JUST OVER SEVENTY minutes after leaving Bern’s airport, the jet touched down on the tarmac in Nice so smoothly, it felt like we’d landed in butter. Or maybe it was the champagne, already numbing my senses, coloring everything wonderful. Wonderful is what I had been promised. Wonderful is what all of us, for different reasons, needed. We needed to bathe ourselves in luxury. We needed a four-day dream.

“I am officially on vacation!” I announced to the group, taking the last swallow of my champagne.

“It’s about bloody time, love!” Winnie reached across the aisle and grabbed my arm. Serena, seated across from me in the small cabin, raised her empty glass and tossed her long blond hair. “Bonjour, Monte Carlo. And that, my friends, is the limit of my French.”

“Don’t forget chardonnay and merlot,” I added.

“Touché,” she said.

“See, your vocabulary’s getting better by the second.”

I looked around at my friends. How did I get so lucky? Serena Schofield, the Amazon blonde—a former U.S. Olympic skier who placed fifth in the downhill at Lillehammer. Bryah Gordon, born in Johannesburg under apartheid, the youngest of our clan at thirty-one and the smartest by far, our resident encyclopedia on topics large and trivial, also a beauty, with flawless coffee-colored skin and kinky African hair cropped at the chin. And Winnie Brookes, of course, the exotic Brit—the Diva, we called her—as breathtaking as any runway model working today, who, most of the time, seemed utterly oblivious to her beauty.

Then there was me. Abbie Elliot. What these interesting and gorgeous women were doing with me was anyone’s guess. For all the complaints I had about leaving the States and moving to Switzerland, all I had to do was look around at these women to find a silver lining.

“I think for the rest of this trip, I’m going to speak with a British accent.” I turned to Winnie. “Bloody good show, love,” I tried, aiming for something out of  Monty Python.

“And I’m going to be an American,” she replied. “Hey, how ya doin’? You got any countries we can invade?”

We disembarked the private jet—thank you, Serena—and were bathed in the rays of a welcoming, lowering sun. An SUV drove us to the area of the Côte d’Azur Airport marked “Private Aviation,” where our bags were waiting inside.

“Do we have a car?” Winnie asked.

“Cars? Cars are so pedestrian, dahling,” said Serena in her best Zsa Zsa impression, with a wink at all of us. None of us was poor by any stretch, but Serena lapped us several times over. From outward appearances, you’d have no idea. She was as sweet and earthy as anyone I knew. But this weekend would be different. She had money, and she clearly planned on spending it.

We followed Serena out a door to a large landing pad—and a large, sleek silver-and-gray helicopter.

“Serena, really!” said Bryah, with maybe a hint of nerves. Bryah didn’t get out much. Her husband, Colton, was what you might call controlling if you were being polite. If you weren’t being polite, you might call him something else. Long and short of it, Bryah had never been on a girls’ weekend like this.

“Why drive when we can fly?” Serena ran over to the helicopter and climbed in. I couldn’t believe it—but then again, I could. Money was no object, and Serena wanted us to live a fantasy for four days.

“You couldn’t find anything bigger?” I asked.

Once we were fastened in, the helicopter lifted quickly, causing a minor rebellion in my stomach. But soon we were soaring over Monaco, and nothing else mattered but the sloping hills of the French Riviera, the blue expanse of the Mediterranean, dotted with yachts and sailboats heading back to port for the evening, and the pink-green sky as the sun began its descent toward the horizon.

“Did you know Monaco is the second-smallest country in the world?” Bryah asked.

“Fascinating,” said Winnie. She and I made eye contact, suppressing smiles.

“Bryah, honey,” I said, patting her leg, “we’re going to have fun. Don’t be nervous.” A mere seven minutes later, we were landing on a helipad by the beach. We unstrapped our restraints and waited for the pilot to open the door.

“Wait,” said Serena. She reached into her bag and removed three overstuffed envelopes, handing one to each of us. I opened mine and found a thick wad of euros.

“What is this?” Winnie asked.

“That’s fifty thousand euros each,” she said. “Gamble with it. Shop. Do whatever you want. Just promise me you’ll spend it.”

“Can I buy a car?” I asked. “A small island?”

“How about a movie star?” Winnie asked. “Think I can rent Brad Pitt for the weekend?”

“Brad Pitt? Too old, Win,” I said. “One of those younger boys. Zac Efron, maybe.”

“You want an athlete,” Serena suggested. “David Beckham. Rafa Nadal.”

“Rafa, maybe,” Winnie agreed.

We looked over at Bryah, who had remained silent. She considered the money, looked at Serena, and allowed a wry smile to play over her face. “You could get into a spot of trouble with this bit of money,” she said.

We looked at one another, giddy and slightly intoxicated, relaxed and eager, and broke into laughter. Outside the window of the helicopter was Monte Carlo, the playground for the rich and famous. We were all stifled in our own way, mothers and wives trying to adapt to life in a Swiss city, and these four days would be our chance to escape. To live someone else’s life.

“Bryah,” I said, “I think that’s the idea.”