Page 13 of Fake Fiancée, Real Baby
Claire pointed to the mix in a bowl on the worktop opposite her. “It’s a cake — from England. The prince had it at boarding school and asked me to make it for him. I’m not sure what kind of wine would go with it. Perhaps a port. It doesn’t need a sweet dessert wine,” Claire said.
Anton shook his head. “A Bordeaux with the steak — a Pomerol, perhaps. I’ve got a good vintage in the cellar. I’ll open that. The prince can decide what he drinks with… that.”
Claire had been practicing the steamed sponge all afternoon. There were plenty of recipes online, but most called forcomplicated steaming processes — something that would prove difficult in such a small space. Instead, after some trial and error, Claire had discovered her hunch about the microwave had been correct, and had a produced a perfect pudding, replete with the jelly she’d made with the soft fruits brought on board for the prince’s breakfast. Anton had informed her the prince wanted his steak cooked rare, and Claire was about to place it in a hot pan when Anna-Marie came marching into the galley.
“He wants you to serve it,” she said, glaring at Claire as though it was her fault.
Claire couldn’t help but smile to herself, though she composed her expression to one of surprise as she turned to the maid, who was now pouting at her.
“Oh… really? How odd. I don’t mind, if that’s what he wants.”
“I don’t know why he wantsyouto do it. I’m the one who’s supposed to do it. Or Anton. You’re just the chef,” said Anna-Marie, appearing almost on the verge of tears.
“Well, I suppose it’s a special dish — the one we talked about this morning,” Claire replied.
To her surprise, her heart was now beating faster — she felt nervous about delivering the dessert to the prince, not knowing if it would be as he remembered. Food had the power to raise memories. This steamed sponge pudding represented a nostalgic retreat for the prince — it was his childhood on a plate — and Claire could only hope she’d got it right.
“I’m taking the steak,” Anna-Marie said, in a tone of jealous defiance.
Claire shrugged. “All right. Just a moment,” she said, and having cooked the steak to perfection and rested it, she sent it up with Anna-Marie, before turning her attention to the dessert.
The microwave pinged after two minutes, and peering inside, Claire could see the steamed sponge pudding rising out of the cup.
It looks like it’s worked.
Taking it out, she upended it into a dish, smiling as the jelly cascaded down the steaming edges of the sponge, which held its shape like a flat-topped hill. There was just the custard now, and Claire smiled to herself at the thought of serving “custard” to other guests on Mr. Bellagio’s yacht. The dessert was hardly haute-cuisine, and yet there was something comforting about it — good food didn’t always mean Michelin-starred dining. The most delicious meals were those with memories attached, and Claire hoped it would be the same with this one.
“You can take up the dessert,” Anna-Marie said, haughtily, when she returned with the prince’s empty plate.
Claire didn’t know why she felt so nervous. Her hands were trembling as she took the dish, and taking a deep breath, she made her way from the galley and up the steps onto the deck. The prince was sitting with his back to her, looking out at the setting sun over the sea. He was wearing a crisp white linen shirt and deck trousers, and Claire could smell the scent of orange blossom from his cologne as she approached. It sent a shiver down her spine. Anton, who’d been pouring the prince a glass of wine, stepped back.
“Your dessert, Your Highness,” he said, and Claire set the dish down in front of the prince, catching his eye as she did so.
He smiled at her — a genuine smile, as though this was what he’d been waiting for. It made Claire blush.
“I hope you enjoy it,” she said.
She didn’t know whether to wait or return to the kitchen, but, to her immense surprise, the prince gestured for her to pull up a chair. Anton glared at her, but ignoring him, Claire did so, sitting down at an angle to the table, as the prince picked up his spoon.
“You don’t know how much I’ve been looking forward to this,” he said, smiling as he looked down at the steaming dish in front of him. A sunset on a yacht in the Mediterranean was hardly the setting for a staple of an English boarding school, and yet the prince appeared delighted. Anton had returned below deck, and, with Anna-Marie sulking, Claire was left alone with the prince, who closed his eyes as he took the first spoonful. Claire waited, fearing something was wrong — was the sponge light enough? Was there enough vanilla in the custard? Had replacing the golden syrup with jelly worked? Opening his eyes, he smiled at her. “How wonderful. It’s just like I remember.”
Claire breathed an audible sigh of relief. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d worked so hard on a dish, and to have him say he liked it meant everything.
“Oh, I’m so pleased. I wasn’t sure if I’d got it right. Do you really like?” she asked.
“I could eat another one,” he said, smiling at Claire, who was flattered by his compliments.
“I can go and make another — I’ve got enough mix, and there’s plenty more custard and jelly.”
The prince had finished eating and, putting down his spoon in the empty dish, he pushed it aside.
“Stay for a moment,” he said. “You’ve been working hard all day. I hope you got a chance to try it, too. I should’ve said to bring another spoon. We could’ve shared it.”
Claire’s heart skipped a beat. She could hardly believe he’d just said that. There was a flirtatious tone in his voice. It was extraordinary…
Is he really flirting with me? I must look like a hot mess.
For a moment, Claire was speechless, hardly daring to believe the prince was being serious. There’d been times when other guests of Mr. Bellagio had been flirtatious with her — usually the older ones, who’d pass some unwelcome comment about women in the kitchen and the bedroom. But this was different. He was still smiling at her — the way to a man’s heart and all that…
