by Bella Mackie
Still, a week in the sunshine wasn’t something to entirely despair about, and Monaco was tiny, roughly the size of Central Park, so deliberately bumping into Janine wouldn’t be a problem as long as she was in town. Unfortunately, there were no guarantees for this, given the propensity of the super-rich to jet off at a moment’s notice. Her Instagram was private, but she’d accepted a request to follow her from the handle ‘Monaco deluxe’, which was an account I’d made with pictures stolen from society sites. They showed the rich and powerful at parties and charity events – it was easy to repost them with gushing tributes to ‘Mrs Daphne Baptiste, generously donating a beautiful mink coat to the Children’s care fund’ or ‘Mrs Lorna Gold, who hosted an elegant evening soiree at her beautiful penthouse for the street dog society.’ If these women ever even looked at my page, they would just accept the praise at face value. They were pillars of Monaco society, of course people wished to show some thanks. From that page I could see a little of what she was doing, but Janine wasn’t a frequent poster, nor was she a talented photographer. Apart from a few posed pictures taken by professionals, the images on her account were mainly blurry photos of sunsets from private jet windows, the odd snap of a lunch table with a caption like, ‘Great time catching up with Bob and Lily at Cafe Flore’, and a few photos of family events. Bryony lived her life in real time on Instagram and it was invaluable. Janine was old school. Her last picture was three days ago, and was a close up of her slightly chubby bejewelled hands, showing off a dark red manicure. The caption said, ‘Thanks again to @MonacoManis for a good job’, so at least she was there for now.
I flew out on a Monday, and as soon as I’d showered off the sadness of a budget flight and a shuttle bus, I went out to explore. Of course, I knew where Janine’s flat was. It’s remarkable how easy it is to find out where people live. Even if they’re not on the electoral roll, so many people geotag their locations, or follow accounts on social media from their area. If you follow eight different accounts with ‘Islington’ in their name, nobody gets a prize for figuring out where you get your morning paper. Even worse, people are so trusting that they post photos of the view from their bedroom windows, or of their own front doors. And for celebrities, it’s even easier. A lot of the time, the media will report on the exact location of someone’s home. If they’re involved in something truly scandalous, they might even fly a helicopter over it, or mock up a floor plan. Janine gave me her address directly. She gave it to every reader of Hello! two years ago when she opened her doors for a reception to honour a Turkish businesswoman who was winning much praise for inventing a possible cure for eczema. The piece literally opened with ‘Janine Artemis welcomes us to her beautiful penthouse in the Exodora building in Monaco’s gilded playground.’ The businesswoman by the way, was later sentenced to eight years in jail for taking close to £100 million in funding and fabricating research. The fight to eradicate eczema goes on.
It was a lovely warm day and I used the map on my phone to take me to the Exodora building, walking past cafés stuffed with feline-faced women and tubby men in shirts with contrasting collars, all of whom could have used some factor 50 earlier in their lives. The building was only ten minutes from my hotel, which was a relief because the heat was rising now and the hope of a nice walk was slightly marred by the supercars which left a trail of fetid petrol fumes in their wake every time they whizzed by me. It’s said that one in three people who live in Monaco is a millionaire. I understand that rich people mainly stay alive in order to keep hold of their money, and that a tax haven like this one helps them to do that, but it felt like one big gated community where there’s no need for open space or fresh air because the helicopter can take off in twenty minutes and zip you over to Switzerland or Provence if you find yourself craving it.
The building Janine lived in was stunning, in a sort of McMansion type of way. It was a cream stucco house, though house is a misnomer. I’d wondered why the Artemises had chosen a flat instead of a secluded villa somewhere, but now I’d seen the place, I understood. The building was vast, stretching the length of at least six houses, and as it rose, balconies appeared, getting larger and larger. Roses bloomed off the sides of them, tumbling down as though they were allowed to grow wild, but retaining a very symmetrical appearance. Carefully arranged to look casual. The windows were floor to ceiling but all blocked out by blinds, and the top of the building had a large flag pole from which hung the principality’s colours. I stood back and counted the floors. Eight in total, and I knew from the design magazine that the Artemis property took up three. Craning my neck, I could just see the glass balcony at the very top where Janine liked to do her yoga in the morning sun. I walked around to the back of the property, but it was shut off with a large and imposing wall and a gate which presumably led to the car park. There was a big metal entrance door to one side, which suggested the presence of a goods lift.
Naturally, CCTV cameras were dotted about, I could see them in at least five places. For all that, the main door was remarkably easy to access, only a wrought-iron gate and a big gold knocker stood between me and the intercom. Oh, and a man standing guard at the door. I was fucked if I thought I could just walk in though. Security was almost certainly why they’d chosen this place. It was fortified and presumably had porters on call 24/7 on high alert.
Disheartened, I walked down the street and found a coffee shop where I ordered a café creme and messaged Pete. Had a huge fight with Dad and can’t stay here, no chance of getting into wicked SM’s. Guess it’s all off. I added a crying emoji for full effect and lit a cigarette. He pinged back immediately: oh no, that sucks. Can you give ur dad something to take home? Now there was a thought. Maybe I couldn’t get into the flat, but there must be staff coming and going all day. Janine clearly hadn’t lifted a finger in several decades apart from to point and click at hired helpers. There must be someone who would be open to taking a small device into the property in return for suitable compensation.
I spent the next two days watching the people who entered the building through the side entrance. At first it was hard to tell which flats they were going to, but I built up a profile of them, using my eagle eyes and my perceptive acumen to figure out who worked where. Of course I didn’t. It turned out that the staff at Janine’s all had to wear white hospitality uniforms with Artemis sewn in italics on the breast. Nothing says ‘I’ve lost my humanity’ like making underpaid migrant workers wear your name across their hearts so it was very on brand for this family. Slightly nervous-looking women would emerge carrying laundry bags and handing them over to drivers of dry-cleaning vans, or they would sign for parcels from delivery men and head back indoors quickly, as though they were being timed. I never had the chance to talk to any of them, such was their rush. But there was also a lady who emerged every day at 8 a.m., 2 p.m., and 6 p.m. on the dot with a fluffy little Bichon Frise, and marched off down the street to the promenade. I hate fluffy dogs. They’re always so fucking yappy and up themselves. I assume they’re that way because their owners make them so. You never see a nice calm person with a Bichon Frise. It’s always permanently discontented middle-aged women who communicate their disappointments through the dog. ‘Betty can’t sit here, it’s too hot and she’s getting anxious.’ Betty is fine. You, on the other hand, might want to contact a therapist.
On the second day of surveillance, I went to get a coffee and headed down to the promenade prepared for the 6 p.m. dog walk. Sure enough, the lady in the humanity-free uniform came into view, dragging the unwilling fluffy bundle. I waited for her to pass me, and I followed her for a few minutes before coming to walk beside her.
‘Cute dog,’ I said and smiled. She was tiny this woman, with dark black hair pulled into a low bun. She barely reacted, and would’ve kept walking if the dog had not jumped up at me, leaving faint dirt marks on my pale trousers.
‘No, Henry!’ she cried, bending down to admonish the dog, who looked remarkably uncontrite. I assured her that it was fine but sh
e stopped by a wall and pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and attempted to brush my legs vigorously.
‘Is he your dog?’ I asked, even though it was obvious from her expression that she didn’t have any affection for the animal. She told me she walked it for her employer, and I expressed sympathy, telling her that it was boring to walk a dog every day – especially such a rude one. She smiled at that, before quickly looking around as though Janine was going to jump out in front of us and berate her for not praising the little fellow.
I kept pace beside her as she carried on walking, asking how she found Monaco and telling her that I’d only recently arrived and was finding it all a bit overwhelming.
‘The people are rude,’ she said abruptly. ‘Everyone thinks money is everything and nobody is kind.’ Well what about your employer, I asked, were they not kind? And then it all came out. How Janine harangued her about the smallest things, how she worked six days a week and only got Thursdays off and even then she was called if needed. ‘She took money from my wages last week because a shirt had shrunk at the dry cleaners!’ she exclaimed, shaking her head. Lacey, for that was her name, sent money home and supported three teenage children. She had worked here for three years, before that she’d been in Dubai for another family. They’d not been much better but at least there she’d had her own accommodation. We walked the length of the promenade before she turned around, the dog whining in protest.
I expressed sympathy, and told her that Janine sounded like a total monster, careful not to say her name or give any hint that I knew her. And like that, I suddenly felt I had an in.
‘I work for a newspaper back in the UK. I’m thinking that there’s a story in rich women like this exploiting their hardworking housekeepers. We could expose these people, and shame them into behaving properly.’
She shook her head. ‘No, I need this job. I can’t speak to you no more.’
Lacey increased her pace but I stayed beside her.
‘I would never ever use your name or say who you worked for. But we could hold a mirror up to this behaviour. The newspaper is famous and these women would read it. If they all knew that society thought it was unacceptable, they’d be better – if not for you, at least so that people thought they were good employers.’ This was total bollocks of course. A hundred articles had been written about the way the uber-rich treat their staff and nothing had ever changed. If anything, it was getting worse, with stories coming out constantly about maids who’d escaped terrible and inhumane conditions while their former bosses suffered little to no consequences. I was exploiting her too, I know that. But needs must, and at least I could offer her something for her cooperation.
She shook her head again, more vehemently. ‘I can’t do it. I need this job.’ We were nearly back at the house.
‘OK, I respect that. But I’d barely need anything from you and of course we would pay you for your trouble. That would be cash in hand for your family, Lacey.’ She slowed down but didn’t look at me. ‘Think about it?’ I said. ‘If you’re interested, I’ll wait here at 2 p.m. tomorrow. You’d help so many people in the same situation.’ With one last tug on the leash, she and Henry headed back to the penthouse. She’d do it, I thought, as I saw her look back at me. If Janine had treated her with a fraction of decency I’d have no way in here. Lucky for me, she hadn’t.
I took myself out for dinner that night, and dressed up for the occasion. Even in my knee-length black dress and neon pink heels, I still looked pretty casual by Monaco standards. Despite the heat, fur wraps were in abundance, PETA clearly hadn’t made it to the principality recently. There were diamonds the size of quail eggs stuck to earlobes and fingers at every turn, and watches that I couldn’t identify but knew would be worth more than enough to ensure the downpayment on a flat. Would I be like this when I had money? It was hard to think of a super-rich person who had taken a different path. Bill Gates perhaps, but who wants to wear ugly trainers with chinos and be that earnest? None of these people looked happy. It’s a cliché that money doesn’t buy happiness – tell that to someone struggling on the minimum wage – but it’s clearly true that it breeds dissatisfaction for many. Perhaps the difference for me would be that the money would be mine. So many of these women were wealthy because of their husbands, and that must make for a lifetime of insecurity. Because rich men don’t tend to stick to one wife, do they? They exchange and upgrade, and very rarely do they say, ‘Thank you for being by my side, darling. Thank you for raising our children and running our house and taking care of all the emotional labour, which enabled me to work without distraction. It’s time for something new now but here is 50 per cent of everything we built together.’ No. They lawyer up and try to shaft you, hiding their money offshore, pleading poverty, arguing that you never contributed in any way, protesting that the kids don’t need that much. Or they do what my dad did, and relinquish all responsibility as quickly as possible.
On my way to Monaco, I saw two women looking at a cabinet of rings in duty-free. I heard one of them say to the other, ‘Just once I’d like to be able to buy myself something like that without asking my husband if I can.’ I would never have that problem. I would never be beholden, timid or lassoed to someone else like that. And if I ended up with a partner, I would be magnanimous about the money. We would be equals in it, and enjoy what it could give us. Not diamond rings which made you afraid of being robbed in the street, but experiences and comfort. A life with endless possibility. Perhaps I didn’t know how it would affect me until I had it, but looking at the people around me in the restaurant, I felt certain that I would try to remember how not to do it. And having the Artemis family at the back of my mind would help. Every now and then I would chuck a lot of their cash at charities I felt sure that they’d have hated. It wouldn’t ameliorate their mark on the world, but it would be a small pleasure to start a fund with their name attached to help squatters fight eviction notices.
Back at the hotel, I messaged Pete to tell him that I thought I could get my dad to take something to the house, and asked him what would work best, before turning off my phone and falling into a deep sleep.
The next morning I woke early. Pete had replied with a stream of messages about hubs, unencrypted devices, and routers, which was all written out in techy language I couldn’t quite decipher. I sent back a fairly terse message asking him to be clearer and went for a run. An hour later, I grabbed a book, headed for the promenade, and settled down at a café to wait for Lacey. It was nice to do absolutely nothing for an entire morning, and it almost felt like I was really on holiday – if you discounted the fizzy feeling in my stomach which told me I was slightly on edge. I read a few chapters of Israel Rank: The Autobiography of a Criminal, which I’d come across years ago when I was still considering what to do about the Artemis family. It had been sitting on my bookshelf for a while, but I’d noticed it again when I was packing for Monaco and shoved it in my bag. It’s a book about a man in Edwardian England who kills his family for revenge. I wonder if you can possibly decipher the appeal? At 1.45 p.m., I paid for my three cups of coffee and one mini doughnut, trying not to kick off at the waitress when I saw I had been stiffed for 26 euros, and walked towards Janine’s flat.
Just after 2 p.m., I saw Lacey and Henry hove into view. As she got closer, I gave a small wave and fell into step with her. We exchanged brief greetings and I talked lightly about the heat for a few minutes until the dog forced us to stop so that he could relieve himself.
‘What would you need from me?’ Lacey asked anxiously, as she rummaged in her pocket for a plastic bag. I wanted to hug her, and I’m not one for spontaneous physical contact.
‘I think the easiest way would be to put a little microphone in the flat and record how she talks to you. That way, we have hard proof for a story but we still won’t use your name or implicate you in any way. After that, me and you could just have a chat about the industry and what needs to change. How does that sound?’
Lacey bent down to pick
up the dog shit and said something I didn’t quite hear. ‘I said how much,’ she repeated when I asked her to say it again. I thought fast. I had to go low for financial reasons, but how much did she really expect? If I went too high, she might assume there was more to come.
‘A thousand,’ I said. ‘You can have it in any currency you like, cash in hand. But my editor won’t sign off on more. Would that help your family, Lacey?’ I couldn’t tell from her expression whether or not this was a decent amount in her eyes, and we kept walking.
‘OK,’ she said finally. ‘But the money upfront and you promise not to use my name or the name of Madame or mention anything about Henry.’ I was puzzled, and it clearly showed in my face. ‘He is a rude dog but I love him,’ she said simply.
‘OK, nothing about Henry,’ I promised, trying not to look incredulous. She was going to let a stranger put a recording device in the house of her terrible employer and she was worried about the ratty dog who clearly hated her. Other people are truly a mystery.
I explained that I would meet her the next day at the same time and give her a device, which she would have to connect to the main hub – did she know how to do that? She did. It turned out that she was the person who had to learn how to use the smart house technology.
‘Madame doesn’t understand but she can use voice commands now.’ Fine, good. Once it was connected, she didn’t need to do anything else, the device would pick up conversation and feed it back to me for the article. We could have a chat on her day off and that would be that. Lacey nodded and made to leave for home.