‘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’spacked,’ 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 citydesigned 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.’
