Page 9 of Fake Fiancée, Real Baby
“Is that everything?” the maid asked.
“Yes. Go, quickly — it’ll get cold,” Claire replied, hurrying Anna-Marie out of the kitchen as she spoke.
Cold food was a chef’s worst nightmare — that, and undercooked food. But Claire was a stickler for getting things right, and she never sent out a dish unless she was absolutely satisfied with it. That evening, curiosity got the better of her. She wanted to know what the prince thought about the dish, and going to the steps leading up from the galley, she listened, trying to hear what the prince was saying to Anna-Marie, if anything.
“Your main course, Your Highness,” Anna-Marie said, as Claire stood on the steps below out of sight.
“Ah, lamb — delicious. I thought it might be fish again, but this is wonderful. Thank you,” the prince replied.
Claire waited, but he said nothing more, and now she could hear only the clink of the cutlery and Anna-Marie’s footsteps moving around the table as she poured the water and wine. Claire had chosen a red to accompany the dish. She’d taken a sommelier course in Bordeaux some years ago and prided herself on selecting wines that matched her cooking. A few moments later, Anna-Marie returned, and Claire looked at her expectantly.
“Well? What did he think?” she whispered, eager to know if she’d impressed.
The maid smiled. “I… well, he’s eating it,” she replied, with a shrug, and Claire had to be content with the empty plate that returned to the kitchen a short while later.
“I’ll take up the dessert immediately. His Royal Highness wants an early night,” Anton said, as Claire brought out the lemon mousse from the refrigerator.
Claire dusted it hurriedly with icing sugar, handing it to Anton, who turned and made his way upstairs. The lavender-scented cookies were still on the countertop — Claire had forgotten to give the plate to the steward, and Anna-Marie was already up there, pouring the prince another glass of wine. Had it just been Mr. Bellagio dining, Claire would’ve had no qualms in taking up the plate herself, but what would the prince think of her appearing on deck in her chef’s whites?
He won’t even notice me,she said to herself, and taking the plate of cookies, she made her way up the steps from the galley onto the deck.
The prince was sitting with his back to her, looking out over the Mediterranean towards the coast. Carlos had informed them earlier they were on their way to an island off Cannes — Île Sainte-Marguerite — and would sail through the night to reach their mooring by morning. As she emerged onto the deck, Anton caught sight of her, glaring at her, as she held up the biscuits.
“I didn’t want the mousse served without them,” she whispered, as he hurried to snatch them from her.
At that moment, the prince turned to see what the commotion was about, and Claire caught his eye, smiling nervously at him, as he looked at her in surprise.
“To accompany the mousse, Your Highness,” Anton said, presenting the biscuits to the prince, even as his eyes remained fixed on Claire, who didn’t know whether to speak or flee.
“How nice,” the prince said, a smile coming over his face, before Claire bobbed into an awkward curtsey and hurried below back to the galley.
She felt foolish for having been seen. It was unprofessional, but she hadn’t wanted the dish to be ruined — a mousse needed something crisp to go with it, and the lavender cookies were her own recipe.
“What were you thinking?” Anton hissed, when he came down to the galley with the empty ramekin and plate, glaring at her as he slammed it down on the counter.
“I… You weren’t here, and Anna-Marie wasn’t either. Besides, he didn’t seem to mind.”
Anton raised his eyebrows, but Claire smiled to herself, thinking back to the way the prince had looked at her.
He obviously enjoyed his dinner.
Claire’s cabin was below deck, in the bowels of the yacht, next to Anna-Marie’s. There was a bunk built into the wall, and room for a chest of drawers and a desk, on which Claire had photographs of her parents, and various family dogs, some nowlong deceased. She wrote a diary each night — a habit formed during her first trip to Europe — and writing in it that night, she noted the prince’s smile. He was a handsome man, and with an aristocratic look about him.
That’s hardly surprising, I suppose.
Claire knew little about Flandenne. She’d never been there, though she’d been to Brussels and that was near enough. Flandenne was like Bruges, or so she imagined it — replete with medieval buildings and stores that sold chocolate in great abundance. She preferred the Mediterranean — Italy especially. She was hoping for some time off after they returned to Monaco. She had romantic ideas about taking a train to Genoa and going to the opera at the Teatro Carlo Felice. Smiling to herself, she closed her diary, yawning as she climbed into her bunk.
Last to bed and first to rise. That’s my lot, although I suppose Carlos is still up. We’ll sail all night and be docked in some secluded bay by the morning.
Turning out the light, she pulled the blanket over her head, the only noise coming from the gentle hum of the air-con unit — a necessity in the heat of the summer. It didn’t take long for Claire to fall asleep, and she was awoken by her alarm, meaning she’d had her six hours of sleep uninterrupted.
If only it was longer.
But forcing herself out of bed, she hurried to get dressed, wanting to see where they were, and whether she could swim before making breakfast. Emerging from the cabin, she found the yacht docked a few hundred yards off a rugged outcrop, where the crystal blue waters of the Mediterranean lapped gently on the sands of a cove, where scrubland grew down tothe deserted beach. It was idyllic — just as she’d imagined it to be. The sun had only just risen, and the water was too inviting to ignore. Claire had put on her swimsuit in her cabin, and she climbed down the ladder from the deck, slipping into the water without a splash. This washermoment each day, a chance to forget all about menus and cooking and the kitchen. She loved to swim, and the water was warm, crystal clear, and as blue as the sky above.
This is wonderful.
Sometimes, Anna-Marie would join her, but it seemed no one else was about, and Claire swam as far as the headland, a few hundred yards from the yacht. Looking back at it, she smiled to herself, wondering what other people must think of Mr. Bellagio and the ostentation of his wealth.
