Twinned (9 page)

We land at McCarran International airport at five pm Las Vegas time. By the time we get through security, which is tight as always, it's around six thirty pm. We ride down the escalators, past the mirrors to the sparkly-looking lobby and then out onto the tarmac to grab a cab.

The dry heat gives a glorious smack in the face. Despite my heart racing at a zillion beats per minute and one of the most mentally-guiltiest-yet-physically-clean consciences anyone has ever had, I'm really excited.

“We’re staying at the Paris hotel,” Richard tells the roguishly attractive driver helping him load our suitcases and bags into the boot. Sorry, the
trunk.
“We’re on honeymoon,” he adds with a huge grin.

I bristle at the word Paris. It makes me think of Selina and Etienne. I wonder if Richard thinks of them too.

We sink back into the hot leather seats, which have been warmed by a long, 40 degree day that's coming to a close with a spectacular red and gold sunset over the distant mountains. It makes me think of the sunset I saw from up in the clouds and I push that dream (memory?) away. I have a beautiful sunset right in front of me to look at. I don’t need an imaginary one.

Both Richard and I have been to Vegas before but never together. I went with my parents when I was twelve as part of a coach tour of the Western states. Richard went two years ago on a stag weekend.
That would be around the time Etienne was born
, I think.

Richard grabs the Las Vegas Weekly from the seat pocket and asks the driver if it's OK to take it. I avert my gaze as he flicks through. I have tried so hard not to find out if
you know who
will be performing in town. If I don't look, it can't hurt me.

And we are approaching the Strip. Wow. The hotels get more and more amazing. There’s one styled like a fairytale castle, another like a pyramid. Then there’s our hotel with a 1/3 size Eiffel Tower.

Check-in takes a while, giving us time to marvel at the beautiful pseudo-Parisian lobby. Then we take the lifts to the third floor. Our suite is worth the wait. For someone more used to staying in a budget hotel it’s all the more amazing. Opulent. Almost tasteful but not quite. Totally Vegas.

We unpack the clothes that are creased and need to be hung up. I check out the view, have a little sit on the queen sized bed. I flick the channels on the TV and we laugh at some cheesy American adverts. We agree we are both hungry, so we dress for dinner. We’re yawning our heads off but determined to get used to the new time zone as quickly as possible by staying up until at least 10pm.

We walk down the Strip in the gorgeous evening heat, marvelling at the fantastic hotels, the dancing fountains and the coloured lights. We pass thousands of tourists just like us, ignoring and laughing at the guys slapping and hawking their cards advertising ‘good time girls’. We stop at the New York New York hotel and go inside for dinner.

We eat at a Mexican restaurant, stuffing ourselves silly with food but still leaving enough behind to feed ten men. Full up, a little drunk and absolutely knackered, we grab a cab back to the Paris hotel. We chuck the duvet on the sofa – it’s too hot despite the air conditioning - and collapse into bed. I turn out the lamp and we spoon together in the 300 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. I try to just enjoy the moment and not think. Being a bit drunk helps.

The next morning I wake up with a bit of a headache. Richard is watching TV whilst lying in bed, half covered by a sheet. I come to and snuggle up to him.

“Happy honeymoon loverrrr,” I purr in my best sex-kitten voice as I squeeze his thigh. He looks at me quizzically.

He swats away my hand from his thigh. “Do you, or do you not, love me?” He asks, pointedly.

I'm a bit taken aback. “Course I love you, silly!”

Silence. He looks pissed off. Now I'm worried.

“What?” I ask, nudging him playfully.

Instead of nudging me back like he usually would, he turns his face away, sits up and - taking the sheet with him to cover his modesty - walks awkwardly to the window.

Now
I
feel a little pissed off. He is being annoying. “Well if you’re not going to tell me - ”

“I am going to tell you, Beth.” Pause. He sighs. “You were talking last night. In your sleep.”

My face gets very hot all of a sudden. I wonder what I said, I wonder if it was about Etienne… “Everyone dreams, Richard! I once had a conversation with a chair - mum said so - it was really funny!”

He doesn’t look amused.

“People talk in their sleep ALL the time.” I stand up, walk over to him; touch his shoulder.

No response.

“What did I say?” I whisper.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Well it obviously matters to you... tell me.” I wait.

“You were crying.”

“Huh?”

“You were crying or something. It woke me up. You were saying stuff, you were begging someone to stay. To come back to you. I didn’t really understand what you said. But you were begging him to love you. Worst of all, you told him you wished...”

It’s a few minutes before he can even finish the sentence. I wait, braced in absolute horror.

“You said you wished... wished that you could be with him... that he was your soul mate.”

I am so taken aback and so relieved we aren’t having the Etienne conversation right now that I almost giggle from the shock. I try to think quickly, all the while images are flooding back. Oh God. It was Joel. I dreamed of Joel. We were... Oh God, what have I done? Think quickly...

“We had Mexican, Richard. It’s full of chilli and chemicals. I was probably tripping from that and the jet lag! It doesn’t mean anything.”

He turns to face me. “Do you remember what you did after?” He demands, a really, really serious expression on his face. “Do you?”

Oh God, what did I do after???

“No! Seriously not. I don’t get why you - ”

Richard shrugs me off like I'm a disease-ridden whore and reaches over to the nightstand. He grabs a piece of paper. “Why I’m upset? Because after you said all that stuff, you got up, walked over to the table and wrote yourself a little note before getting back into bed,” he says. “Did you think I didn’t
see
? Here.” He hands me a piece of Paris Hotel notepaper. There, scribbled in pencil, in writing not entirely dissimilar to my own:

Joel. Bellagio fountains. 11 am.

“Ah... I can explain,” I stall.

He pauses. Looks at the ceiling then back at the window. Outside a bird flies past slowly. We watch it disappear from view. Then he speaks.

“You don’t have time to explain, Beth.”

“What? -“

“It’s ten thirty already. Whoever you’re planning to meet, you’d best hurry up.”

“I don’t have anyone to meet, Richard! It was just a dream! You’re being silly!”

“I’m being silly? My wife of - oh less than a WEEK, is dreaming of another man, CRYING and arranging to meet him. You’ve obviously got something going on behind my back, Beth. I just can’t understand, you didn’t even know we were going to Vegas... Is he so rich that you just call him up and he’s HERE in, like, twelve hours?”

I sit on the bed. Look up at his poor, tear-streaked face. What to say, where to start. I am almost tempted to throw Selina and Etienne back at him but I have always believed that attack is the lowest form of defence and, from what he says; I don’t have any time to waste arguing.

Richard beats me to any answer I could have given. “So if it’s all bollocks - really just a dream - then it won’t matter if we both go to the Bellagio fountains right now? Then we’ll know for sure.”

Before I can even think of a cover story, he throws my clothes from yesterday at me. My head is really banging now. I pull my shorts and top on in silence. He does the same with his clothes. I start to run a brush through my hair then feel guilty when Richard looks at me, as if to question the morality of me wanting to look presentable for a rendezvous with another man.

I tie my hair back in a loose ponytail and shut myself in the bathroom for a moment to throw some water on my face. Away from Richard’s accusing gaze, I ransack my brain. Dear God. What did I dream exactly?

Oh No. I remember waking up in the middle of the night in the truly vast bed, with strong, warm arms wrapped around me. Turning towards a face that I thought was Richard’s, snuggling my body into his. Nuzzling his face, his neck. We started to kiss. But he didn’t kiss like Richard. It felt unfamiliar. Oh dear God, I didn’t care. If this was a dream and therefore had no consequences, I was glad it wasn’t Richard.

I don’t know at what point I realised for sure that I was making love to Joel. Was it when he started stroking my shoulder and whispering my name like poetry? Or when his hand moved between my legs? Or when I started to grind into his body? Or when I hooked my leg over his and forced him inside me? Or was it when we climaxed together and I started to cry? To cry and to beg him to let me back in his head. To never leave me again. To love me.

Richard breaks the memory, banging on the door.

“Beth, hurry up. I need a piss.”

I leave him to the bathroom. I don’t deserve make-up but I am - incredibly selfishly - gutted that I can't put my face on. I quickly lip-gloss in a nude shade. I tell myself that, in this dry heat, it's not really lip gloss but an essential moisturiser, like Vaseline.

I look in the hall mirror. Dear God. If somehow Joel and I connected last night - and were really about to meet - he will surely run A MILE when he sees the state I am in. Or at least when he sees I’ve brought my husband. Richard stomps out of the bathroom, grabs my handbag and thrusts it into my hands.

“Wouldn’t want to miss your chance, Beth.” He exclaims. Which roughly translated, seemed to mean, “That’s your lot, get out”. We exit to the corridor. “Some effing honeymoon,” he mutters under his breath, as he slams the door.

The sheer size of the mammoth hotel means it takes a good ten minutes to get outside and another ten to get across the road. We are late, it is gone eleven. Across from the Paris hotel, the Bellagio hotel is fronted by a massive lake. At night the lake comes alive with shooting fountains of water all lit up and ‘dancing’ to music piped through hidden speakers. The pavement is always crowded in front of the Bellagio and today is no exception.

There have to be in excess of two hundred people milling about and taking photos. I don't want to look for Joel but I know that Richard will be really angry if it seems that I am avoiding the meeting simply because he is with me.

As we zig-zag through the crowds, Richard searches the faces of every eligible man for signs of debaucherous thoughts. He is practically growling under his breath. I get a better line through the crowds and I’m around 10 feet ahead of him when I think I hear someone saying my name.

My heart rises to my throat and I really think I am about to see
him
. But instead, a few metres ahead of me, I see a stranger with an envelope in his hand. “Beth Britten!” he’s saying, just loud enough that I can hear.

“I’m Beth,” I say. The man smiles and hands me an envelope. He turns to leave but Richard has caught up. He pushes ahead of me and squares up to the guy. “Who the hell are you - and what have you been doing to my wife?”

He looks bemused. “Listen buddy, I’m just delivering show tickets to the lady,” says the man.

The man takes a stride as if to leave but Richard swings for him. The other guy is quicker. A fist lands Richard straight in the jaw. He hits back and they go for each other, howling like a couple of dogs. In seconds they are on the floor, pounding the crap out of each other.

I’m not proud of what I do next. I don't think - I just react. I turn on my heels and run; leaving Richard to what has become a full-on fight. I don't see Joel’s face in the crowd some 20 yards back but in my head, I know he is there.

I dart into the first casino entrance I come to and disappear into the labyrinth of slot machines - all vying for attention, beeping and calling like sinister lullabies - and finally reach the comparative calm of the ladies' rest room. As well as the cubicles there is a seating area with a red velvet couch and some over-stuffed armchairs. I sit down, under the gaze of three bejewelled old ladies who are congregated around the full length mirror, comparing their hideously garish kaftans.

Biting my lip, I open the envelope. Inside is a letter.

I take a deep breath and start to read.