It’s Not Unusual. . .

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She was already seated when we arrived. Cocktail table for four, front row, center stage. She’d purchased two seats so no one would block her view.

A slight woman attired in a navy velvet tunic and pants, her strawberry blonde hair lay in tiny waves around her head, coifed by the same gal who’s been doing it for years, now, she said, in a little salon right on the Strip, a few blocks from the MGM Grand.

Something akin to diamonds sparkled at her ears and throat; from her salmon-tipped fingers shone a citrine bauble on the right, a simple gold band on the left. She said she was older than she looked. I thought she looked about 80.

“You know, I used to bowl with him in Cheboygan,” she said.

“Really? I didn’t know he bowled.”

“There are probably a lot of things you don’t know about Tom Jones.” She winked.

I knew my baby-sitter had nearly fainted at one of his concerts, that our cleaning lady sang, “What’s New, Pussycat?” while she vacuumed. I knew that $70 would be worth it only if he sang his standards, especially front row, center.

“He’s going to be surprised to see me,” said the woman, who introduced herself as Vivian. “I’ve missed his last few concerts.”

“How many times have you heard him sing?”

“I try never to miss Tom or Englebert,” she said. “I come whenever my husband will bring me. He drops me out front of the casino and picks me up afterwards.”

“What does he do in the meantime?”

“Honey, I’ve been married too long to ask.”

Vivian said Tom Jones’ music was like a balm to her soul. Particularly “Without love,” for which, if he sang it well, she’d give him a personal standing ovation.

“He usually sings it to me,” she said. “It’s our song.”

Just before the house lights dropped, a young woman took her seat to our left. Her bright, shimmering T-shirt, whose sheer back exposed lacy black bra straps, stretched across bold, round breasts and hovered at the waistband of a micro-mini denim skirt. Her taut bare legs disappeared into calf-high platform boots, which she rested, once or twice, upon the stage. Her dark, bedroom eyes were fringed with heavy lashes, and her pouty mouth was glazed with cotton candy frost. She smiled, and I felt, just for a moment, as if I knew her.

The stage burst into a chaotic light show, and music blared in a cacophony of excitement. With a silence just as sudden as the sounds appeared the Welsh singer, still dark, still tan, still fit in his signature black silk suit and collared shirt open just enough to tease and expose a heavy silver cross.

“It’s not unusual. . .” He bowed to his audience and then to his orchestra, taking time to touch his toes lest we miss, perhaps, his agility.

And then, he noticed the young woman to our left. His eyes grew oddly round, his brow raised and he proceeded to dramatize a double and triple take on his quarry. He’d found his muse for the evening.

The audience applauded him like a rock star. Three women behind us and to the right, screamed their love for him and yelled, “Take off your coat!” Vivian sat immobile, her eyes fixed on her man, a smile spreading across her face like a stain, as if she were privileged to a shared secret.

The young woman to our left also never took her eyes off him, singing every single word to every single song and calling out come hither remarks in between.

“How could you possibly know all the words?” we asked her.

“I’m only 20,” she said, “but I’ve known him a really long time, since I was 3. He’s a friend of mine.”

You don’t say.

Tom Jones proceeded to perform his concert to her. Never mind my blonde hair and brand-new black leather pants. Never mind that I could easily have reached up and stroked the tip of his black suede shoes. For Tom Jones, 40 was fatal, and 80 was worse.

While he crooned, “Without Love,” Vivian hugged herself and sat with an expression of rapture too private for the MGM theater. When he had finished, she eased to her slippered feet and raised her arms overhead, applauding to his face.

Tom Jones never saw her, bowing instead, to his still-seated Lolita. With hands pressed to her hips, the young woman eased her skirt up her thighs and grinned. Vivian slid back into her seat.

A white brassiere floated onto the stage. Not a pretty, lacy one, not a sexy leopard one, but a functional cotton contraption. Tom Jones picked it up in a deep bow, inspected its tag for size and then proceeded to demonstrate to the audience that he could still undo all three hooks with one hand. After wiping his brow, his mouth, and his neck, he flung it back to its inebriated owner and invited her to wear it in good health.

Vivian didn’t watch.

Tom Jones’ show seemed to end as quickly as it had begun. But the real show, unfolding throughout the audience, continued. The young woman slipped through the departing crowd and positioned herself in front of the stage door, waiting. The three women to the right clutched the saturated bra and continued to scream for a singer no longer present. Vivian remained in her chair, waiting for an attendant to bring her walker.

“Englebert will be better,” she said.