‘France?’
‘Yes, which is exactly where the position is.’
My stomach twists. This cannot be another of Remy’s gifts.
‘But I don’t speak French.’
‘Knowledge of the language isn’t necessary for the role. You’ll be working with an English-speaking team and taking care of the needs of the English-speaking guests, on the whole. After all, English is the language of business there.’
‘English is the business language in France?’ Horseshit. I may not know much, but I do know the French speak French in their own country!
‘No, in the Principality of Monaco. You’ll be residing in France, on the Côte d’Azure, in fact, but you’ll spend a large portion of your working time in Monaco.’
Ooh la la!
9
Rose
June
Monaco. Visions of Grace Kelly and her European prince. Of casinos and Daniel Craig’s James Bond. Of endless sunny days, azure skies, of sand like sugar and a Mediterranean Sea.
Those were my impressions of Monaco without even seeing it. Not that I needed to see the place to agree to work there. I just needed to keep thinking of the zeros on the contract I’d signed in the offices of ESR the very next day. I can only imagine that the agent was promised a sizeable percentage of the finder’s fee because she actually sent a car to collect me, while also trying not to imagine what sort of a company would want to hire someone with an interview video like mine. But anything has got to be better than being poor and working at the Pussy Cat.
I gave notice on my apartment, gladly told Shaun, the shitty shift manager he could stick his job where the sun don’t shine, grabbed my ticket the agency couriered to me, and got on a plane to France. To the Côte d’Azure!
I’ll be working for Industries du Loup who, amongst other things, run a chain of hotels that cater to the rich and gorgeous. And let me tell you, Monaco is a place built for the demographic. Or maybe those demographics. As far as I can tell there are:
Those who are both rich and gorgeous; those blessed in looks and wealth.
Those who are rich and not so gorgeous; more often than not, rich and old.
Those who are just gorgeous; usually draped over the category above.
The city state is a tax haven for the super wealthy, a home for their multi-million-dollar real estate, their super yachts, and their model skinny wives and girlfriends. I’m sure there are uber-wealthy women out here, juggling their money and gigolo men friends, but these are not so visible, as far as I can tell.
Only the super-rich live in Monaco, along with a handful of Monegasques, or Monaco locals. The rest of the people who work there bus, drive, or train in over the Monaco/French border every day. Industries du Loup staff are fortunate enough to have a shuttle service to and from the city of Nice, home of the staff accommodations, along with the salad. Salad niçoise. The company houses most of its staff in a couple of buildings on Rue Arson, or Arson Street I guess you could say, where I’ve been allocated a studio apartment. It’s anything but spacious or swanky, but it’s bright and clean and has a tiny Juliet balcony overlooking the street, so that’s pretty cool.
I’d arrived late Thursday night, and the following day, I was taken to the HR department in Monaco. I’d also visited a government building of some sort to arrange my work permit. Thankfully, I was accompanied by someone who spoke French because as it turns out, the first language of Monaco isn’t English but French.
Help!
I’m told there’s also a local language in Monaco which is a mixture of French and Italian, but I’m not going to worry about that. Instead, I’ve decided to concentrate on learning French and have spent the weekend listening to YouTube videos, spending my downtime repeating useful phrases, injected with a little Remy-like flair.
Things like:
Is this seat taken?
Can I buy you a drink?
Is that a baguette in your pants, or are you just pleased to see me?
You know, the useful stuff.
Monday morning—my first real day at work—and the blonde sitting in front of me on the bus turns my way with a smile.
‘Bonjour.’
I hesitate for a moment not because I’m rude but because my mind freezes. I can say bonjour in return, sure, but I don’t want her to start babbling in French, thinking I speak the language or anything.
‘Hi,’ I eventually settle on. I’m a scintillating conversationalist, right?
‘What did you think of Monaco?’ Thank God, an English speaker! ‘I saw you on the bus on Friday.’ Her accent is British and her expression open and friendly. ‘You must’ve gone to sign the paperwork for your work permit.’
‘Yeah, I did.’ After, I had a few hours to kill before being bussed back with the rest of the staff, giving me a little time to explore, not that I went far. ‘I think Monaco is beautiful, though I’m pretty sure I prefer Nice so far.’ I think I’d eventually end up feeling hemmed in, living in a country that’s no bigger than Central Park. ‘To be honest, I’m still trying to process that I’m here.’