the music, pointing at the twinkling ceiling skulls.
‘I suppose you want one of those full of wine,’ Fee calls back.
‘No, I want one full of champagne!’
There’s something very luxe about the place; it could be that it’s filled with beautiful people, or it could be the décor, which is modern yet a little feminine with pink and purple accents. The place is buzzing, though not so busy we can’t make our way around without feeling claustrophobic.
‘Where are we going?’ Like a camel train, Fee is still holding my hand as I follow Charles.
‘No idea,’ I call back over my shoulder. ‘But he seems to.’
‘Look, there’s a VIP section.’ She points over my shoulder to a raised area, sectioned off by a red velvet rope. Through the twinkling beaded curtains that look suspiciously like the ones I had on my bedroom door when I was twelve, the area seems packed. ‘Can you see J-Lo in there?’
‘Nope!’
It’s not until we’ve traversed the circular dance floor, bypassing the bar area, that I realise Charles is following an employee of the club out to the terrace. As we step outside and into the warm evening air, we find ourselves in a club-like oasis filled with mood lighting and greenery. Soft pink illuminates the curvature of the building, following the flow of water that eases around the space like a tropical lagoon.
‘There’s a pool?’ Much to Charles’s annoyance, my words are a little incredulous. Yep, don’t look now; my hick is showing.
‘Not for swimming in,’ declares the host, haughtily.
‘I’m glad I didn’t bring my swimsuit, then.’ The music is more subdued out here so I don’t need to shout to be heard, but I feel like I need to be snarky anyway. I also feel like asking, girl, what’s with the attitude? You work at Shimmiez. You don’t own the place. But I won’t because anyone who disrespects their server deserves whatever extras they (won’t) find floating in their drink.
Fee chuckles as Charles shoots me a look that conveys he finds me très embarrassing, rattling off something that sounds obsequious, even in a language I barely understand.
‘You are in the premier club in Monaco and you are acting badly,’ Charles hisses as he takes a seat in a circular pod-looking thing. Fee shuffles in after him, and I take a seat on the other side.
‘Charles, you’re what my mum would call all fur coat and no knickers,’ Fee counters happily in my defence.
‘This is true,’ he agrees. ‘Because I cannot wear what you call “knickers” in these tight pants. Also, this is not Gstaad. It is too warm for fur in Monaco.’
‘I’m gonna need another drink after that,’ I chortle, ‘because I did not need to know you’ve gone commando tonight. Better stay out of those strobe lights if you don’t want anyone to know what side you dress on.’
‘It pays to advertise,’ he answers airily, reaching for me. ‘Come give papa a kiss, and all will be forgiven.’
‘Ew, no. Boy cooties!’ I reply, fighting off his playful kissy face.
‘Even worse,’ he retorts. ‘I ’ave the gay cooties!’
Around us, what looks like olive trees are dotted about, though underlit with pink lights, they almost look like cherry trees in full blossom. A couple at a table to our left are smoking an apple-scented hookah, to our right, others are quaffing champagne while, over the lagoon, we have a direct view into the club. Bodies writhe on the dancefloor; women in tiny dresses and men in tight shirts and pants. The number of women here seems to outstrip men, which is usual for a nightclub, I guess, but what’s different here is that there are more older men than there are young. Pretty young things and older men might be the way of the world, but it’s not usually the way of a nightclub.
My musing is interrupted by the arrival of the waitress, just as blonde and snooty as the hostess, as she delivers a bottle of Grey Goose vodka and a bottle of Sakurao gin. Each is placed in an oval container of ice and surrounded by mini bottles of tonic and other mixers. Before I can reach for either, another member of the waitstaff deposits a champagne bucket next to the pod containing a bottle of pink Dom Perignon, no less! I’m beginning to wonder who Charles has been blowing as, with a flourish, she pops the cork then begins to splash the contents into three flutes.
‘Compliments of Monsieur Lorenzi,’ she says, placing the