‘What kind of treat?’ Fee asks suspiciously as Charles practically shimmies with excitement in his seat.
‘Guess!’ he demands, his eyes comically wide.
‘You’ve been comped something, haven’t you?’ I might be new to the concierge business, but I’m learning quickly, and discovering it’s a culture where one hand washes the other, so to speak. Your Russian billionaire client wants to hold a birthday party for his daughter’s thirteenth? All it takes is for you to push the twenty-thousand-dollar budget in the direction of one venue over another, and you’ve earned yourself a favour.
‘Peut-être.’ He pouts saucily.
‘It’s Friday night, I’ve had almost a bottle of wine, and my head hurts. ‘En Anglaise, s’il vous plait.’ In English, please.
‘I said maybe. Also, your accent is atrocious.’
‘And the more wine you drink, the meaner you become,’ I retort, sticking out my tongue.
‘So, you don’t want to go to Shimmiez, then?’
‘Ner-ner-na-ner-ner,’ I taunt right back, using the same sing-song delivery, but we’re not being serious. Charles is becoming the gay brother I never had. Or even knew I wanted.
‘Wine makes you both perfectly obnoxious,’ Fee interjects airily. ‘And Shimmiez will be a nightmare to get into tonight. The Cannes Film Festival was last week, which means the place will be overflowing with rich creeps. Rich creeps with massive—’
‘I am in!’ Charles holds up his hand.
‘Entitlement complexes,’ Fee finishes, sending Charles a little side-eye.
‘Also, there will be famous people,’ Charles adds, oblivious. ‘J-Lo is in town.’
‘Oh, well,’ I add, ‘think she’ll have space for us at her table? Maybe Charles can sit on her fiancé’s knee.’
‘I won’t need to. I have a table tonight. And drinks—gratuit! Free!’
22
Rose
Though I haven’t been here long, I’ve been here long enough to know that the legendary Shimmiez is one of Monaco’s premier hangouts and the place to be seen. More than that, it’s an icon of the Monaco nightclubs scene, having been open since the nineteen seventies. But most of my knowledge is academic, gleaned from googling Monaco before moving out here. It’s definitely been on my list of places to visit, but I thought I’d have to wait longer than this, especially as I’d read of the ridiculous prices. I’ve heard it costs the equivalent of thirty dollars for a beer, and if you want to reserve a table, try multiplying that by ten!
But, as Fee and I almost skip along the pavement, arm in arm, following our fearlessly (camp) leader, tonight none of this is my concern because we have a table reservation confirmed for midnight, along with free drinks for the remainder of the night!
Hell to the yes!
‘Your outfit is so cute.’ Without relinquishing my arm, Fee dips forward, glancing down at my legs. ‘You really caught the sun today.’
‘And I’m making the most of it,’ I agree as our heels clip against the sidewalk. I’m wearing shorts tonight, along with a silky vest and a slouchy blazer, an oversized clutch folded under my arm. I’m feeling pretty good, despite our earlier carbs and wine, though it could be argued that what I’m feeling is drunkalicious.
‘Are those shorts Balmain?’
‘Nope,’ I scoff. ‘They cost me twenty bucks from H & M, and I’m pretty sure fifteen bucks worth is currently stuck up my ass.’
‘Shhh!’ scolds Charles, turning with a fearsome look.
‘Do you think it was the price of my outfit that’s offended him?’
Fee drops her voice. ‘Darling, if it’s not Gucci, it’s not Monaco!’
We turn into Avenue Princess Grace, not too far from the beach where we’d hung out, and see the entry line snaking in front of us. But Charles doesn’t tarry, walking confidently past people lining up, straight to the front. He murmurs something into the door bitch’s ear, a door bitch flanked by two fearsome heavies, one of whom doesn’t so much have a forehead as a five head, the thing is so prominently huge.
‘I wouldn’t mind that full of wine,’ I whisper to Fee, who tries not to giggle.
‘You’re awful,’ she says as our invite is verified.
‘Yeah. Awful nice,’ I correct as the door bitch beckons us in and we cut ahead of the line, people complaining in our wake.
Look at me, living large—in Monaco!
As we descend the wide staircase, the thud of bass begins to vibrate through my soles. And then we’re there—in Shimmiez—the place to see and be seen! Techno blares, arrhythmic lighting filling the space, bouncing off surfaces, the floor, walls, the glittering disco balls shaped like skulls.
‘It’s like Alexander McQueen and RuPaul had a baby,’ I shout over