CHEMISTRY - Max Verstappen

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ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ | ɴᴇᴡ ʙᴇɢɪɴɴɪɴɢꜱ

"Dad, I'm honestly going to be fine!" Hazel insisted as she struggled to move the final cardboard box through the entryway of her brand new apartment,

"Honey, the place looks like it's about to fall down," Her dad said disapprovingly as the door slammed closed behind her, "Please let me pull some of your grandma's inheritance for you and get you somewhere nicer,"

"I don't need anywhere nicer. I'm spending one, maybe two years here. I want to make sure that I have money to return to when I'm home as well, so no taking from that inheritance. Granny would never forgive you,"

"Granny wouldn't know!" Her dad insisted as she propped the phone up against the microwave so that she could talk to him without using her hands, "She's been dead for three years! Honestly she'd just be happy that your'e finally using the money she left you."

Rolling her eyes, Hazel reached for the closest box, pulling out her new set of keys to slice open the tape, "I'll reassess the situation in a couple of months, okay?"

Knowing that he wasn't going to win this argument - his daughter had inherited the same stubbornness that her mother had once possessed - he sighed deeply, "I just want to make sure that you're happy, Nutmeg."

Hazel felt the lump form in her throat as her dad used her favourite nickname against her. It had been one which her mother had used in her childhood, but now it was only brought out for special occaisons, knowing the emotional damage it seemed to cause her,

"I've got to finish unpacking," Hazel said softly, hoping that her dad didn't correct her - she hadn't even started to unpack her life,

"Okay. I love you, Haze,"

"I love you too, dad."

Hanging up on her father always seemed like one of the hardest things to do, especially when she didn't know when the next time she saw him would be. He lived near Oxford, and she had just moved to Monte Carlo... It wasn't as if she would see him popping over for a cup of coffee anymore.

Still, accepting the job offer in Monaco had been the right thing to do, for all of her family. There was so much chaos back in England - even her dad had struggled to support her over the last year. When she'd applied to the job at the International School of Monaco, she had this sinking feeling that what came next was going to change her life, and when she got the invitation for interview... Wow. She remembered how the air seemed to escape from her lungs.

Of course she wanted the job - no, she needed this job. She'd been working since she'd qualified as a teacher in the same school in some rural village in the Cotswolds, which was absolutely lovely. As lovely as a quiet secondary school in the middle of nowhere could be, at least. Now, moving into a new school, in a new country, with a new, and hopefully very large budget, a whole door of possibilities seemed to open to her.

There would be some... Challenges, as with any job. Did she speak any French? No, but according to the lovely lady who had offered her the job on the phone six months prior, it didn't really matter. She'd be teaching in English, since this was an International school, and apparently most people in Monaco could speak English fluently. Though, it wouldn't hurt to learn once she'd grown comfortable here.

Her only other experience of a French speaking country was France - which was absolutely not the same thing as Monaco, as she'd been correcting her father with - when she was just a child. She'd learnt a couple of basic phrases herself when she was in secondary school and was excited to use them on a family trip to Disneyland Paris.

"Parles-vous anglais?" She'd asked politely to the man behind the counter of a nearby café. It was her only venture outside of the magic of Disney with her family, and though she was excited to show them what she knew of the local language, she wasn't quite able to translate the menu effectively,

"Do I speak English?" He responded in a mocking tone as he looked to the family who were waiting behind her, "Do you hear this kid? Of course I speak English, we're not ignorant like you are!"

Now, she knew not to base all of her opinions of French people - and especially Monegasque people - off of this one interaction, but she'd be lying if she said that it didn't create a stereotype of how she was going to be treated in this country. She'd been working on her Duolingo, but she just couldn't grasp the basics of the language. Maybe living and working here would help.

As she pulled out her kitchen essentials, she glanced at the kitchen briefly. It wasn't as if she had to try very hard to find it - the room was tiny. It was about the same size as her bedroom at home, which would have been quite spacious if it were just a bedroom, but these four, boxy walls contained a small kitchen and a sofa, which she was promised would turn down into a bed. The only other room in the apartment was the bathroom, just off to the side of the fridge.

Now, it wasn't living in luxury, but the rent was cheaper than literally anywhere else in a three hour radius - it was still absolutely extortionate mind - and it was so close to her new workplace. It would only take around twenty minutes to walk, which was a far cry better than the hours of commuting she'd expected when she'd first started to look around the city and surrounding areas.

Leaning forwards from the edge of the sofa where she'd perched herself, she pulled open the cupboard doors moving to get a better view of what was inside of the box to move it across. Her father had shipped some of her belongings over from England, and she'd shopped around at a couple of the local stores as well to fill in the gaps of anything she was missing, or anything that got damaged on the flight over. She had three cupboards of space to mess around with, but had already saved one of them mentally for food. That left two to play around with. One, she filled with plates and dishes, and the other pots and pans. There was no actual oven in this apartment, only a hob and a microwave, so it left no use for the single baking tray she'd packed at the bottom of the box. Then again, perhaps it would be a good heat mat for her hair curlers.

With no food to stock into the cupboards, Hazel moved on to the bathroom - putting the various decorative items around the sink and on the small counter space she had inside this room. The bathroom was a prison-shade of grey, which was in vast contrast to the yellowing living room/bedroom/kitchen she'd previously been in. The walls of the bathroom looked as if they were pretending to be natural stone, but hadn't been looked after in years. It was simple in what it offered - a toilet, a sink, a mirror and a square shower which desperately needed a clean.

Back into the bedroom, the smell of damp hit her like a bus. It was clear where it was coming from, with the ugly dark stain above the bed, but it wasn't clear how she was going to get it fixed. She'd learnt already that there was a clear language barrier between herself and her landlord. She wondered how well google translate could translate, hello strange man. My ceiling is damp and my flat smells like ass. Yours sincerely, the odd English woman who stepped on your foot the first time we met.

Maybe that was a job which could wait until tomorrow. Still, she had a couple of things left for her to unpack before she headed to the store to grab some essentials for the evening. She figured that before she did anything else, she should see if this sofa really turned into a bed.