After a long day in court, once, I am unavoidably obliged to accompany a handful of more senior (male) colleagues to a casino. Ever alert to new experiences, I observe carefully; participate judiciously.

*

Courtesy of a grateful former client, a satisfactory set of false identity documents enables me to open a bank account in Emma Hudd's name, and get a cheap mobile. On one of my little nostalgie weekends I pass a casino, and the giddyingly seductive potential for 'Emma Hudd' to be a self-funding exercise occurs to me.

Considering it on my train journey home, I remind myself that Hetty Jacklin never lets herself be seduced by anything, of course. Especially when she finds herself feeling giddy: maintaining my double lifestyle takes careful management. Yet, I let it be known in my professional circles that I enjoyed the casino night, and find myself invited on one or two more. I profit modestly.

Sticking to that chanciest of mistresses, roulette, I make a strict rule to walk away after two losses or one win – whichever happens first. A 17:1 street bet at £5 usually serves me perfectly well; if I'm feeling bold, I'll risk a straight-up or two.

I know that there are sound statistical reasons why the house always wins in the end. The roulette wheel is a tangible manifestation of the cruelty of Fortune's metaphorical one.

*

Stretched out, post-shower, on my bed in another cheap hotel, I listen to Orff's 'O Fortuna' on my phone; remind Emma Hudd that even she is not invulnerable.

Rota tu varibilis, status malus: you ever-changing wheel, ever malevolent...

I change into a short, midnight-blue evening dress (£10 online, but it looks the part) and head out, cautiously to circle the tables.

*

One of the croupiers is a pretty, late-twenties brunette, who looks good in the house's uniform waistcoat and black miniskirt. Her gaze begins to linger, once we've caught each other's eyes once or twice. When a space comes up on her table, I slide in close and place my chips on a single and a street. I jot down on the back of a drinks mat the numbers I've bet on.

The croupier pretends not to notice. I sit down on the stool next to hers and wait for her to spin the wheel, watching the way her hair tickles her collar.

As the ball bounces to rest nowhere near my numbers, she perches herself back on her stool and lets her table colleague sort out the winnings. I break my rule and play several spins, win or loss, placing odd little bets here and there and jotting them down on my beermat. Each time she perches back on her stool, we arrange for our arms to brush, or knees to touch, more obviously each time.

I stop when the last bet nets me a small overall loss. I get up, smoothing my dress down. The croupier puts her soft hand over mine for a moment and offers to take the drinks mat. "Get rid of that for you?"

I let her slide it from between my fingers. "You can do what you like with it." The series of numbers I've bet on look a lot like a phone number: my burner one, in fact. "I'm going to the bar to spend my money on something more reliable." I slide a few chips in her direction as a tip, and she smiles.

Twenty minutes later, my phone vibrates with a text. Do I see a pattern here?

You see a series of numbers, which may have significance x

Ha, I guessed right. Nice dress btw. Shame the numbers didn't work out for you tonight x

Maybe they will yet x

:) Maybe so. Gotta get back x

I wait. I feel I can afford to. After another twenty minutes, this gamble at least pays off.

Am off at 2am if your numbers think that's ok x

Here's another number for you. I text back my hotel and room number. I'll be awake x

Alright. I'll take a punt on that :) xx

I assess my night's overall profits and losses. Nunc per ludum, I think, lightly tapping the rhythm of the Orff on my whisky-glass with my fingernail.

*****

[Get help for problem gambling: https://www.nhs.uk/live-well/addiction-support/gambling-addiction/]

[Picture credit: The Wheel of Fortune from a medieval book in Manchester University Library, via WikimediaCommons]