Shopaholic to the Rescue by Sophie Kinsella

gambling’s expensive. I mean, you could get a really nice skirt for three hundred dollars.
    “Well, I bought five hundred’s worth earlier,” says Danny, his eyes gleaming. “So I want to get going.”
    “Five hundred?” I gape at him.
    “I’ll make ten times that much, you wait and see. I’m feeling lucky tonight.” He blows on his hands. “Lucky fingers.” His glee is infectious, and as we turn to survey the room, chips in our hands, I can’t help feeling thrilled. And terrified. Both.
    I’ve never been anywhere like this. Even the air is infected with gambling. You can practically sense it in people’s breath as you walk past the tables, a kind of heightened, tense feeling, like when you’re in the queue outside a sample sale. All around I can hear roars and exclamations from tables as customers win or lose, mixed with the clicking of chips and the clinking of cocktail glasses on trays held by skimpily dressed waitresses. And all the time, the continual background bleeping of the machines.
    “What shall we play?” I demand. “Roulette?”
    “Blackjack,” says Danny firmly, and ushers me toward a big table.
    It all looks so grown-up and serious and real . As we slide into a pair of empty seats at the table, no one even looks up to say hello. It’s a bit like sitting at a bar, except the bar is covered in fabric, and instead of handing out drinks, the croupier is dealing out cards. There are two elderly men at the table and a girl in a tuxedo and a sparkly trilby, who looks very bad-tempered.
    “I don’t know how to play!” I whisper in a panic to Danny.
    At least…I sort of know how to play. It’s the same as twist, isn’t it? I play twist with Mum and Dad every year at Christmas. But are there special rules in Las Vegas?

    “Easy,” Danny says. “Put down some chips. Twenty dollars.” He takes the chips from my hand and places them firmly in a circle on the table. The croupier is a Japanese-looking girl and she barely acknowledges my chips, just waits till everyone has bet, then deals out the cards.
    I’ve got a six of hearts and a six of spades.
    “Twist,” I say loudly, and everyone stares at me.
    “You don’t say ‘Twist,’ ” says Danny, glancing at my cards. “You want to split.”
    I don’t know what that is, but I’ll trust Danny.
    “OK,” I say boldly. “Split.”
    “Don’t say ‘Split,’ ” mutters Danny. “Put your extra chips here”—he points at the table—“and make a ‘V’ with your fingers.”
    “OK.” I follow his guidance, feeling suddenly very cool and professional. The dealer separates my two cards and deals again.
    “Oh, I see !” I exclaim as she gives me an eight of clubs and a ten of hearts. “I have two piles now! I’m bound to win!”
    I look around the table, watching as everyone plays. This is actually quite fun.
    “Becky, you’re up,” murmurs Danny. “Everyone’s waiting.”
    “Oh, right.” I peer at my cards. One pile totals fourteen and the other totals sixteen. What should I do? Twist or stick? Er…My mind flips backward and forward, undecided.
    “Becky?”
    “Yes, give me a second….” God, this game is hard. I mean, it’s really hard. How do I decide? I close my eyes and try to channel the betting gods. But they’re clearly on a tea break.

    “Becky?” prompts Danny again.
    Everyone at the table is frowning at me. Honestly. Don’t they realize how difficult this is?
    “Ummm.” I massage my brow. “I’m not sure. I just need to think….”
    “Ma’am?” Now the croupier is looking impatient. “Ma’am, you need to play.”
    Argh. Gambling is so stressy! It’s like trying to decide whether to buy a marked-down coat in the Selfridges sale, when there might be a better one at Liberty, but if you leave this one, it might get snapped up by someone else….
    “What shall I do?” I appeal around the table. “How do you all stay so calm?”
    “Ma’am, it’s gambling . You just make a