Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 69621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Fuck seasickness, it’s price sickness that almost has me barfing when I scan the drinks list.
Fifty thousand fucking dollars a pop for a bottle of some crazy ass champagne?! Literally. For one pop and about five glasses. This place has to be having a fucking laugh!
Even the cheapest bottle on this menu costs thousands. Five hundred a pop for a cocktail last night was mental enough, but ten grand for a bottle of champers? Base rate? It feels too much. Way too much.
“What would you like?” Heath asks, with his easy grin still bright on his face.
“Maybe another orange juice, please.”
He tips his head, laughing. “An orange juice, in this place? Don’t you fancy some champagne?”
I actually feel sick at the thought of fifty thousand for one fucking bottle.
“I think I’m alright for champagne, thanks,” I say, wincing as I point to my head. “Still a bit muggy.”
“You don’t need to have champagne,” Heath says. “You could have a spritzer? A cocktail? Bucks fizz? There are plenty of your favourite sparkling wines on here, too. Take a look.”
Bizarrely, I don’t want to take a look. Being on a yacht with Heath Mason earlier felt elite beyond elite, and so did the club and restaurant last night – before I turned into a beach slut, but something feels off about this place.
The atmosphere is… different.
I realise to my absolute horror that I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.
Here, in this bustling show off den, I get another foul taste of what the celebrity culture can be like. Competitive and snarky. Judgemental. Ugly and social media driven, everyone out to prove something. Because that’s what the atmosphere is in here. Snobby.
Snobby and elitist and shallow as fuck.
I don’t know how such a glamourous place could give me the heebies, but it does. It feels septic.
“You alright?” Josh asks, putting down his drinks menu to squeeze my knee. “You got the after effects of being on the sea or something?”
I shake my head. “No, no. I’m alright.” I try to focus on the menu. This is all about Heath’s happiness and experience. Not mine. “Maybe I should go for a lovely sparkling white…”
The words on the list blur as I scan them, the insane prices stabbing me in the guts. I should expect this. The more glamorous the location, the higher the prices, right? The Agency is no different. You get what you pay for. You want elite service, you pay elite prices for them.
I take a breath, because I’m ok with that. If people can afford it, and want to enjoy it, then that’s how it is. If Heath can afford to treat us, and treat himself, and he wants to, then that’s cool.
Or it is until a group to the side of us get a server arriving at their table with six bottles of the fifty grand champagne in a huge bucket, brimming with ice.
Three hundred grand’s worth of champagne in one fucking bucket.
The guys at the table are youngsters, barely my age. They let out Etonian rich boy type huzzahs, practically snorting like toff nosed pricks, and the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
“Fucking hell,” Josh says. “They’re really going for it, getting sloshed at fifty grand a bottle.”
Heath’s eyes narrow as he looks at them, but he doesn’t comment, just watches. Like the rest of the place. The twats suddenly get the attention of the whole damn bar when one of the idiots stands up and raises a bottle over his head.
“Water fight!” he yells, and his friends cheer along, grabbing a bottle of champagne each and raising them over their heads like snobby bully boys.
Water fight? What the fuck? Surely not…
The pig-headed jackasses shake the bottles of fifty grand champagne with everything they’ve got, practically wanking the bottles in their desperation to get the fizz pumped. Time slows down as I watch them. The smug expressions on their spoiled ass faces, their sheer delight at having more money than brains.
The first cork gets popped, and the rest fire in quick succession, and it’s for fucking real. It’s a water fight – or a champagne fight to be specific. Like dumbass kids in a school yard.
The idiot pricks use those prized bottles of deluxe, world class champagne as fire hoses to soak the shit out of each other, laughing like pre-schoolers as they do it. Three hundred thousand fucking pounds spewing over each other without a care.
It transports me back to the Ella working every hour she could at minimum wage, just to feed herself on pasta through the month and pay the bills. The Ella who avoided the tube to save the fare, even though her feet were killing her after twelve hours straight on her feet already. I remember the fear and dread at checking my account balance, and realising I only had a few pounds left until my next pay day – crying because I couldn’t book in any more shifts, I was working so many already. I used to be so fucking scared.