WHY I LOVE

Las Vegas may have a reputation as all hedonism and no heart, but I have always considered it to be my spiritual home - I like my escapism with sequins and Rat Pack flashbacks - and last year, six years after setting my first novel there, I found myself living in Sin City.

The move was the culmination of 15 years of visits, lured not by gambling but stage shows so lavish and outré you wouldn't find the like anywhere else in the world. Many consider the hallucinogenic decor of the casinos entertainment enough, but I always urge visitors to splash out $100 to see one of the live spectaculars.

It was Cirque du Soleil's saucy production Zumanity that triggered my change of address: my Essex-born friend Petra - one of four outrageous clowns in the show - had arranged seats for myself and my beau Ty in the sound booth, making us eye-level with the musicians suspended above the main stage. Despite the fact that Petra was doing a semi-nude comedy pom-pom routine below, Ty couldn't take his eyes off the band - it transpired that he had played gigs with the girl guitarist back in Los Angeles, and seeing a contemporary fulfil his ambition of playing music full-time made him think that it might be possible for him. Later that night, when we pulled up at Petra's casino-esque four-bedroom bungalow complete with a pool and her own palm trees and learned that it cost the equivalent of a studio flat in LA, the notion became a plan.

Within a month of trading California for Nevada, Ty was playing in a house band (the acts you find in public lounges and bars that entertain you for free). The Crush were made up of former celebrity tribute acts - from the Stratosphere Hotel's show American Superstars - "Jim Morrison" on guitar, "Madonna" on vocals and Ty on bass (he could do a very good impression of Jerry Seinfeld if you caught him on a break).

There is a point during Elton John's Red Piano show at Caesar's Palace when he invites the front section of the audience to join him on stage for a singalong and, yes, when Tom Jones performs at the intimate Hollywood Theatre at the MGM, he'll hear your heckle and respond accordingly (my best friend ended up dating his tour manager for years as a result of her witty banter). But, unlike house bands, they don't take requests and you can't buy them a drink in the interval. Though these performers are generally not natives of the city, you can get a great insight into Vegas life by talking to them.

I remember the first time I saw R&B band Soul Desire at the Big Apple Bar at New York-New York in Vegas (my favourite venue for socialising with people I don't know yet). The two lead singers stilt-walked and tap-danced in a small space where a synchronised sidestep would have been ambitious. Seeing them give 200 per cent when so many would just go through the motions made me want to write a better book.

I became so fascinated with them and the life of a Vegas showboy that I made them leading men in my fourth novel The Paradise Room, albeit transposing their act to Tahiti. It was one of the singers, Tezz, who persuaded me to venture off the Strip to the Valley of Fire - with its raging red sandstone formations featuring 3,000-year-old Indian petroglyphs. He also turned me on to the summer concerts at Mandalay Bay. On a faux sandy beach with a backdrop of Mayan ruins a great stage is erected, with all its accompanying electronics and light rig in the middle of the water. Getting to the "front row" means wading waist-deep. I've enjoyed a paddle to Pink and Billy Idol and Joss Stone is there this month.

It really is reviving to step outside the casinos with their vicious air-conditioning (I have a theory they are experimenting with cryogenics to keep the punters gambling longer). In a town all about "eyes down" it serves you well to raise your gaze towards the mountains that embrace the valley that is Vegas. Something about their lazy majesty flips my heart at every glance and admiring them became a daily ritual: around 4am Ty would come home after "work" and I'd set down my laptop and join him on the patio, relishing the cool before the oven heat of the day.

The sunrises in Vegas are divine - like religious paintings with their streams of golden light warming through the cool pinks - and well worth staying up for, especially if you've swung by the 24-hour Krispy Kreme donut café at the Excalibur. In the hotels, a great viewpoint is the top level of the multistorey car parks. Once the sky reaches true-blue saturation and the sun is fully blinding, you know it's time to go to bed.

If someone asked me for my favourite Vegas activity, I'd have to go with a classic: watching the Bellagio fountains rocket out of a mock Lake Como, spraying and swaying in time to the music. The experience can be so euphoric you may find yourself spontaneously applauding water. One performance is never enough so take a seat on the terrace at Mon Ami Gabi across the road at Paris (the prettiest casino) and enjoy the spectacle with a glass of Champagne. Perhaps you'll get a chance to savour Andrea Bocelli's haunting Time To Say Goodbye...

It's all too poignant for me - I returned to England six months ago, after Ty and I separated. But I still dream in neon...

Belinda Jones' novel The Love Academy (Arrow, £6.99) is out now.