hard for historians to remember that events now past were once in the future.


‘We only had the one,’ he began. ‘Matt; Mathew, his name was,’ he sipped the tea, ‘my wife is called Helen, Helen Reed was her maiden name. You wouldn’t know her, she came from up your way, Darlington. We met,’ he smiled, ‘fell in love and all that.’


‘Sorry, do you want the curtains closed?’


He sat up, ‘No, no, I’m fine,’ he stroked his mouth with the back of his hand, ‘It’s a crackin’ view; all the lights and everything. My room’s a bit manky.’


I reached over and turned the bedside light on. ‘So, what happened?’


After a minute, he said, ‘Got run over by a bus; by the school bus.’


‘That’s terrible.’


He sat with his elbows on the arms of the chair but with his hands tight around his chest, staring out the window at the lights, ‘Bike was all smashed and twisted; I think it was instantaneous,’ he mumbled in reluctant whispers.


I wasn’t sure if he wanted to talk or not. He had crossed his legs and was apparently concentrating now on what was happening outside, ‘How did you find out?’


‘Helen’s mother phoned,’ he was still speaking to the plate glass window, ‘I was in Bangkok still.’


‘And this was two years ago?’


He nodded. There was an air of stillness around him. No-one spoke for a long time, then he said, ‘So …? Your second husband; what did you say his name was?’


‘Ben. We were married almost ten years.’ I pulled my legs up under me.


He took a side-glance at me, ‘Was he in an accident?’


I waited before I spoke; wasn’t sure what he wanted from me. Was he being ‘nice’, letting me unload? Or were we comparing notes; was he going to come out with ‘time heals, I know how it feels’ or was he the one who was unloading? He seemed a bit forbidding; haunted eyes. Maybe it is hard for a man to talk like this. ‘He died of a heart attack. I think he had been ill for a long time and didn’t want to tell me; didn’t want me to worry or something.’ Didn’t want me to abandon him.


‘Was he a bit older than you?’


‘Hmmm. A bit.’


‘I miss Matt. Did I say that already? Sorry. I think I should go. Sorry, Kikarin, I’m tired and jetlagged and …’ he stood and looked straight at me, ‘… quite honestly, it is still too painful.’


I smile. ‘That’s okay. I’m glad we have reunited, as it were. It’s good to see you.’ I edged myself to the side of the bed. ‘Helen must be devastated.’


‘Torn in half.’ He pushed both hands into the back pockets of his jeans. ‘We broke up.’ He seemed unsure whether to say any more. His speech was spare, quiet, to the point. He whispered, ‘It is so sad, but grief can have that effect.’


‘Does she blame you?’


He nodded imperceptibly, ‘Says I should have been at home, not working abroad on the other side of the planet.’ He sniffed and his face seemed to harden, ‘I don’t think it can be saved,’ he looked over to the door, ‘the marriage, I mean.’


Our heartache poured into one another. He was like, like a Spanish guitar with its abject neck snapped in two, so utterly forlorn. I walked across to him in my bare feet and put my arms around his waist. ‘Maybe we could be friends again,’ I said softly.


‘This isn’t what ya need,’ he said. His cheeks were wet. ‘You don’t want to get tangled up with me.’


But what happens … and this is the thing I’m not sure about … when it comes to the point, when I try to think back to that night, when I try retrospectively to impose some meaning on what might or might not have happened, is I let him take my face in his hands. ‘It might be just what I need,’ I whisper.


If it had been down to him, I suspect we might never have left my room; left the bed actually. He was overwhelming; needy; insatiable but it was okay; I needed the release too. I finally sent him off to his own room to put on clean clothes; my clock said ten to ten … I hoped it was ten to ten in the morning. I wanted to have breakfast at Bellagio.