Page 223 of The Art of Almost Losing It
“Yeah, I think he just needs to sleep.”
“Sleep!” Gran yells. “Who said anything about sleep? We’re here to partay!”
Yes, friends—my grandmother is indeed on this bachelorette trip to luxury hell, where you get a fancy chocolate with your eternal torture. Because apparently money can’t buy you everything. And Gran’s ex-boy toy works as a concierge at the Palace Hotel and is getting us the hookup for all the fancy events. Don’t know why people bring family members on trips they weren’t invited to.
Nora rolls her eyes. “If you want to sit in the room and drink hot chocolate with Dani, fine—but the rest of us want Granny to bring hot guys.”
“Totally,” Colette’s cousin agrees. “David’s starting to lose his hair, and I like the perks with his job, but I need some eye candy on this bachelorette. We all know Dani’s too uptight to actually hire a stripper.”
“This is St. Moritz, not Vegas. You can’t just hire a stripper here,” Gran tells the private train car. “You gotta be in the know.”
“This is a wholesome luxury bachelorette—that’s why we’re not going to Cabo, right?” I start freaking out. “Strippers are not in the budget or itinerary. I promised Graham that we’d be doing spa days and eating fondue, that this wasn’t a typical bachelorette.”
“Boo, boring!” Gran shouts to drunken cheers from the Girl Squad.
“Graham’s already on edge. I can’t have him get wind of me being around strippers.”
Greta rolls her eyes. “You’re so weird. Men aren’t going to care that you see a stripper.”
“It’s because she’s so sheltered,” Colette says snidely.
“Don’t you worry.” Gran tops up everyone’s glasses. “We’re going to have all the hot men with French accents you girls can handle. Leave it to me.”
The Palace Hotelhas an entire line of Rolls-Royces waiting at the train station. We’re whisked up the winding road toward the hotel, backdropped by the snowy Alps, the turrets and towers lit from below, glowing gold against the blue-white Alps.
The hotel lobby—well, “opulent” doesn’t even describe it. Soaring ceilings. Crystal chandeliers. Marble floors. Everywhere you look there’s velvet, gilt, carved wood, fresh flowers even though it’s winter. The air smells faintly of pine, expensive perfume, and money.
We don’t even touch our bags. Uniformed butlers glide in, tag everything, and disappear toward the elevators.
Gran’s ex-boy toy—François, one of the concierges—takes over, sweeping an arm grandly.
“The Palace was originally built in the nineteenth century,” he says. “Now it is a high-end, exclusive boutique hotel. There are tunnels,” he adds conspiratorially, “connecting the restaurants, the spa, and our other properties. Including the hot springs.”
“Spa day tomorrow,” I announce immediately.
“Yes,” François says, nodding. “I made sure you have exclusive use of the spa in the morning.”
When we’re finally led upstairs, we find a series of interconnected suites—more like a private wing than hotel rooms. Champagne is chilling in silver buckets. There are trays of delicate snacks: cheese curls dusted with truffles, chocolates shaped like tiny works of art, bowls of candied nuts.
There’s even a small basket of dog treats and a sterling-silver dog bowl for Lulu.
“Do not get used to this,” I tell my dog sternly as she inhales a treat in one bite. “This is not our new normal.”
“It could be,” Colette says smoothly as she and the Girl Squad drift into the suite. “You’re marrying a billionaire,” she adds. “You could live like this every day if you wanted to.”
“You better send that man a titty pic.” Maya sprawls across the couch.
“After all he’s done for you, she better send him a whole-ass porn video,” Greta adds.
“I hope you shaved before we got here.”
“I did!” Colette’s cousin giggles. “I’m getting the full billionaire treatment out of this bachelorette.”
“Girls!” Gran barks, bustling in. “Get dressed. Skimpy outfits. We need at least a few nip slips.” She claps her hands. “François got us dinner reservations for late tonight. Had to let him empty his balls first,” she adds cheerfully. “They’re giving us a private room, but to get the chef to stay late, he’ll need some extra motivation.”
“Sounds like we’re going shopping.” Greta and Nora whoop.
“Did your almost-husband give us enough budget to hit up Chanel?” someone asks.
