Page 37 of The Suite Life
‘It is,’ he replies. ‘But so much fun.’
20
Donnie and I slink into the indoor VIP bar, taking point behind a large palm plant.
My eyes widen and my jaw drops at the sheer extravagance. Almost everything is gold – probably to remind the filthy rich just how filthy rich they are – and I swear to God it makes the air smell like money.
The walls are gold, the disco ball is gold, and even the bar stools are wrapped in shimmering gold upholstery. Tables, chairs, coasters – it’s like someone took a regular bar and, having realised they had a buttload of gold leaf knocking around, decided to go to town on the place. Midas hasn’t just touched this place, he’s thrown up all over it.
I laugh to myself softly as I notice the doors to the toilets across the room. You know what I’m thinking, don’t you? Surely not, though? Solid gold (or gold-coloured, at least) toilets is surely a step too far? Would that make them too nice to use, or am I really not getting the super-rich thing? Perhaps it’s normal – if not, the only done thing – to exclusively pee into a bowl made of a precious metal.
‘Money can’t buy taste, can it?’ Donnie jokes quietly. ‘Bloody hell, they must have mined Fort Knox to deck this place out. I’ve never seen so much gold outside of a Bond villain’s lair.’
I laugh quietly.
‘Exactly the kind of place for me to find the wedding date of my dreams,’ I reply.
‘There are plenty of gold statues of buff men,’ Donnie points out. ‘If the worst comes to the worst, we’ll stick one of those in a suit.’
‘It’s good to have options,’ I agree with a faux seriousness. ‘But, back to plan A.’
‘Yes, plan A,’ he replies. ‘Statue dates are definitely more of a plan B – C, even.’
I laugh.
‘Come on, wingman extraordinaire, who’s the lucky victim?’ I ask, scanning the room.
Donnie points out a man sitting alone, absorbed in his drink and the music.
‘There, that one,’ he tells me. ‘If I were sitting solo in this literal gold bar, that’s exactly what I would be doing.’
‘Okay then, wish me luck,’ I say, a nervous smile creeping onto my lips.
‘Good luck,’ Donnie replies dutifully. ‘I’ll stick around, just in case you need a quick escape.’
‘Thanks, but if he seems normal, I’ll give you a sign to bail. I know you were hitting the beach today. I can always find you there.’
‘All right,’ he agrees.
I approach casually, edging towards him in a way that hopefully makes it seem like I’ve not even noticed him yet. I’m hoping he’ll spot my lime-green bikini glowing from under my clothes so that I can catch his eye. He’s in his mid-thirties, with dark hair and a well-groomed beard and messy brown hair thatplays off against an otherwise squeaky-clean-cut look. He has hazel eyes and the kind of outfit you only tend to see in fashion magazines. He looks effortlessly thrown together – but in that way that looks like it did actually take a tremendous amount of effort.
‘Do you mind if I sit here?’ I ask simply, offering a friendly smile.
‘Not at all,’ he replies, returning the smile. ‘Cute accent.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply. ‘It’s great that I seem fancy, to Americans at least, because back home I sound just like everyone else.’
‘You have a tactical advantage here,’ he replies with a grin. ‘Use it wisely. I’m Todd, by the way.’
‘I’m Gigi,’ I reply, taking a seat right next to him.
‘Gigi?’ he repeats back to me, cocking his head curiously. ‘That’s an interesting name – certainly not one you hear every day.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply, trying to gauge his sincerity. Was that a compliment, or was he subtly questioning my parents’ naming choices?
‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asks, smoothly changing the subject.
‘That would be great, thank you,’ I say. ‘Any cocktail would be lovely.’
