Smaller must have come up with this game: Each of us was to wander around St.-Tropez looking for the perfect woman to either bed or wed—or both, I suppose. Easy enough. But there was a catch. You also had to invite them back to Unplugged for a cocktail. And then we would vote on who had the best taste.
Nobody was having much luck. I wasn’t even really trying. I spent the afternoon on the back of the boat drinking wine and watching the parade shuffle by along the quay. And then I spotted my bride—a real bride—getting out of a classic gray Jaguar right in front of us. They were taking wedding photos using the mega yachts as a backdrop. I approached the photographer. Would the newlyweds like to take photos aboard one of the yachts? Is this possible? He asked. Of course. No problem.
So while the groom was helping the photographer shlep his equipment up the ramp, I offered my arm to the happy bride and brought her aboard.
“Gentlemen,” I said to boys lounging on the back of the boat. “May I introduce you to my choice for the gal I’d like to wed.”
You’ve never seen so many jaws drop. Smaller practically shot champagne through his nose he was so surprised. “You are the master,” he said, bowing in front of me in deference.
And it’s true.