“All the customers are returning their items!” says the red-haired cashier. “They’ve gone crazy! That girl started it.” She points to me with a mean look.

“I didn’t mean to start anything!” I say hastily. “I just decided to—you know—think about my purchases. Buy only what I need.”

“Buy only what you need?” The woman in the trouser suit looks as though I’ve uttered something unspeakably profane. “Ma’am, could you please finalize your purchases as quickly as possible and leave the store?”

—

Honestly. You’d think I’d been single-handedly trying to bring down capitalism or something. The manageress in the trouser suit actually hissed at me as she frog-marched me out: “Did you see what happened in Japan? Do you want that happening here? Do you?”

I mean, I felt bad, because it did start getting a bit out of hand. Everyone was taking stuff out of their baskets and dumping it back on the shelves and asking total strangers, “Why are we shopping?” and “Do you need that?”—while all the sales staff were rushing around in a fluster, crying, “Everyone loves a souvenir!” and “This one is half price! Take three!”

Although it’s not my fault, is it? I mean, all I did was point out that no one is ever going to wear a dice necklace.

In the end, the only thing I ended up buying was a little jigsaw puzzle for Minnie. I didn’t feel any great buzz as I bought it, but it was a different sort of satisfaction. As I took my receipt ($7.32), I felt kind of calm. Empowered. I even took the feedback card and ticked Awesome.

But as I walk back along the parade of Shoppes, my mood starts sinking again. I pull out my phone and text Luke:

Where are you?

At once he texts back:

Conference center still. Few more emails to deal with. Where are you?

I heave a sigh of relief at just being in contact with him, and type:

I’m at the Shoppes. Luke, do you think Suze is ever going to be my friend again? I mean, I know things went bad between us in L.A., but I’m doing my best now and she doesn’t even seem to notice and the only person she cares about is Alicia and

Oh. I’ve run out of space. Well, he’ll get the message.

It’s only after I’ve pressed SEND that it strikes me: Maybe it was a mistake to launch into an outburst. Luke isn’t brilliant at responding to endless angsty texts. In fact, I have a sneaking feeling that whenever I send a really long text to him, he doesn’t read it at all. Sure enough, a few moments later my phone beeps with a new text:

You need a distraction, my love. I’ll be done in a while and then I’m taking you to the casino. I’ll text when I’m on my way. Your mother will babysit Minnie, all fixed up. xxx

Wow. Gambling! I feel a thrill of excitement, mixed with trepidation. I’ve never gambled in my life, unless you count the lottery. I mean, we always used to have a family flutter on the Grand National, but that was Dad’s thing and he placed the bets. I’ve never been into a betting shop or even played poker.

On the other hand, I have watched loads of James Bond movies, and I think you can learn quite a lot from them. Like: Stay impassive. Raise your eyebrows while you sip a cocktail. I’m sure I can do all that, it’s just, I’m not sure of the actual rules.

I pause at a coffee outlet and am getting myself a latte when I see a woman nearby, sitting at a bistro table, with a bleached-blond ponytail. She’s in her fifties, I’d say. She’s wearing a black denim jacket decorated with rhinestones and is playing some kind of card game on her phone. On the table in front of her is a massive great cup filled with change for the slot machines, and on her T-shirt is printed ROCKWELL CASINO NIGHT 2008.

She must know about gambling. And she’ll want to help a newcomer, surely? I wait till she pauses in her game, then approach her table.

“Excuse me,” I say politely. “I was wondering, could you give me some gambling advice?”

“Huh?” The woman looks up from her phone and blinks at me. Oh my God, she has dollar signs on her eyelids. How on earth did she do that?

“Er…” I try not to stare too blatantly at her eyes. “I’m a visitor and I’ve never gambled before, and I’m not sure how to do it.”

The woman stares at me as though suspecting a scam.

“You’re in Las Vegas and you’ve never gambled?” she says at last.

“I’ve just arrived,” I explain. “I’m going to a casino later on, only I don’t know which games to play or where to start. I wondered if you could give me any tips?”

“You want tips?” The woman’s eyes are still fixed on me, unblinking. They’re quite bloodshot, I notice. In fact, underneath all the rhinestones and makeup, she doesn’t look in great shape.

“Or maybe you could recommend a book?” I suggest, as the thought strikes me.

The woman ignores the question, as though it’s too stupid to answer, and looks down at the card game again. I don’t know what she’s seen, but it makes her give a sudden, ugly scowl.

“You know what?” she says. “My tip is, don’t do it. Don’t go near it. Save yourself.”

“Oh,” I say, discomfited. “Well, I was only planning on having a quick go at a roulette table or something.”

“That’s what we all said. Are you an addictive type?”

“Um…” I pause, trying to be scrupulously honest with myself. Am I an addictive type? I suppose you could say I am a bit. “I do like shopping,” I confess. “I mean, I’ve shopped too much in the past. I took out too many credit cards and it got a bit out of hand. But I’m much better now.”

The woman gives a short, humorless laugh.

“You think shopping’s bad? Wait till you start gambling, hon. Just the feel of the chips in your hand. The rush. The buzz. It’s like crystal meth. You only need one hit and that’s it. You become a slave. And that’s when your life starts to spiral. That’s when the cops move in.”

I stare back at her, freaked out. She’s actually quite ghoulish, close up. Her face muscles don’t move properly, and I can see where her hair extensions begin. She jabs at her phone and another card game appears on the screen.

“Right!” I say brightly, and start to back away. “Well, thanks for your help, anyway….”

“Crystal meth,” the woman repeats in sinister tones, and locks her bloodshot eyes on mine. “Remember that. Crystal meth.”

“Crystal meth.” I nod. “Absolutely. Bye!”

—

Crystal meth?

Oh God. Should I be going to a casino at all? Is this all a bad, bad idea?

It’s almost an hour later and I’m still feeling unnerved, even though I’ve been on a soothing gondola ride with Mum and Janice and Minnie. Now Mum and Janice have gone off for another “sneaky cocktail,” as Mum put it, while Minnie and I are upstairs in our hotel room. Minnie’s playing “shops” and I’m kind of playing too, only I’m also trying to put on my makeup whilst simultaneously worrying about my potential descent into gambling addiction.

Will I literally get hooked straightaway? Like, on the first spin of the roulette wheel? I have a sudden horrific vision of myself hunched over a casino table, hair askew, eyeing Luke with dazed eyes, muttering, “I’m going to win. I’m going to win,” while he tries to pull me away and Mum sobs quietly in the background. Maybe I shouldn’t even go down there. Maybe it’s too dangerous. Maybe I should just stay here in the room.

“More shops!” Minnie grabs the last remaining crisp packet out of the minibar and puts it proprietorially in front of her. “Shop, Mummy, shop!”

“Right.” I come to and hastily move the crisps away before she can squish them into bits and we have to buy them.

Parenthood is all about learning from experience. And the valuable rule I’ve learned today is: Don’t say “minibar” in front of Minnie. She thought I meant “Minnie bar” and that this was her own special cupboard, full of lovely things for Minnie. And it was impossible to explain. So in the end I let her get everything out, and the carpet is strewn with little bottles and packets. We’ll put them all back later. (If it’s one of those electronic ones, we may be in trouble, but Luke will call the front desk and sort it out. He’s good at that kind of thing.)

I’ve already “bought” a bottle of tonic and a Toblerone from Minnie, and now I’m pointing at an orange juice.

“Please may I have an orange juice?” I say, brushing on mascara at the same time. I put out my hand for the bottle, but Minnie holds on to it firmly.

“You can’t have one,” she says sternly. “Must wait. We don’t have any money.”

I blink at her in surprise. Who’s she copying?

Oh.

Oh God. Actually, I think it’s me.

Which makes me seem like a really mean, horrible mummy, but, honestly, it’s the only way I can deal with her when we’re out shopping.

Minnie’s speech has really come along recently. Which is wonderful, obviously. Every parent wants to hear their child articulate their innermost thoughts. The only teeny issue is, it turns out quite a lot of Minnie’s innermost thoughts are about what she wants.

She doesn’t yell “Miiiiiiine” anymore, which used to be her catchphrase. Instead, she says, “I like it.” We’ll walk around the supermarket and all she keeps saying is, “I like it, I like it, Mummy,” more and more earnestly, as though she’s trying to convert me to some new religion.

It’s not even as though she likes sensible things. She grabs for mops and freezer bags and packets of staples. Last time we went out shopping, she kept telling me, “I like it, pleeeeease,” and I kept nodding and putting the things back on the shelves, out of reach, until she suddenly flipped and yelled, “I want to buuuuuy something!” in such desperate tones that all the nearby customers started laughing. Then she stopped and beamed around, and they all laughed even more.