Andrea greeted the saleslady who seemed to remember her from previous trips, and they chatted in French. Andrea pointed at me, and they both looked me up and down. “She has a new shipment of gorgeous dresses that haven't been seen by anyone,” Andrea addressed me. “What size are you? Actually, don’t tell me American sizes, they’re nauseatingly small. I’ll always remember Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman telling the personal shopper that she was a size six, and everyone watching in the common room at uni let out an audible groan." She laughed. "Oops. I'm dating myself, aren’t I?”

I smiled. "I know the scene you’re talking about. If only we had Richard Gere and his unlimited credit card. That would make this trip even more fun. Or better yet, our own unlimited credit cards, no men required.”

The sales lady disappeared into the back and came back out with her arms full, and Andrea and I spent a fun half an hour trying on little flirty dresses.

The last one I tried on was a simple but stunning short dress in a golden silky material that seemed to float around my body like a “wisp of sexiness,” to use Andrea’s expression. It was so thin, it ought to be see through but wasn’t quite.

“It’ll be a crime if you don’t buy that,” she said persuasively.

“You know,” I said wryly. “I think you’d get on with my friend Meredith. I can almost hear her telling me to buy the dress even though I have absolutely no idea when I’d ever wear such a thing. Are you sure you’re not channeling her right now?”

“Ha. Clearly a sensible girl.”

“But not a very sensible dress.”

“Wear it now.” She shrugged, her eyes gleaming. “Nothing is sensible in St. Tropez.”

“What? No.”

“Yes!” She clapped her hands excitedly. “There’s no better time. You’re all tan and gorgeous. It’s your last night.” Her smile dimmed a little. “We should make it count. I don’t normally party, but I think we should at least go hit up Les Caves. It’s famous. All the celebrities have visited over the years. You can’t be young and beautiful in St. Tropez and not go to a nightclub. Now that’s a crime.”

“Um. What happened to sensible, chief steward, Andrea?” I asked, an eyebrow raised.

“She hasn’t had a night out in a long time. And in case you haven’t noticed, hasn’t had much female companionship lately either. And I’m seething that this could be your last night. So I say we make it one to remember.”

“I don’t have the right bra for this. The material, while not see through, felt thin as gossamer. The delicate spaghetti straps were marred by the black bra straps underneath.

“So take the bra off.”