6. Adrien
ADRIEN
A drien was bored. He’d risen late that morning, finding the yacht moored in a beautiful bay, where the crystal-clear waters shimmered below a bright, cloudless sky.
?le Sainte-Marguerite was a paradise, and far enough from anywhere to be discreet.
But the price for discretion was distance — distance from anything that might’ve been fun.
He’d been so intent on escaping from Monaco he hadn’t thought about the possibility of boredom, and he was still dreading turning on his phone, for fear of his mother’s continued wrath, or another mean-spirited story about him in the newspapers.
I bring it on myself, I suppose.
But Adrien was tired of being “the playboy prince.” Reputations were hard to shake.
A lifetime of good works could be destroyed in an instant, a single misspent deed could cast a shadow for life — such was the price paid for royal title.
That morning, he’d swum and swum again, enjoying the deep waters surrounding the yacht, into which he’d dived and snorkeled, remembering the amusing incident with the chef earlier on.
She’d certainly been embarrassed at the sight of him without his shirt on.
It made him smile to remember it, not because he’d purposefully set out to shock her, but because he rather liked the thought of what she might now be thinking, just as he found himself thinking about her.
She was attractive — far more so in her bikini than in her chef’s whites.
Hurrying in with the cookies.
He remembered the look on her face — that same nervousness as he’d seen that morning.
Did she think he was angry with her? He wasn’t.
Adrien had always gotten on well with the staff who served him.
His mother treated the palace servants with only thinly veiled disdain.
She could be a difficult woman, and Adrien’s father, the king, was a formidable figure too.
But, as a kid, Adrien had made friends with all the servants.
He treated them as equals. It was the same at boarding school.
He didn’t like airs and graces. People who did a job should be treated with respect.
I wonder what she looks like when she smiles?
The smell of lunch was wafting up from below deck.
The lamb dish he’d eaten the previous evening had been exquisite, and Adrien was curious to know what he’d be eating for lunch.
He could’ve asked the maid, who seemed to be forever hovering close by, but, instead, he decided to do so for himself, wanting to know more about the woman whose dishes he’d so much enjoyed, and who the sight of swimming had caused the amusement of the morning.
Having emerged from the water and dried off, Adrien slipped on his shirt and went to explore below deck.
The yacht was large, but not enormous. A flight of stairs led down to a corridor, and another ladder led below again.
The corridor was narrow, but Adrien could see the galley at the far end, and the chef with her back to him preparing lunch.
As he approached, she called out to him.
“I hope you like gnocchi,” she said.
Adrien smiled. “I like it very much,” he replied.
At these words, the chef turned round with a look of shock on her face — it was their third encounter, and shock seemed to be her staple response to his presence. Adrien found it was often the case. People became awkward around him when there was really no need.
“Oh, Your Highness,” she said, as Adrien entered the galley.
“Please… I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Adrien said. “But I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your food. And I’m sorry if I embarrassed you this morning.”
The chef blushed. “Oh no, you didn’t… I should’ve realized you might be there. Mr. Bellagio doesn’t usually get up until noon. I go for a swim most mornings, but I won’t from now on.”
Adrien smiled. He didn’t mind. The sight of her in her bikini was hardly unpleasant — quite the opposite, in fact.
She was pretty, petite, with dusty-blond hair and green eyes.
She was wearing her chef’s white now, her name stitched into the breast — Claire Bellamy.
It was a pretty name — a pretty name for a pretty woman.
“I don’t mind. If you want to swim, you must swim.
I’ve just been doing so myself,” Adrien said, glancing around the kitchen as he spoke.
It was a small, cramped space, and it amazed him to think of what Claire had produced from it over the past twenty-four hours.
“The lamb you cooked for me was delicious. What are you making now?”
Claire glanced at the pots on the stove, where water was bubbling, and another pan contained what looked like a cream sauce.
“Gnocchi — with cheese. I make them with spinach and nutmeg,” she replied, appearing to visibly relax.
Adrien had always enjoyed his food, though he’d noticed he had to work harder in the gym to eat as he once had with impunity. The years were advancing, as was his waistline.
“Delicious. I ate a wonderful dish of gnocchi in Rome a few months ago — it was made with squash, and a strong cheese… I forget the name. Have you been to Rome?”
Claire nodded. “Many times, yes. It’s one of my favorite places. The first time I ever came to Europe I went there — the food, the culture, la dolce vita,” she said.
Adrien smiled. He loved Italy, too. His godmother, the Contessa Griselda Ricci, lived on Lake Como, and Adrien had spent many happy summers there as a kid.
He loved Rome, with its faded grandeur, and had often thought how much he’d like to live there, surrounded by so much history — except in the summer, when the heat was unbearable.
“La dolce vita, yes,” Adrien said, still smiling at Claire, who smiled back at him with what was surely the prettiest smile he’d ever seen. It lit up her whole face — what a contrast to the dour, sober look of the princess at Le Paradis .
“Actually, I was wondering… is there anything particular Your Highness likes to eat? When I was told you were coming on board, I didn’t know anything about your likes and dislikes.
Actually, they didn’t even tell me it was you who was coming on board.
I suppose it was for security, but it made planning rather difficult.
I didn’t know if you were vegan, or pescatarian, or…
well, if there’s anything you’d like me to make for you, I’d be pleased to. Mr. Bellagio has his whims.”
Adrien laughed. “I’m sure Giuseppe creates chaos for you,” he said.
“It was always the same at school. Everything always had to be just so for Giuseppe. I don’t know why his parents sent him to an English boarding school.
He hated the food, he hated the weather, and he hated just about everything else.
But I was more used to it — being from Flandenne. You’re American, yes?”
“That’s right. From Detroit. I came to Europe to… well, when I was younger, and I never left. I like it. I like la dolce vita,” she said.
She really was an attractive woman, and had they met in a bar or at some fancy reception, Adrien might well have mistaken her for someone with money, perhaps a title.
There was something glamorous about her, even in her chef’s whites, an effortless style.
Her hair was immaculate, her skin soft and supple.
She’d even manicured her nails. Had Adrien given a second thought to who it was who’d be cooking for him on Giuseppe’s yacht, the woman standing in front of him wouldn’t have come to mind.
“Then you’ve no plans to go back to the States? I like New York, and I went to San Francisco once,” Adrien said.
Claire smiled. “It’s different in the small towns — not that Detroit’s a small town — but if you want to know what America’s really like, that’s the place to go. I’ve been to New York a few times, but never to San Francisco. I prefer Europe — I like the history. And the food.”
The mention of food brought Adrien’s thoughts back to her question — was there anything she could make for him?
What was his favorite food? Adrien had eaten just about every cuisine there was.
He liked fresh, simple Mediterranean food, but he was also fond of the cooking of Flandenne, with its cream- and cheese-laden dishes — not every day, though.
“Actually, there is something you could make for me,” he said, feeling almost embarrassed at admitting to it.
Claire looked at him expectantly. “I can turn my hand to most things,” she said.
Adrien was in two minds whether to admit it, but ever since leaving boarding school in England, he’d hankered after the one dish he always looked forward to at dinner as a boy —
“Steamed sponge pudding with golden syrup and custard,” he said.
It sounded laughable in the heat of the Mediterranean summer. A dish with its origins in the cold, chilly winters of the English climate, where such stodge was necessary for survival in the freezing corridors of an ancient public school. Would she laugh at him?
To his relief, Claire smiled.
“I wasn’t expecting you to say that. But I think I could make something similar. I don’t have golden syrup, but I could make a sort of sweet jelly — jam — with some of the fruit I brought on board. And I could use the microwave instead of steaming it. Let me look at some recipes.”
Adrien grinned at her. “I don’t want to put you out — but if it’s not too much trouble…” he said.
“It’s no trouble at all. I thought you were going to say something complicated — like a dish from the menu at Le Paradis . ”
At the mention of the restaurant, Adrien blushed. She surely knew what had happened between him and the princess. It had been all over the newspapers, and the gossip websites were filled with clickbait. What did she think of him?
“Oh, no… I like that kind of food, but you asked me for my favorite, and that’s it. We used to have it at school on Sundays. With custard, too.”
“I’ll make some custard to go with it — crème anglaise,” she said.
Adrien was bemused at the way she appeared so willing to indulge him.
He hadn’t eaten a steamed sponge pudding in years — not since he’d returned to his school to open a new wing named in his honor.
The cook had remembered his liking for the sweet, calorific dessert, but on that occasion it had been served in such a way as to elevate it to the level of fine dining.
But such a dish wasn’t fine dining. As a boy, Adrien remembered large helpings, doled out from a dish at the center of the table, with the jug of custard to accompany it — and that was how he wanted to eat it again.
“And please, don’t make it fancy. It’s all meant to meld together in the bowl,” he said.
Claire laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it a mess for you. Shall I serve it this evening? I’ve got a steak for you, too,” she said.
There was something almost indecent in the way she said those last words — it was a temptation, but one Adrien was more than willing to give into.
“Oh, yes, that would be delicious,” he exclaimed, his mouth salivating at the very thought.
Claire smiled at him and nodded. “And gnocchi for lunch. Something light in case you want to swim again.”
It all sounded delicious, and if this was what he was to enjoy in the coming days, Adrien had a feeling he’d enjoy his time on the Aurora more than he’d earlier feared .
Meeting her, too, had been a revelation — she was certainly nothing like he might’ve imagined Giuseppe’s chef to be.
It would be an encounter he wouldn’t easily forget.
“I’d better let you get on. But thank you… it’s been so nice to talk,” Adrien said, smiling at Claire, who now held his gaze, rather than looking embarrassed.
“I’m glad I know what you like now,” she said. “I hope it’ll be just as you remember it.”
Adrien nodded, and thanking her a second time, he took his leave, feeling pleasantly surprised at the encounter they’d shared, and finding himself looking forward to seeing her again.