Divas Las Vegas

Chapter one We’re on our way to Las Vegas to get married. Admittedly we’re a little light on grooms – only Izzy has a fiancé and she has no intention of marrying him – but still, we’re optimistic: with statistically one wedding taking place every six minutes, the air in Vegas is practically 70 per cent oxygen, 30 per cent confetti. Add to that the fact that drinking hard liquor 24 hours a day is (near enough) compulsory, and we reckon the odds of us finding I do-able men in under a month are stacked in our favour. What do we have to lose, anyway? Lacklustre jobs and men with a gift for making us feel more alone than when we were single. We’ve been led – rather brutally – to the uneasy realisation that we’re tolerating rather than embracing life. Wishing for a miracle isn’t netting us the results we need so we’ve decided on a more hands-on approach to our fate. Izzy has packed 72 condoms instead of her usual 36 and I’ve got a family-size jar of Marmite wrapped in my pyjamas – proof indeed we have no intention of returning to England until our lives are well and truly ‘altared’. Well, there comes a time when you have to take a stand. As Izzy says, ‘There’s only so many crap boyfriends a girl can take.’ At twenty-seven we’re plenty old enough for crap husbands. ‘There it is!’ screeches Izzy, spying her first Vegas light bulb from 12,000 feet up. The solo glow suddenly erupts into a shimmering mirage of chameleon neon. We gasp in unison, severing the circulation in each other’s arms with a white-knuckle grip of excitement. I place my other hand over my heart to stop it leaping from my body. It’s as if a huge, leaden treasure chest had been prised open to reveal its glittering booty: the Kryptonite green glow of the MGM Grand, the fizzing pinks and oranges of the Flamingo Hilton, the gleam ing gold of Mandalay Bay, the polished jet of the Luxor pyramid. . .