Page 31 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

‘I know, but I thought if I was going to see Him, I wanted to look my best.’

Flick looked at her like she’d gone a bit mad.

‘Heels make me look slimmer,’ she explained.

‘We’re going to confront him. You’re not trying to date him.’

Maggie felt her cheeks flush underneath her bronzer. Like she’d been caught. She doubled down.

‘It might be hard for you to imagine this, as you’re in a relationship. But imagine you were going to see your ex – how would you want to look?’

‘Strong. Confident. Like he was something I scraped off my shoe,’ replied Flick.

‘Well, that too,’ nodded Maggie. ‘But I also want to look slimmer.’

She caught Flick gaping at her with horror.

‘What? Why are you looking at me like that? Most women do, otherwise there wouldn’t be a multi-billion-pound industry in control pants.’

‘You’re not wearing . . .?’ Flick broke off.

‘Kill me now and nail me to your feminist Gen Z cross,’ snapped Maggie, who was growing sick of being lectured to. ‘Yes, I am wearing tummy-control pants. And, yes, I brought them with me.’ She glared at Flick, challenging her to say something. ‘Though they’re bloody uncomfortable in this heat,’ she added, fidgeting underneath her sequins.

‘Well, you look great anyway,’ said Flick, suitably reprimanded. She might have spent all her time projecting confidence about this evening but she was as nervous as Maggie. Even if for very different reasons.

‘So do you,’ said Maggie, returning the compliment.

They turned to look at each other, taking themselves in, then both smiled at their transformations. Not bad, considering.

‘OK, come on.’ Flick threw back her shoulders. ‘Let’s do this.’

On arriving at the casino, they discovered that, like the rest of Monte Carlo, it had transformed at night. Lit up against the night sky, it was flanked by a fleet of expensive cars and a flashy set of people were swirling around the bottom of the steps at the main entrance.

Joining them, Maggie scanned the crowds, a fluttering in her stomach at the possibility of seeing him again.

Was it nerves? Fear? Desire?

As the thought popped into her head, she almost tripped on the hem of her dress as she climbed the stairs and had to grab hold of Flick’s elbow.

‘Wait, are you OK?’ Flick glanced at her, concerned.

‘Yes, yes, fine . . . absolutely fine,’ she garbled. Fine being the universal language for absolutely not fine, not in the slightest.

Get a grip, she told herself firmly. Smoothing down her dress, Maggie tried slowing down her breathing.

At the entrance they were greeted by uniformed doormen and, after showing their passports and paying their admission, which Flick put on her credit card while trying not to think of the costs she was racking up, they were suddenly inside the famous casino.

And it was breathtaking.

A large atrium, flanked with marble pillars and ornate chandeliers, which spilled from the ceilings like crystal waterfalls, greeted them as they entered. It was grandeur on a level that neither Flick nor Maggie had ever seen before. Luxurious rooms with swagged red velvet curtains, huge floor-to-ceiling paintings and stained-glass windows gave way to rows of slot machines and gaming tables, their familiar green baize and polished mahogany appearing like islands, around which sat dozens of players with throngs of excited bystanders jostling behind the roped-off sections.

‘Wow, this place is really incredible,’ murmured Maggie, gazing up at the frescoed ceilings with awe. ‘Look at these paintings.’

‘Look at the bar with all the crystals,’ gasped Flick, who seemed to have left her soap box at the door and was momentarily stunned by the opulence. It was a world away from the bar she often pulled pints behind at home. ‘It’s so busy, there’s so many people.’

‘It’s probably full of rich playboys,’ whispered Maggie, gesturing towards the gaming tables, where the minimum bet was more money than she had in the bank.

‘Well, we only need to find one playboy,’ Flick reminded her, snapping back to the matter at hand.