Page 59 of A Midlife Gamble

‘Yes.Ourfriend,’ Helen finished.

The croupier bit down on her lip. ‘Not now,’ she managed. ‘I mean, he was with a… a lady earlier. She was…’

‘Old?’ Helen suggested.

The croupier shook her head, but it morphed into an involuntary nod.

‘Fat, but not quite as fat as me?’ Marianne added.

And again the croupier’s head went through a strange pattern of movement. ‘She had a wig…’ Horrified at what might have been another faux pas, her face froze. ‘At least… well, I think it was a wig,’ she whispered.

‘Roxette style?’ Helen said.

‘Who?’ The croupier frowned.

’Never mind,’ Helen muttered.

‘She was wearing a jacket,’ the croupier said. ‘A very sparkly jacket.’

As one, Helen, Caro and Marianne turned to each other.

‘But she left. I mean, she’s not there now. She’s not playing now.’

‘Did you see her?’ Helen asked the desk clerk. ‘She must have come this way for the elevators?’

But the clerk shook his head. ‘Wait a moment,’ he added, almost to himself. ‘Silver jacket?’

Everyone nodded.

‘I did see a woman in a jacket like that. Not so long ago actually. She went towards the square.’

‘The square?’ Helen said.

‘St Mark’s Square.’

‘St Mark’s Square is in Venice,’ Caro said flatly.

‘It’s also in Vegas,’ the clerk shrugged. ‘I noticed because she was looking at the Armillary sphere for a long time. She even asked me what it was for.’

Helen turned to look at the large golden sphere in the middle of the foyer. ‘What is it for?’ she said now.

‘It was used to study stars,’ the clerk said. ‘Before telescopes. And I remember now. She said she was going to the square to look at the stars.’

‘But it's all indoors,' Helen said. 'How can she…' She stopped talking, because the clerk was smiling at her.

‘Most people,' he said, 'don't care. When they come here, they're happy to think it’s real. All of it.’ He drew a long breath in. ‘I guess they just want to believe.’

They were halfwayacross the foyer before the croupier had caught up with them. She was breathless, her ponytail swinging, a bead of sweat along her top lip. ‘I’m sorry,’ she began, addressing Marianne. ‘I didn’t realise—’

‘Don’t be sorry,’ Marianne said, her voice weary. Then, with a flourish of one arm, as if she were presenting herself, head to toe, short, flabby and dusty as she was, she said, ‘Be prepared.’

The girl made to smile, but it didn’t quite work.

‘One day,’ she finished, ‘this will be you.’

26

Alone in a St Mark’s Square that had never seen Venice, had never been more deserted and had never been more perfect, Kay stood perfectly still. High up, rows of arched windows glowed the exact same shade of mauve-pink: a perpetual twilight, born from the painted sky. Black floor tiles gleamed, forever wet from non-existent rain, and all along the ground floor – where once upon another place and another time, goldsmiths and glaziers, cobblers and engravers, would have toiled away their time on earth – empty restaurants with empty tables and empty chairs awaited the return of tourists come only to eat the hours away. Squares of white cloth, as pristine clean now as they would be in the morning, covered the tables. No bird droppings on the smooth railings, no scratching rats scurrying into corners, no cigarette stubs, or scraps of paper, empty bottles, smears of grime on window-ledges. The clock tower, its handsome face of blue and gold, told time for no one. And although she couldn't see it, across Kay’s shoulders, sequins from her jacket reflected the heavenly pink light, tiny rays like splintered sunlight, making a target of her.

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