Chatgio
Below the water Mimi kicked and thrashed violently trying to stay afloat, looking for something solid to stand on. Above, she wasn’t faring much better. She stammered and spluttered, unsure of how to answer.
“I don’t know,” Mimi said finally, and if they were back on dry land, back in her apartment with a bottle of wine, then she’d have shrugged and excused herself to the bar for another drink. But out here, with nothing but the two of them, she suddenly wasn’t sure what to do. Maybe Gio was right. Without props, and cues, and the ability to exit stage left, she didn’t really know who she was. “I don’t know,” she repeated, “I’m neither. Both.”
She’d grown up alone, locked in a nursery with only lap dogs for company. Almost by necessity, just to stay sane, she’d escaped into her imagination. She’d found companionship in old films, her mother’s discarded magazines, the palace library. Gio thought that she didn’t like to read - because, she reminded herself, that’s what she’d told him; that’s what she told everyone - but she did, and she had. Ravenously. She’d lived through them. She created a cast, a community, of characters - of personas, really - and built intricate, infinite universes for them inside her head because her reality was so small and solitary.
At the time she’d felt forgotten. It wasn’t until she was much older that she’d realise her father hadn’t just been absent or neglectful, but manipulative. He’d sent her mother on trips abroad and hired cool, distant nannies in her place. Kept her home from school and carefully curated her education toward easy, dinner conversation: art; philosophy; poetry; music…An elocution tutor was brought on to make sure she never spoke on them too long –And never with men…All of it was meant to a soft, yielding, willing little thing who could be moulded by whoever she was married off to.
It had only half worked. It made her quiet, but filled her with frustration at not having the vocabulary or platform to express herself. Made her eager to please, but desperate for affection. Left her impressionable, yes, but to all of the wrong influences. When she’d finally left Monaco for university she’d been surprised to find that people wanted to spend time with her, wanted to speak to her, to know her…They were, she realised now, all horrible, grasping social climbers looking for a pay-out and a name to drop, but at the time she’d just been pleased to have someone’s attention. Had started saying and doing outrageous, silly things to try and keep it. She’d used her money, and the tabloids, and word of mouth, and men, and Instagram for attention and somehow, somewhere along the line, it became who she was...And then, without warning, Henri and Luc had died, and the same gawping onlookers and tabloid journalists who’d made her Mimi demeaned her for it. Her father - her fucking father - demanded that she suddenly become something he hadn’t taught her to be.
But she was really still just a lonely kid.
“I don’t know, Gio,” she repeated, “I’m a dozen different people, and they don’t always get on.”
“–Who do you think I am?” She countered suddenly. “You think I’m loose, don’t you? You never say it, but you always allude to it.” Every time they argued he’d shut her up by throwing around the names of her dates and boyfriends, and she hated it because it had the desired affect. It made her, a small part of her that still believed what she’d been taught, feel ashamed and dirty…It was what her father and brothers used to do, if they caught her talking to the stable boys or dancing too close with a visiting prince; tell her nobody wanted a wife who someone else had had first. –And it stung especially when Gio said it. “I was nineteen, you know.?” She snapped back, “almost twenty, the first time I slept with someone…I kept waiting for you and it never happened. It was never going to happen.”
“How can you ask me that? No. I don’t think you’re unfit.” She could leave it at that. She could leave it at that and the argument would be over…And still unresolved. She sighed, and continued, “I think you’re unwilling. I don’t think you want the throne any more than I do…But it’s like you said, I’m a better actor than you are, Gio. People are beginning to be able to tell how reluctant you are. And it’s hurting you.”
“You could be good, Gigi. You could be great.” In the water it was hard to tell whether she was welling up or not, but she looked at him seriously. “But remember Henry V? You can’t be a great man and a happy man…I’d have married you, if you’d asked.”
“I’ve never treated you like everyone else,” she reached out a hand, “but sometimes I feel like if you’re not kept at an arms length then I’ll embrace you.”
Below the water Mimi kicked and thrashed violently trying to stay afloat, looking for something solid to stand on. Above, she wasn’t faring much better. She stammered and spluttered, unsure of how to answer.
“I don’t know,” Mimi said finally, and if they were back on dry land, back in her apartment with a bottle of wine, then she’d have shrugged and excused herself to the bar for another drink. But out here, with nothing but the two of them, she suddenly wasn’t sure what to do. Maybe Gio was right. Without props, and cues, and the ability to exit stage left, she didn’t really know who she was. “I don’t know,” she repeated, “I’m neither. Both.”
She’d grown up alone, locked in a nursery with only lap dogs for company. Almost by necessity, just to stay sane, she’d escaped into her imagination. She’d found companionship in old films, her mother’s discarded magazines, the palace library. Gio thought that she didn’t like to read - because, she reminded herself, that’s what she’d told him; that’s what she told everyone - but she did, and she had. Ravenously. She’d lived through them. She created a cast, a community, of characters - of personas, really - and built intricate, infinite universes for them inside her head because her reality was so small and solitary.
At the time she’d felt forgotten. It wasn’t until she was much older that she’d realise her father hadn’t just been absent or neglectful, but manipulative. He’d sent her mother on trips abroad and hired cool, distant nannies in her place. Kept her home from school and carefully curated her education toward easy, dinner conversation: art; philosophy; poetry; music…An elocution tutor was brought on to make sure she never spoke on them too long –And never with men…All of it was meant to a soft, yielding, willing little thing who could be moulded by whoever she was married off to.
It had only half worked. It made her quiet, but filled her with frustration at not having the vocabulary or platform to express herself. Made her eager to please, but desperate for affection. Left her impressionable, yes, but to all of the wrong influences. When she’d finally left Monaco for university she’d been surprised to find that people wanted to spend time with her, wanted to speak to her, to know her…They were, she realised now, all horrible, grasping social climbers looking for a pay-out and a name to drop, but at the time she’d just been pleased to have someone’s attention. Had started saying and doing outrageous, silly things to try and keep it. She’d used her money, and the tabloids, and word of mouth, and men, and Instagram for attention and somehow, somewhere along the line, it became who she was...And then, without warning, Henri and Luc had died, and the same gawping onlookers and tabloid journalists who’d made her Mimi demeaned her for it. Her father - her fucking father - demanded that she suddenly become something he hadn’t taught her to be.
But she was really still just a lonely kid.
“I don’t know, Gio,” she repeated, “I’m a dozen different people, and they don’t always get on.”
“–Who do you think I am?” She countered suddenly. “You think I’m loose, don’t you? You never say it, but you always allude to it.” Every time they argued he’d shut her up by throwing around the names of her dates and boyfriends, and she hated it because it had the desired affect. It made her, a small part of her that still believed what she’d been taught, feel ashamed and dirty…It was what her father and brothers used to do, if they caught her talking to the stable boys or dancing too close with a visiting prince; tell her nobody wanted a wife who someone else had had first. –And it stung especially when Gio said it. “I was nineteen, you know.?” She snapped back, “almost twenty, the first time I slept with someone…I kept waiting for you and it never happened. It was never going to happen.”
“How can you ask me that? No. I don’t think you’re unfit.” She could leave it at that. She could leave it at that and the argument would be over…And still unresolved. She sighed, and continued, “I think you’re unwilling. I don’t think you want the throne any more than I do…But it’s like you said, I’m a better actor than you are, Gio. People are beginning to be able to tell how reluctant you are. And it’s hurting you.”
“You could be good, Gigi. You could be great.” In the water it was hard to tell whether she was welling up or not, but she looked at him seriously. “But remember Henry V? You can’t be a great man and a happy man…I’d have married you, if you’d asked.”
“I’ve never treated you like everyone else,” she reached out a hand, “but sometimes I feel like if you’re not kept at an arms length then I’ll embrace you.”
Below the water Mimi kicked and thrashed violently trying to stay afloat, looking for something solid to stand on. Above, she wasn’t faring much better. She stammered and spluttered, unsure of how to answer.
“I don’t know,” Mimi said finally, and if they were back on dry land, back in her apartment with a bottle of wine, then she’d have shrugged and excused herself to the bar for another drink. But out here, with nothing but the two of them, she suddenly wasn’t sure what to do. Maybe Gio was right. Without props, and cues, and the ability to exit stage left, she didn’t really know who she was. “I don’t know,” she repeated, “I’m neither. Both.”
She’d grown up alone, locked in a nursery with only lap dogs for company. Almost by necessity, just to stay sane, she’d escaped into her imagination. She’d found companionship in old films, her mother’s discarded magazines, the palace library. Gio thought that she didn’t like to read - because, she reminded herself, that’s what she’d told him; that’s what she told everyone - but she did, and she had. Ravenously. She’d lived through them. She created a cast, a community, of characters - of personas, really - and built intricate, infinite universes for them inside her head because her reality was so small and solitary.
At the time she’d felt forgotten. It wasn’t until she was much older that she’d realise her father hadn’t just been absent or neglectful, but manipulative. He’d sent her mother on trips abroad and hired cool, distant nannies in her place. Kept her home from school and carefully curated her education toward easy, dinner conversation: art; philosophy; poetry; music…An elocution tutor was brought on to make sure she never spoke on them too long –And never with men…All of it was meant to a soft, yielding, willing little thing who could be moulded by whoever she was married off to.
It had only half worked. It made her quiet, but filled her with frustration at not having the vocabulary or platform to express herself. Made her eager to please, but desperate for affection. Left her impressionable, yes, but to all of the wrong influences. When she’d finally left Monaco for university she’d been surprised to find that people wanted to spend time with her, wanted to speak to her, to know her…They were, she realised now, all horrible, grasping social climbers looking for a pay-out and a name to drop, but at the time she’d just been pleased to have someone’s attention. Had started saying and doing outrageous, silly things to try and keep it. She’d used her money, and the tabloids, and word of mouth, and men, and Instagram for attention and somehow, somewhere along the line, it became who she was...And then, without warning, Henri and Luc had died, and the same gawping onlookers and tabloid journalists who’d made her Mimi demeaned her for it. Her father - her fucking father - demanded that she suddenly become something he hadn’t taught her to be.
But she was really still just a lonely kid.
“I don’t know, Gio,” she repeated, “I’m a dozen different people, and they don’t always get on.”
“–Who do you think I am?” She countered suddenly. “You think I’m loose, don’t you? You never say it, but you always allude to it.” Every time they argued he’d shut her up by throwing around the names of her dates and boyfriends, and she hated it because it had the desired affect. It made her, a small part of her that still believed what she’d been taught, feel ashamed and dirty…It was what her father and brothers used to do, if they caught her talking to the stable boys or dancing too close with a visiting prince; tell her nobody wanted a wife who someone else had had first. –And it stung especially when Gio said it. “I was nineteen, you know.?” She snapped back, “almost twenty, the first time I slept with someone…I kept waiting for you and it never happened. It was never going to happen.”
“How can you ask me that? No. I don’t think you’re unfit.” She could leave it at that. She could leave it at that and the argument would be over…And still unresolved. She sighed, and continued, “I think you’re unwilling. I don’t think you want the throne any more than I do…But it’s like you said, I’m a better actor than you are, Gio. People are beginning to be able to tell how reluctant you are. And it’s hurting you.”
“You could be good, Gigi. You could be great.” In the water it was hard to tell whether she was welling up or not, but she looked at him seriously. “But remember Henry V? You can’t be a great man and a happy man…I’d have married you, if you’d asked.”
“I’ve never treated you like everyone else,” she reached out a hand, “but sometimes I feel like if you’re not kept at an arms length then I’ll embrace you.”
