Chapter 18
MINNIE
MONACO
‘My cucumber’s slipping off,’ Kurt whines.
‘Itzall about the angle of your ’ead,’ says étienne sagely, like he hasn’t spent the last thirty seconds trying to suction it to his face. ‘You’re not sitting straight.’
I roll my eyes as I approach them, stirring the clay mask in one of étienne’s Le Creuset casserole dishes. I stop in front of Kurt. ‘This is going to be a little cold.’
‘I’m a high-performance athlete, Minnie, I’m not scared of a little— ee!’ he squeaks.
‘Told you.’
‘What are the benefits, again?’
I paint on more product than necessary across his cheeks. Serves him right. ‘It drags out toxins, prevents mild forms of acne, and absorbs oil. You don’t want to be shiny on camera tomorrow, do you?’
‘Since when izit bad to look shiny?’ asks étienne from the other end of the couch.
‘You need to spend more time around women, bro.’ Kurt smiles and I nearly paint his teeth grey.
‘I am lost. What is ’appening in the movie now?’ étienne asks as I move on to him.
I consult the screen. ‘There’s a mixer between the a cappella groups, and Fat Amy and Bumper are flirting. I still can’t believe neither of you have seen Pitch Perfect before. It’s a modern classic.’
‘Is Fat Amy the fit one?’ Kurt says. Translation: Brittany Snow.
‘No, it’s Rebel Wilson.’
‘Damn. That shower scene was the best thing I’ve seen all year.’
étienne chuckles while I paint his nose. ‘That’s because you ’aven’t got a podium, mate.’
‘Har har,’ Kurt retorts, leaning over to try and drink his juice through a straw.
Clay creases with the furrowing of étienne’s forehead. ‘So Bella’s part of the Bellas now? This is very confusing.’
‘It’s Becca, not Bella. Stop talking or it won’t have set in time to watch the riff off.’
‘C’est quoi?’
‘On va voir,’ I hiss in his ear.
‘My face is ’ard.’ étienne tries to poke it until I reach over and slap his hand away.
‘Why don’t Bumper and Fat Amy just sleep together? They clearly have sexual tension,’ says Kurt.
‘They’re on different a capella teams. Consorting is forbidden,’ I throw over my shoulder as I return the dish to the kitchen.
‘That’s stupid. You should be wiz anyone you want to be wiz,’ étienne proclaims. Strong words from someone who’s never had a girlfriend.
‘Hey, Min?’ Kurt calls. ‘Does your mum still have that “no dating a driver” policy?’
I’m almost drop the dish.
‘Quoi? What’s wrong wiz drivers?’
‘Who told you that?’ I demand, returning to the living room. Kurt’s removing his cucumbers; étienne’s are falling off of their own accord.
‘Your mum told my mum at the Ackland dinner in Miami.’
Jesus Christ. She was meant to help me, not paint me as a sixteenth-century maiden forced to live under my mother’s iron fist. ‘It’s not a “policy”; she’s not the KGB. It’s just… having gone through the F1 WAG lifestyle herself, she doesn’t want that for me.’
‘Mais oui, un yacht à Portofino, des bijoux de chez Cartier,’ étienne reels off on his fingers, ‘une Maserati dans le garage—’
‘English!’ Kurt barks.
‘—des vacances en Martinique. Quelle horreur!’
Kurt tries to scowl at him but his face is fixed in place. ‘You wouldn’t like it if I switched to German.’
‘You lived in Monaco for eighteen years and you can’t speak French. Pathétique.’
‘Yeah, well, they don’t speak French at Eton. Isn’t that right, Min?’
‘Enough, you two,’ I say. ‘Anyway, it’s not like that. It’s the media scrutiny, the travelling, and it’s not exactly a safe job, is it?’
étienne thrusts a finger at me. ‘Your life iznot—’
‘The fit girl’s back!’ Kurt tugs étienne’s shirt, and their attentions are diverted.
Well that was horrendous.
My much-needed reprieve promptly ends when the scene cuts and Brittany disappears.
‘C’mon, you’re on tour for ten months of the year with twenty drivers – some of the most eligible men in sport, if not the world,’ Kurt argues, and étienne preens. Honestly, these boys. Egos the size of Pagari’s budget. ‘You’re telling me there’s no one you like?’
‘It’s just my mum’s opinion, not a rule. I’m a grown woman. I can do what I like.’
‘You agree with her, though,’ Kurt points out.
étienne’s “the best you’ve ever ’ad” salade nicoise churns in my stomach. ‘I…’ Either way I spin it, I’ll end up insulting them or looking like a yes-man.
To my sweet relief, I’m saved by Kurt piping up again, ‘So who’d you pick?’
‘What, like she’s going to choose you?’ étienne prods him in the stomach.
‘Oof!’ Kurt shoos him away. ‘Of course not, we’ve known each other since before you were born. But there must be someone.’
I try to extinguish the face that springs to mind. It’s been two weeks since Imola and not an hour’s passed where I haven’t thought about it. That lay-by. That car. Those shoulders. Those magic fing—
But that’s bad.
Bad bad bad.
It has to stop.
‘Journalists and drivers are just as forbidden as Bellas and Treblemakers,’ I point out.
Kurt runs a hand through his hair. ‘I’m not saying marry a driver or make anything public – that would never work. Just a cheeky one-nighter.’
‘There are two of us, so that leaves eighteen drivers,’ étienne reasons. When did he get on board? Go back to ribbing Kurt.
‘Micah’s pretty cute,’ Kurt suggests.
‘Why don’t you date him then?’ I shoot back.
They snigger like schoolchildren.
‘Jack?’ he tries again.
‘Not my type,’ I say too quickly and pray to all that’s holy neither of them notice.
Kurt hesitates and smiles slowly. ‘Then what is your type?’
‘Eilo,’ étienne says solemnly, and they laugh.
I wish I was the one wearing a clay mask so my cheeks weren’t visible.
‘I think he’s dating someone, you know,’ says Kurt, poking curiously at his grey face. Finally he’s doing something helpful and I rescind my previous wish to set him on fire.
étienne cocks his head. ‘’E’s, like, fourteen, non?’
‘He’s only three years younger than you,’ Kurt retorts.
‘Yeah, a girl swings by our motorhome sometimes. She’s fine.
Long hair, great ti—’ He catches my eye.
‘T-Timberlands. Top of the range ones.’ Sure, in thirty-four-degree heat.
‘I think she’s an influencer and undergrad.
Had a little Insta stalk, as you do. From Finland, same as he is. ’
‘A regular Poirot over here,’ I mumble. ‘Time to get your clay off!’ Fifteen minutes haven’t passed but I can’t sit idly in this conversation any longer. Tomorrow they can shine like a K-beauty influencer for all I care. I hurry towards the kitchen to grab my flannels.
‘It’s pwah-roh,’ étienne corrects with eye-rolling enunciation as I return.
‘You should know,’ Kurt responds, voice dripping in torment, ‘since you’re both French.’
étienne’s eyes bulge despite their constraints. ‘’E’s not—I’m not French! We’re both not French! ’E’s Belgian; I’m Monégasque!’
‘Your parents are from Marseille,’ I add, because winding up étienne is a lot more fun than the Spanish Inquisition.
‘I was born in Monaco, I grew up in Monaco—’
‘We all grew up in Monaco,’ Kurt argues. ‘I’m German; she’s English.’
‘But—’
Kurt sits up straighter. ‘And you were cheering for France in Eurovision! I know it wasn’t because you liked that boring ballad.’
‘Pfft you wouldn’t know ’eartfelt if it smacked you between the eyes. Who was I supposed to vote for? The United Kingdom?’
I don’t appreciate that tone. Our song wasn’t amazing but we didn’t deserve to come last. Again.
Kurt lolls his head. ‘No, of course I wasn’t insinuating—’
I cross my arms with damp flannels in both hands. ‘Hey! We weren’t that bad.’ They shoot me matching scowls. ‘Latvia were dressed as seagulls!’
‘They were fun,’ étienne muses.
I try again. ‘Luxembourg ran off crying!’
‘I’d like to see you up there, Minnie,’ Kurt argues. ‘It’s scary. Over a hundred and thirty million people watch.’
‘I refuse to believe we were the worst. This is discrimination.’
Kurt scoffs. ‘Oh yes, because the English have a long history of being discriminated against.’
It’s on the tip of my tongue to bring up the many colours of German history when étienne throws in his two cents. ‘You shouldn’t buy your way in, Minnie. You’re shit every year.’
‘You buy your way in too!’
‘Yes, but we’re actually go—’ He flushes when understanding dawns. ‘I’M NOT FRENCH!’
My phone starts buzzing and it couldn’t have come sooner. ‘I have to take this.’ I toss the flannels at them before slipping onto the balcony and closing the screen door behind me.
The night air’s balmy, with a soft sea breeze carrying the sounds of the Principality – chatter from diners walking home, the rhythmic beat of early Grand Prix parties, squeals from partygoers pre-drinking on terraces. I breathe it in and let my body calm.
Mum’s beaming face lights up my screen. ‘Hiya Minnie Me! Just wanted to check how you’re feeling ahead of tomorrow.’
Tomorrow.
Monaco qualifying.
I don’t feel remotely ready, but I don’t think I ever will.
‘Fine. It’ll be fine.’ It has to be. I don’t have any other choice but to be a big girl and get on with it. If I see him whilst on air, I’ll be professional. If I see him off air, I’ll run and hide. See? Big girl.
‘If France went to war tomorrow and introduced conscription, you’d have to go,’ Kurt’s reasoning sounds loudly from the living room.
‘False! This is fake news!’
‘Who’s that?’ Mum asks.
‘Just the boys being… the boys.’ It’s the only way I can explain it.
‘How’s étienne’s apartment?’
I glance through the screen doors to find them suddenly quiet, ogling the TV, their pink faces sticking out from scruffy borders of clay.
‘It’s nice. Near your old hairdressers. Quite small, but what it lacks in space it more than makes up for in views.
I’ll show you.’ I flip the camera around.
‘The casino’s over there. You can’t really see but the circuit’s down there behind that building.
And it’s a bit murky on camera but those lights are the harbour. ’
Mum makes a soft whistling sound.
‘The marina’s packed,’ I add.
‘Of course it is. How do you find being back?’
I rest my elbows on the balcony and turn the camera back to face me.
Monaco looks exactly how I remember it with sharp hills, Belle Epoque buildings and towering apartment blocks.
But the Principality I grew up in had schools, Sunday roasts, sleepovers, and Sunday baking.
Now, I see a pleasure city designed for the 0.
1%. It hasn’t changed, but I have. My position in life has. I can’t connect to it like I used to.
‘It’s… weird,’ I decide, trying to ignore the sadness seizing my chest. ‘The café at the end of our old road’s gone.’
‘No! We loved their baguettes. What’s it now?’
‘It looked like a sports souvenir shop.’
‘Such a shame.’
‘Do you miss it?’ I ask softly.
‘Monaco?’
‘All of it.’
She shakes her head. ‘I thought it’d come flooding back in Miami, but it didn’t. It felt like a chapter of my life that I enjoyed at the time, but I don’t mind that it’s closed. I don’t want to go back.’
‘You don’t miss anything?’
‘Sure, I can’t get a two-hour Balinese massage any time I like, and sometimes I’d kill for a steak at Quai des Artistes, but I’m proud of the life we’ve built. Aren’t you?’
God that feels pointed. ‘Absolutely! But that doesn’t mean… Never mind.’
It’s impossible to articulate it in a way she’d understand or wouldn’t be offended by.
I shouldn’t feel bad about missing my life here.
Monaco was my home, on and off, for thirteen years.
Giving it up wasn’t a choice I made, and it meant leaving friends like Kurt, the places I’d grown up with, and the daily patterns as familiar to me as my own handwriting.
Mum and I don’t always have to feel the same about everything.
‘If your repugnant cretin of a father has made you doubt yourself the night before your big qualifying show, I swear—’
Indignation flares bright inside me. ‘He hasn’t done anything! He probably doesn’t even know I’m going. Not everything’s his fault, you know.’
‘I beg to differ,’ she growls.
Of course you do. ‘I might not even see him. He’ll probably stay in Ackland hospitality all day.’
‘Here’s hoping.’
Here’s hoping indeed. I don’t have the slightest idea how I’ll react seeing him in person after all this time. Will he even recognise me? Knowing I’m in the same country as him is exposure enough. Baby steps.
‘In sum, you’re the best, he’s the worst, and you’re going to smash it tomorrow,’ she says. ‘Bonne chance!’
I’m going to need all the luck I can get.