Chapter 13
SAMMIE
Hank’s idea of a fun day begins with a walk. Not really my idea of fun, but it is nice seeing more of Monte Carlo. It’s easy to forget that you’re on holiday, when it’s overshadowed by, well, whatever the hell this is.
The problem with Hank’s walk is that, really, it’s more of a walking tour, and therefore a chance for him to perform his local knowledge and comedic bits for us.
Honestly, for what is essentially exercise with people I’m not fond of (except my mum, of course) it’s not bad.
The weather is glorious, which makes everything better.
I’m wearing flat sandals, a loose skirt, cropped T-shirt and an expression that hopefully doesn’t scream: I don’t want to be here.
I’ve made that plain enough with my words.
Monte Carlo is gorgeous. Under different circumstances, this would easily be the most beautiful place I’ve ever visited.
As silly as it sounds, I would prefer it to be tasteless.
I would prefer too much gold and obnoxious fountains and people with tiny dogs named after royals.
I’m sure there are hints of that, here and there, but really?
It’s just a beautiful place, with bright sun, gleaming sea, stunning cliff-side buildings stretching up the landscape.
I love the colours, the creamy and pinky hues, the terracotta, the textures of the buildings, the balconies overflowing with greenery.
I want to hate it here, really, I do, it would be another reason to leave, but I love it.
The marina is busy with locals, tourists – and yacht people, which is what I’m classing Hank and Nico as. They don’t live here, but it doesn’t feel like they’re visiting either. Being regulars on Hank’s yacht, it’s like their second home.
Everything and everyone here looks expensive. Women stepping off yachts with their designer bags, men wearing gigantic golden watches and mirrored sunglasses talking into their phones – even the kids look loaded, in their designer gear.
I wonder if I look out of place here. It’s like everyone has a financial aura that announces their status and my H&M T-shirt and Zara skirt probably aren’t giving off the same glow.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Hank says, sweeping one arm out towards the harbour like he built it himself.
‘It’s truly stunning,’ Mum replies.
‘This is Port Hercule,’ Hank tells us, tour-guide mode firmly activated. ‘The famous harbour – you know, Grand Prix goes right through here… if you’re into that sort of thing.’
As cool as that sounds in theory, I’m not into that sort of thing – although I’m sure I’d prefer it to double-dating with my mum.
‘Does it really?’ Mum asks, delighted.
She’s not into that sort of thing either.
‘Oh yes,’ he replies. ‘You’ll have to come, for the next one, it completely transforms the place.’
Mum nods enthusiastically, but her smile fades off as she notices me giving her a look that says: I am not coming back here.
I look over at Nico to see him shooting his dad a similar glare. It’s the one thing we have in common.
‘Let’s head this way,’ Hank continues, pointing along the waterfront.
We stroll along the marina with Hank telling us everything about everything – I suppose we have no way of knowing how accurate his information is.
Mum eats it up nonetheless. Nico saunters a few paces behind us, presumably distancing himself from us, but it does feel ever so slightly like being herded. Like he’s there to make sure I can’t run off.
He seems quiet. At first, I assume he’s bored – he’s been here countless times before – but then I start to think it’s something else.
Discomfort. Embarrassment, maybe. He isn’t rolling his eyes or doing that sulky thing men do when they want everyone to know they’re above participating. It’s more subtle than that.
We pass the casino – ornate, grand, almost theatrical.
Outside, cars idle with engines that sound angrily expensive.
It’s all making me feel a bit like I’m in a James Bond movie.
I’m terrible at gambling, so I don’t know what else I would do but drink and hope a handsome man asks me to blow on his dice, but part of me wants to go in.
Not that they’d let me in dressed like this, of course.
‘Do you gamble?’ Mum asks Hank.
‘Sometimes,’ Hank replies.
Nico sniggers, like he might have some insider info on that one.
‘Don’t get me wrong, it’s a tax on the rich and the silly,’ Hank insists. ‘But fun… sometimes.’
‘We’re not the gambling type, are we, Dad?’ Nico says firmly, like his dad is no stranger to risking it all.
I wonder if that’s how Hank got so rich. It doesn’t sound like the best strategy, but one big win can set you up for life, right? So long as you don’t feed your winnings back into the machine, I suppose.
Hank narrows his eyes for half a second, then turns his attention back to Mum.
‘Anyway, lunch is booked just along here. Lovely place. You’ll love it.’
We follow his lead to the sort of place that I know I can’t afford before I’ve even seen the menu.
It sits slightly raised from the marina. Outside is lined with cream parasols, white tablecloths and a view directly over the water. The sort of place where even the staff outfits look designer. There are olive trees in huge pots providing privacy between the outdoor tables, which I like.
The name – La Sirène Bleue – is written in elegant letters above the entrance. Large golden doors that look like they weigh a ton.
A woman at the host desk smiles as she greets us – so at least I know my crop top isn’t being turned away.
‘Hello,’ Hank says, setting out his stall, that this exchange is happening in English.
‘Hello. Do you have a reservation?’ she asks.
‘Hank Martin,’ he replies, with the relaxed confidence of a man who comes here often. ‘Table for four.’
The woman checks the list. Then checks again. A tiny crease appears between her eyebrows and that’s when I realise, as cool as she’s playing it, that something is up.
‘I’m sorry, monsieur,’ she says eventually. ‘We have the booking, but it seems there has been a small mix-up. We have two tables for two, not one table for four.’
‘Ah,’ Hank says. ‘Well, that’s okay, we’ve seen enough of each other today, we’re happy to sit in two twos, aren’t we?’
‘Of course,’ Mum adds. ‘Not a problem.’
I open my mouth to speak but Hank gets in there first.
‘Chrissy and I will take one table, Nico and Sammie can have the other.’
Shiiiit. Obviously I was going to bagsy the table with my mum – and bloody Hank would be my second choice. I’d sit with the host, before I’d choose Nico.
Nico looks at the floor.
‘Can you push the two tables together?’ I dare to ask.
The look on her face tells me I shouldn’t have wasted my breath.
‘No,’ she says plainly. ‘We haven’t been able to accommodate you at tables that are next to each other.’
‘It’s fine, isn’t it?’ Mum says to me. ‘We can manage.’
I turn to Nico.
‘It’s fine,’ he says.
Wow, he knows how to make a girl feel special.
‘Can we get a bottle of Ruinart for each table, please?’ Hank asks. ‘And do replace them, as they empty, please.’
I notice Nico looks uncomfortable at his dad’s display of wealth. In fact, I think he’s almost relieved when we are led to the first table, a small, shaded one near the edge of the terrace with a perfect view of the marina – and where we aren’t overlooked by anyone.
We take our seats opposite each other and, for a moment, neither of us says a word. Well, I’m not sure what there is to say that hasn’t been said by the filthy looks we both shot our parents for palming us off on each other.
So it’s just the two of us, a crisp white tablecloth-topped table, an awkward silence, and now a bottle of champagne.
‘Well,’ Nico says. ‘This is sort of awkward.’
I nod.
A waiter appears between us.
‘Some oysters, for the happy couple?’ he asks.
‘No thanks,’ Nico replies.
‘And now it’s really awkward,’ I say when we’re alone again.
Nico laughs.
The waiter returns to pour table water and give us our menus.
The menu, naturally, is in French with English descriptions – descriptions that taste good even when you read them.
Lobster linguine. Truffle risotto. Grilled sea bass.
A salad that costs thirty euros. The audacity of a thirty-euro salad – now I really want to try it.
Looking over the prices makes me sit up a little straighter.
‘Wow.’
Nico looks over his menu.
‘What?’
‘It’s… er… nothing,’ I insist. I’m surprised he isn’t recoiling too, but then again, he’s got a rich dad.
‘Don’t look at the prices,’ he tells me.
I pull a face.
‘Are you just, like, completely cooked from living so well off with your dad that you think stuff like this doesn’t matter, or…’
My voice trails off, but I’m offended by how out of touch he seems.
‘No, my dad said he was paying,’ he reminds me.
‘Ah, right, okay…’
I feel like a bit of a cow now. Truthfully, I just feel so out of my depth here, and out of my comfort zone – the only thing I’m not out of is the full-body cringe I appear to be trapped in.
‘Your dad likes to make an impression,’ I say, trying to loosen up a bit.
‘Yeah…’
He looks a little embarrassed again.
It’s interesting, because if Hank has yacht money, and pricey restaurant money and order-bottles-of-champagne-like-they’re-house-red money, then it says something that Nico doesn’t seem to live it up in the same way – although I’m not sure what.
He’s dressed well, yes, but not in a showy way.
He doesn’t seem impressed by the prices although he doesn’t seem disgusted either.
None of this fits with my original read of him. Admittedly, my original read was smug man-child who plays video games and lives with his dad, and nothing more – but maybe there is a little more to him.
The waiter returns to take our order. For his main course, Nico orders grilled sea bass. I order the lobster linguine and, genuinely, looking at the price, I’m expecting something incredible.
Once the waiter leaves, we fall into another pause.
‘I wonder how Mum and Hank are getting on,’ I think out loud.