Page 48 of Fake Fiancée, Real Baby
Claire laughed. “Be careful of saying that in here. I heard on the news the tabloids have got lip readers watching us. And, apparently there’s been a psychic in Budapest reading our cards — we’re going to have six kids, and one’s going to be an astronaut.”
Adrien shook his head and smiled. “What did I say about not listening to anything the newspapers write about us?”
“Oh, but I think it’s hilarious. If we don’t laugh, we’ll cry. But I think I can laugh about it now. And look at this, isn’t it wonderful?” Claire exclaimed.
The carriage had pulled up outside the restaurant, where yet more uniformed soldiers and liveried footmen were waiting to greet them. The crowds had been pushed back, and the way cleared for their entrance.
“The sign’s up, too,” Adrien said, pointing to where Claire’s name was proudly displayed over the entrance.
Claire felt a surge of pride at the sight of it — the dream come true. Had anyone ever asked her what her dream of marriage would be like, she wouldn’t have said this. Perhaps lots of little girls dream of marrying princes like in a fairytale, but to actually do so…
“I suppose it’s time to face the crowds,” Claire said, glancing at Adrien, who smiled.
“Not for the first time, and not for the last time,” he replied.
“But together,” she said, and, offering him her hand, she nodded to the footman waiting to open the carriage door.
As they stepped down from the carriage, the crowds cheered and a fanfare of trumpets rang out across the square. Together, Claire and Adrien turned and waved, and, in that moment, Claire couldn’t have felt happier with her husband, the man she loved, standing at her side. It was really no different to any other wedding. What mattered was at its heart — the love between two people who, though coming from very different places, had found what was common to them both: love.
“I’m definitely ready for something to eat,” Adrien whispered, as they made their way into the restaurant.
“Then I hope Monsieur Flandenne’s been practicing the recipes I gave him,” Claire replied.
“What’s on the menu? You never told me,” Adrien replied.
Claire smiled and shook her head.
“What do you think? Steamed sponge pudding — your favorite,” she replied.
EPILOGUE
NINE MONTHS LATER: CLAIRE
“Two pork, one chicken, three sole, table seven. I need langoustines and asparagus for table three. And how are those desserts coming for table eight?” Claire called out.
“Nearly ready, chef,” came the reply.
“That’s not good enough — time, please, Alfred. One minute,” Claire said, glancing over to where a young chef was spinning sugar into an intricate topping for a baked Alaska.
“Yes, chef,” he called out, before rushing the plates to the pass.
Claire was in her element. Running a kitchen was like conducting a symphony. Everything had to work in harmony, so that what the diners received appeared effortless. It was a Friday night at Claire’sand every table was booked. The restaurant had opened to critical acclaim and had recently been awarded its first Michelin star. Claire was proud of everything she and Adrien had achieved, but she knew a restaurant could never rest on its laurels. Every night had to be worthy of their accolades, and every dish had to be perfect.
“And now… three chicken, one vegan, one cod,” Claire called out, as another order came through from the dining room.
The waiters were dashing back and forth, and Claire was pleased to see stacks of empty plates, and to hear the compliments from the diners.
“Table three sent their compliments on the langoustines — the prime minister said they were the best he’d ever eaten,” one of the waiters said.
Claire smiled. The prime minister of Luxembourg was dining at the restaurant that night. Adrien often invited visiting dignitaries to dine there, using food, as well as charm, for diplomatic purposes.
“I’m glad to hear it. Let’s hope they enjoy dessert. Are we ready, Alfred?” Claire called out, as the young chef headed to the pass.
“Yes, chef,” he said, placing the baked Alaska in front of her.
A quick wipe of the plate and it was ready to go. Service had been busy that night, and Claire had been working in the restaurant since early that morning. She was tired, but there were still several hours to go. Here, she was no longer the crown princess of Flandenne, but head chef and patron of her own restaurant.
“Right, where are we at now? How are the main courses coming? I’ve got one duck, two sole, and another vegan. Time on these please?” Claire called out.
