Arriving back in Las Vegas for a well-earned work break,
Bettie finds that her first foray into the world of fashion is far from
glamorous.
Ah, now this is more like it. Here I am, diary, soaking up
the sin in Glitter Gulch; the world’s favorite gambling capital, Las Vegas.
And, utterly by accident, I’ve arrived at the start of Mormon Fashion Week, so
you can bet dollars to doughnuts it won’t be long before my coordinated ebony
one-piece and character turban will be trending faster than a tits-out vacation
shot of the Duchess of Cambridge. And before you say, ‘What Happens in Vegas,
Stays in Vegas,’ that choice phrase
only applied when the way to break gossip was by carrier pigeon. Now if you
commit a faux pas in the Flamingo’s poolhouse, the whole world’s been texted
before you even have a chance to re-hitch your mesh bandeau and boyshorts.
So, that said, I was
on my second-best behaviour as I swung into the lavish Sands Expo and
Convention Center for its Haute-Tu-Trot Fashion Fantasy Extravaganza. Barging
through the crowds, I stumbled from unaffordable collection to unaffordable
collection, eventually taking a well-earned break watching what I thought was
the kiddie’s catwalk breakout session. Turned out I’d stumbled into the daycare dungeon, but,
still, it was a lot quieter than the main floor and meant at least I got a
seat. Unfortunately, my final perch was right next to this cadaverously thin
woman, tattooed husband, and their rabble of badly behaved brats causing havoc
in the ballpit.
“You really are tres
rocking that homeless chic look, no?” the featherweight female squeaked as I
sat down.
Not really sure how I was supposed to respond to that, I
instead pointed out that she looked positively gaunt.
“Gawd, thank you!” she replied, pleased as punch.
Still, always
grateful for someone to chat to, I ignored her permanent pout and started yakking, telling all about me,
39-4-Ever, my current stepmother troubles, me, the embarrassment that is my
third husband, me, me, and, well, I might have mentioned myself once or twice.
After about twenty minutes of this, the malnourished missus told me I talked
too much.
“Only in the company of people with nothing to say,” I said.
“Dernier cri!” she
shrieked suddenly, realizing she was late for the Kourtney Kardashian Skin
Winnowing Workshop, and I was left with her hubby who had his excessively inked
hands full, trying to control their daughter
and three sons. The resulting barked exchange went something like this:
“So, what do you do for a living?
“Harper!”
“You don’t look
like a musician. Perhaps, more of a–”
“Romeo!”
“Well, you’re not really my type. For a start, there’s all
those tattoos. Were they done locally?”
“Brooklyn!”
“Ah, a New Yorker. Did you fly here?”
“No, Cruz!”
“To the desert?”
Before I knew it, it was time to leave the fash-pack world
far behind and slip effortlessly into my next – if you’ll pardon my French – Les Liaisons dangereuses.
I met Mister Tall, Blond Dalliance in the free drinks queue
at some Fontana Lounge bash, while behind us the Bellagio fountains shot water
and bland pop classics into the night sky. He asked if I was enjoying the expo,
to which I replied that I was mixing with the kinda people who, at the end of
the party when they say “Bye”, they’re asking you a question.
“Fancy a quickie?” he next asked, with a wink.
“As opposed to what?” I replied, picking up a vodka with
more vodka and heading over for Siegfried and Roy’s new show, ‘Tigers of
Passion’.
“Are you leaving already?” he questioned as I decided to cut
things short. “I was hoping for dinner and a show.”
“You’re seeing nothing,” I told him over the roar of Celine
Dion.
Later, we met again. Same drinks queue. Different venue. By
now, I was on to pink gins. He said, “Look, tonight, would it turn you on to
tell me when you have your orgasm?”
“OK,” I said, “but before I call, I think my cellphone needs
a recharge.”
And so there I was, leaving Las
Vegas. Shuffling up the carpeted concourse at McCarran Airport, I’m in line
behind Quasimodo’s younger sister who’s enthusing to someone on her phone.
“Oh, it was so magical, I cried,”
she simpered. “When I watched the fountains at the Bellagio, they had Whitney
Houston singing ‘One Moment In Time’…”
Some people deserve to die.
Repeatedly.
