by Donna Alam
‘I imagine dating in America is a bit like back home in the UK, and I have to say, dating French men isn’t the same. Here, it’s almost as though exclusivity is implicit. That is, unless it’s been addressed as otherwise, I suppose.’
‘This is not a conversation we’ve had,’ I admit, reaching for my glass.
‘Except if they’re rich. Normal rules don’t seem to apply to rich men.’ My heart sinks to my strappy sandals, but I remind myself this conversation is purely academic. She doesn’t know Remy. Maybe she’s working on second-hand data. Maybe she’s never dated a rich man out here, or anywhere, for that matter. ‘Especially out here,’ she adds.
‘You really think it’s worse in Monaco?’ My tone is a little sharp, though I don’t mean it to be so. But I could tell them some truths about the men. Men who trailed in and out of my life, those I was supposed to call uncle, one or two of them dad. Men my mother trusted. Men who were no good. I could regale them tales of the men from the Pink Pussy Cat—sons, brothers, fathers, husbands. Bad men. Grabby men. Men who have no respect for women at all. Except I’ve left that all behind. Plus, I don’t really know my new friends. New friends who look a little shocked. ‘I’m sorry,’ I begin a little more reasonably, ‘it’s just, as a child, I moved around a whole bunch of times. Then a couple of years ago, I took off on a trip around the world. It seems to me whether you’re in Kansas, Kuala Lumpur, or Kathmandu, you will always find assholes without looking too hard.’
‘Yes, but people with this,’ Charles replies, rubbing his thumb and fingers together in the universal sign for money, ‘are the biggest ass’oles of all. They think money makes ’zem untouchable. Also, they are like God’s gift or something.’
‘People are people,’ Fee says, making me think she might be the peacemaker of our trio. ‘But while money might make the world go around, it certainly seems to make for bigger arseholes.’
‘Enough!’ Charles decrees, reaching for the wine bottle. ‘We are here to have a good time. Money is not everything. But I say a little prayer of thanks that we get our salary next week.’
I do a little internal squee at the thought of my first pay cheque. It’s so exciting! I can’t believe I’ve been here almost a month already.
‘Pass me the menu, would you?’ asks Fee. ‘I’m so hungry, my bum is eating my knickers.’
‘You are so very English.’ This from Charles doesn’t sound like a compliment.
‘You’re not allowed to order salad this time,’ I say. ‘You make me feel guilty just looking at my plate of carbs.’
‘Just because Fee means fairy in French,’ adds Charles. ‘It does not mean you should eat like one.’
We eventually settle down to a mix of pizza, salad, and pommes frites, which are just french fries outside of France. And Monaco, I suppose. More wine is ordered, more shit is talked, before Charles seems struck by the most amazing thought.
‘Oh! I forget!’ Despite being a little wine pickled due to our second bottle, he becomes very animated. ‘I have a surprise tonight.’
‘You’re not going to flash us again on the way home, are you? I run my finger through a smudge of Chantilly cream, the only evidence remaining of the portion of Tiramisu we’ve shared three ways. Which doesn’t constitute much of a treat, as far as I’m concerned.
‘Leave ’z pattern on the plate.’ He slaps my hand away. ‘And I did not flash,’ he scorns. ‘My pants make a rip. I was saying . . .’ He cuts an unimpressed glance my way. ‘A friend ’as ’ooked me up with a special treat.’
‘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 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 bottle back.
‘You dark horse,’ I accuse, turning to Charles. ‘That’s the guy on the twelfth floor, isn’t it? The one who had a problem with his air-conditioning last week.’
‘Oui,’ he replies airily. ‘It was so hot in his apartment we had to strip. And then I found I had to rub him down.’
‘Vigorously, no doubt!’
‘But I thought you were still living with Phillipe?’ Fee asks as our dirty sniggering laughter dies away.
‘Phillipe is moving out,’ he says, eyes glittering angrily. ‘For that fils de pute lifeguard.’
‘I’m so sorry, Charlie.’
‘I am not,’ he declares immediately. ‘There are many extra seamen in the ocean.’
‘Sure, though I’m not sure that’s the right metaphor.’ I pat his arms consolingly. ‘See any seamen you’d like here tonight?’
‘I think I am otherwise engaged this evening.’
‘Oh? What makes you say that?’
‘J’ai du nez,’ he replies, tapping his nose knowingly.
‘Fine. You be all mysterious, then. See if I care.’
‘How do you say . . . someone is giving me the eye already. Non, don’t look!’ He reaches for my arm, his expression a mixture of alarm and delight. ‘Oh! He’s coming this way. Act normal. Quick, someone say something!’
‘What’s long, hard, and full of seamen?’ Fee’s words are accompanied by a wince as, like a manic, Charles throws his head back and laughs unreservedly.
‘I thought you said act normal,’ I utter from behind my champagne. ‘She hasn’t even gotten to the punchline.’
‘Was that too much?’
‘It was about as natural as a three-legged man.’
‘My favourite kind of man,’ he answers gleefully, his eyes sliding away.
‘You don’t want a three-legged man. You want one with a foot-long, you slutty little man,’ I say with a snigger, my gaze following his. It’s hard to tell who he’s looking at because so many people are milling about. Drinking. Swaying. Having a good time. My heart feels light, and it’s not the wine or the champagne. It’s been so long since I’ve had a night out on the town, even if Shimmiez is so different from my previous experiences. I have friends, a gorgeous place to live, a man who treats me well. Pinch me now—tell me this is all real.
‘Bah! He has stopped to talk to someone.’ Charles then glances my way. ‘Why would I want a man with another foot? Especially a long one?’
Oh, Lord. I find myself shaking my head. ‘I can’t . . . you know what? You stick with your tripod.’
‘And you.’ Charles slips his hand along the sofa, curling his fingers around Fee’s shoulder. ‘I did not know you were such a dirty girl.’
‘It was a joke,’ she protests, turning red, or rather a deeper shade of pink under the rosy lighting.
‘Non. Long, ’ard, and full of semen sounds like ’ow his ass makes me feel.’ We both follow his attention to where a man stands chatting to the group seated at a nearby pod, his back to us. How can we tell who’s caught his attention this time? The guy is bending over.
‘You said to say something,’ Fee demurs. ‘And I said the first thing that came into my head.’
‘What’s long, hard, and full of semen?’ I recount. ‘So, what’s the punchline?’
‘A submarine,’ she answers with a weak smile. ‘Terrible, right?’
&nb
sp; ‘It reminds me of the time I was hit on with the gold standard line of: Damn, girl, did you start a Navy? Because you’re about to be full of semen.’
‘Please tell me it didn’t work,’ she says with a grimace.
‘My reply went a little like this. My.’ I bring my fingers to the middle of my chest and flutter my lashes a little. ‘You must be a sailor. Because I do declare your eyes are as blue as the ocean I just dumped my last boyfriend’s lifeless body in.’
‘That was a little less Scarlet O’Hara and a little more Scarlett O’Savage,’ Fee replies with a giggle.
‘That’s what I was aiming for. I want smart and sincere, not smart-ass. But riddle me this,’ I say, turning to Charles. ‘How come there isn’t one average-looking woman here tonight? Note I don’t include the men. Hot butt aside, there are lots of average-looking men here. And there are lots of men who should be tucked up in bed with a cup of cocoa. So also, I guess, what’s up with that?’
‘Rich men are their own attraction,’ Fee asserts with a careless shrug.
‘Really?’ My head swings her way, the motion unintentionally exposing my disgust.
‘Well . . . yes. There have been studies, haven’t there? All this,’ she says, gesturing to the people around us with her glass. It’s evolutionary psychology. Men seek out mates with youth, which is linked to fertility, and with youth often comes beauty. Women don’t seek out mates that have a pretty face. They want security.’
‘Yeah, but you’re talking about a time when men wielded cubs and looked good in bearskin.’
‘It’s still the same for some now. They might not need someone to stand at the mouth of their cave but crave the security money brings. It’s a thing, especially out here. A beauty-status exchange.’
‘Being rich doesn’t make you a catch,’ I counter, trying hard not to sound prickly as I smooth my hand through my dark hair. The evening is balmy, which doesn’t bode well for my sleekly hot ironed look. And getting irrationally angry won’t exactly help.