The Things We Do to Our Friends(47)

“It will be like Monaco,” Tabitha said when she told us what she wanted us to do.

“Monaco!” Imogen squealed, her hand to her chest, typically prudish.

“Monaco,” Ava repeated flatly.

And that’s how we treated it. Dressed up far too fancily in frocks that fell off our shoulders, floor-length like we were going to a ball, makeup done by Imogen, troweled on in greasy slicks. Tabitha wore something that was sequined all over, pale blue and unsuitable. Dastardly ice queen meets cruise ship glitterball. And then she kept banging on about Monaco. Anyway, the more she talked, the more we all started to look forward to it.

“There might be some girls at the casino,” Samuel said buoyantly, rarely deterred.

When we walked in, it was clear Tabitha was wrong, and the casinos in Edinburgh weren’t remotely like our fantasies of Monaco. The one we went to was extremely run-down, and we arrived too early. Apparently, it was at its busiest and most exciting at three a.m. when the clubs emptied out and the overspill gathered drunkenly to throw notes at the croupiers. There was an old red carpet, all crusty and hard with some unknown substance. Bottles of drinks in blue and green served with a straw. The smell of vomit and of aftershave and, absurdly, of hot butter. But the truth of it all was that it didn’t matter if the casino was depressing. When she saw what the place looked like, Tabitha just shrugged, pushed her shoulders back, and told Imogen to get her a drink.

“She needs the money, you know. I heard her dad won’t give her any kind of allowance next year,” Imogen whispered to me before she passed the drinks out. Straight after she said it, she squeaked like a mouse, and her hand went to her mouth at the betrayal of it—and to me of all people. Her teeth covered again, retreating away from me.

Interesting.

It was decided that one person should take the chips, play on behalf of us all.

Ava piped up: “I’m not sure it should be you, Tabitha? Maybe Samuel?” Saying what the rest of us were thinking. Tabitha, a flailing magpie who wouldn’t be able to stay focused.

We all thought Tabitha would object. She kind of pursed her lips, looking at Ava as if weighing up what to say, and there was a bit of a stare-off, which I think was more for show than anything else. Tabitha laughed and reached out, pulling Ava toward her, then letting go. She turned to us all, blessing us with her decision.

“Samuel,” she said firmly, as if that had been her idea in the first place.

Samuel could do it. Samuel who could work out VAT in his head and seemed highly and strategically numerate, to me at least.

So, Samuel sat there intently, sweat forming on his hairline (a drip of orange—fake tan certainly). He wouldn’t want to let us down. He liked to please, of course. We all did.

So much riding on it! A kind of delicious fear, and I could see why people liked gambling.

We watched.

Imogen was looking at him in awe like he was some sort of god. Willing him on so he’d win. It made me quite angry for her, and at her. I wanted her to say something. I wanted for her to be bolder about it—to tell him how she felt. That’s what Tabitha would have done, or Ava, or even me. We took more than Imogen ever did, greedily, anything we wanted. Imogen never did, and I wonder if it was because she didn’t think she deserved to.

Samuel doubled down and we were surprised, because he had a five and a seven. The other people around the table looked annoyed. It was bad strategy. He lost the hand, and then he did it again.

A crowd was forming around us now and I had a sinking feeling we’d lose every penny and have to start again from scratch.

Hand after hand, he kept doubling down.

He doubled down on a five and a six, and a face card came up. Twenty-one. He won the hand.

And then the tides turned and he was winning, the next hand and the next, and I couldn’t believe I’d ever thought he’d lose—how misguided of me! Things tended to go our way, back then.

I remember after he’d won a few hands, a girl who’d been watching him scuttled up to him with a wide smile, but Tabitha sent her on her way with a loud hiss.

So many shiny plastic chips in red and green, which Tabitha loved. “Take a picture of me with them,” she said. Snaps of her with dirty casino chips clasped between straight white teeth, fully completing her transformation into cruise ship cabaret star. And then, when we exchanged the chips at the booth, a chunk of money for us, in crisp notes, and she took it without question.

Later, it was busier. The smell of butter became more pronounced, and then everyone seemed to be eating cheese toasties passed out indiscriminately by the staff to mop up the alcohol. Thinner, meaner-looking versions of a croque-monsieur.

Ava went up to the booth and paid for a huge pile of chips without batting an eyelid, an amount that we gasped at, and she split them among us.

“I want us to have fun tonight!” she said lightly.

Imogen refused her chips covertly. “Who knows where this is from? Dirty money,” she said and passed them to me under the table, so Ava didn’t see.

Samuel refused too. “I don’t like owing people,” he said.

Ava and Tabitha and I went wild. Ava’s money—once converted into chips, nothing could have felt more like Monopoly money.

It was a power-play in itself—Ava had never been showy before. For some reason, she had a change of heart that night and displayed her unlimited funds. To me, she seemed to be making a point—she didn’t have to be in business with us all and she wanted to demonstrate this to us, display some kind of clout that wasn’t overwhelming, but certainly made a statement.