Mr & Mrs Smith

Mr Smith and I couldn’t escape the house fast enough. It had rained solidly throughout May, and this trip to Miami would be the first real vacation we’d taken since our cute, but nefarious toddler, was born four years ago. My desperation index was so high that I was looking forward to watching a Kate Hudson flick on my iPad without hearing Jeff from the ‘The Wiggles’ in the background. My only instruction to the babysitter was ‘keep our child alive’.

Desperation lowers your IQ. I was so hot for heat that I stuck my head out of the cab window for the entire 12-mile drive from the airport to the hotel. By the time we arrived in late evening, my hair was a California Condor’s nest. It’s not a good look when you have to walk by 40 glitterati lined up to get into the Florida Room, the Delano’s nightclub. I race-walked from cab to check-in, but still noticed that the belts these women were wearing seemed to double as skirts. No wonder Mr Smith fell into his ‘reviewing the troops’ pace.

The lobby is full of name-dropping – design by Starck, chairs by Ray and Charles Eames, objêts d'art of a Salvador Dali genre. We resisted the urge to get our picture taken in the hotel’s now famous oversized chair: with our winter outfits and pasty skin, we might as well have had ‘tourists’ stenciled across our foreheads. The check-in process was seamless (and the service remained impeccable throughout our stay), but by the time we got to our room, it was almost midnight, and we were in desperate need of a cocktail. We prepped by taking a bubble bath in the tub-for-two, and in the elevator, I applauded the mood-elevator, walls the colour of Pepto-Bismol, a perky Pantone to jazz up the inter-floor experience.

We had cocktail number one in the Rose Bar, then headed to the pool bar for numbers two, three, and stops beyond. By 2pm, we’d had a bit of a boogie, helped a rogue bachelor find the rest of his buddies from his buck’s night, and went off to bed in our vestal-virgin white room, which I found a bit cold. But the king bed, of course topped with 400-threadcount Egyptian cotton linens, was surprisingly comfortable, and we opted for an unimaginable luxury, full-on, X-rated cuddling, rather than playing with the 32-inch LG flat-screen TV, Bose iPod dock, or Boston alarm clock/radio. Oh, and don’t think we didn’t make use of a minibar stacked with booze, and some – admitedly spenny – sugary and savoury snacks.

The next day, hungover from a wonderful night’s sleep, we had brunch at the pool, omelettes, hash browns, and bacon (cardiac-arrest-on-a-plate Americano). In retrospect I’m glad that there were no chaises left at the pool when we arrived right after. The girls were in Brazilian bikinis and stilettos (‘Eyes front, Mr Smith’), the guys were in neon budgie-smugglers (and packing, I must say), and there was deep house blasting from the speakers. ‘Did you remember the glowstick and whistle?’ I asked Mr Smith.

We hit the hotel’s private beach in flip-flops, wide brief bikini, and board shorts, determined to lose our deep winter moon tan. The ocean was turquoise and the perfect temperature, and friendly flamboyant servers handed out complimentary cups of frozen berries and watermelon. I took two of each (one for Mr Smith, who was body-surfing), but of course demolished them both and buried the evidence (in the sand!), which felt desperately naughty.

After a few hours, we rode up the promenade on the hotel’s borrowable bikes, making pit stops for a cocktail (OK, maybe two) at three different hotels, the Sagamore, the Raleigh, and the Fontainebleau. None were nearly as lovely as the Delano. The evening was dedicated to romance – we ordered room service and played with the flatscreen. Don’t judge – it was actually the most relaxing and romantic thing we’d done in ages.

The next morning I put on my trainers and went up to the gym. Unfortunately, I can’t give you a first hand account of how good it was, as I didn’t actually make it onto any of the equipment. However, everything other than my reflection looked shiny and new. Mr Smith, meanwhile, expressed a desperate need to hit the spa, Agua, for a mani/pedi, but he turned tail when I gave him my best Mrs Thatcher look. As I had learned, from one of those thong-and-stilletto sylphs I had seen at the pool the day before, that a spa treatment comes with access to the top-floor sundeck, where topless sunbathing is apparently de rigeur. ‘Next time honey,’ I said, as we booked our cab to go (in a downpour) to the airport.