12. Claire
CLAIRE
L eaving the yacht had been something of a whirlwind.
A day ago, Claire had been preparing breakfast in a cramped galley, arranging fruit on a plate and making coffee.
Now, she was sitting sipping chilled Dom Perignon in the back of a Bentley, being whisked towards a new life as the future bride of the crown prince of Flandenne.
“What do you mean, you’re leaving with him?” Anna-Marie had demanded, after Claire had explained why she was packing her bags.
“He’s asked me to marry him. I’m going to open a restaurant in Flandenne,” Claire had repeated, for it had seemed her first explanation had fallen on deaf ears, as Anna-Marie stared at her in disbelief.
Put like that, it did sound somewhat farfetched.
The truth was different, of course. The prince had promised Claire her restaurant in exchange for pretending to be engaged to him.
But after the night they’d shared in his cabin, Claire had begun to wonder if every single detail was just for show.
He’d been tender, gentle, loving. In his arms, she’d felt safe.
It was a difficult feeling to describe. He was certainly attractive, but for Claire it wasn’t only handsome looks that made a man desirable.
He had to be kind. He had to be respectful.
He had to be the sort of man who treated her as an equal.
Adrien was all those things — or so the last few days had suggested.
It was all so sudden, but opportunity had knocked, and Claire had taken the plunge.
“Aren’t we going to the terminal?” Claire asked, as the car sped past the turning to departures.
The prince smiled at her. “Oh, we don’t go that way, no. The jet’s waiting for us. There’s a VIP terminal here. It’s comfortable enough, but we shouldn’t have to wait long.”
Claire smiled. This was all going to take some getting used to.
In her carry-on were a few clothes, her passport, diary, and the photos from her cabin.
She had nothing else to bring — no real possessions.
As the car pulled up outside a low building surrounded by a manicured lawn and flowerbeds, a uniformed attendant hurried to open the door for them.
Stepping out, Claire could see a number of small jets waiting for takeoff, and she and Adrien were ushered into the building, their passports taken from them, and yet more champagne offered in a smartly furnished lounge, where attendants slipped noiselessly passed and a piano was being softly played in the corner.
It was a far cry from the budget airline check-in Claire had last endured at this very same airport on a trip to London.
“How long will we have to wait?” she asked.
“Oh, not long,” the prince replied. “We’ll be in the air soon. Then it’s just a short flight to Flandenne. There’s our jet.”
He pointed to a small plane emblazoned with the coat of arms Claire recognized from the monogram on his nightgown.
“I’ve never been in a private jet,” Claire said.
There’d been a lot of firsts since leaving the yacht — being photographed by the paparazzi, drinking champagne in the back of a Bentley, being in the company of a prince in the VIP lounge of a private terminal.
And it seemed there was a great deal more to come.
Claire hadn’t quite thought it through yet.
It was all a whirl — wonderful, but overwhelming.
“It’s just a small one,” the prince said, in a somewhat dismissive tone.
A few moments later, a steward came to inform them they’d soon be boarding.
Going to the restroom, Claire looked at herself in the mirror, wondering if she was ready to be plastered across the pages of every newspaper and magazine, just as the prince had suggested.
She didn’t think herself unattractive, but could she really compare to the likes of the princess he’d left high and dry in Le Paradis .
And what if he realizes he’s made a mistake? What do I do then? Oh… what am I doing?
Composing herself, she took a deep breath, reminding herself what she was doing.
The prince had given her an opportunity — the opportunity of a lifetime.
A few smiles and nods, some handshaking, and a photoshoot were a small price to pay for what was being offered.
She’d given herself a talking-to, reminding herself of what she and the prince had shared the night before.
That certainly wasn’t an act, and she smiled to herself as she thought of how many women would have given everything to be in her shoes right now.
But could something more come of that? Claire reminded herself of the prince’s reputation, knowing he could probably very easily separate sex and feelings. The prince was waiting for her in the lounge, and they were escorted from the terminal and driven in a golf buggy to the waiting jet.
“What about our bags?” Claire asked.
“It’s all taken care of, madam,” the attendant said, and the two of them boarded the plane, where Claire found herself cocooned in a luxuriously furnished cabin, where yet more champagne and a spread of dainty morsels were laid out on a table between the large seats, the headrests of which were emblazoned with the royal coat of arms.
“Welcome on board, Your Highness. We’ll be back in Flandenne before you know it,” the attendant — a young man, dressed in a smart military uniform with gold epaulettes — said, as Claire and the prince took their seats.
“Is no one else flying with us?” Claire asked, for it seemed an extravagance to have the whole plane to themselves.
But the prince only smiled and shook his head. “It wouldn’t be a private jet if it wasn’t just us, would it?”
Claire looked out of the window as the jet taxied for takeoff.
A commercial airline was just ascending, and she pictured the cramped seats and bulging overhead lockers.
It was a far cry from the prince’s private jet, with its plush interiors and the champagne on ice.
She had to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.
“I was just wondering what my parents would make of all this,” she said, glancing at the prince, who was staring down at the blank screen of his phone.
He looked up distractedly. “Oh? And what do you think they’d say?” he asked.
Claire smiled. Her parents were down-to-earth types.
They lived on an ordinary street, in an ordinary suburb of Detroit.
Nothing out of the ordinary had ever happened to them.
Her dad had been a car salesman — a successful businessman, and a lover of good food.
Her mom had worked as an art restorer — a nod to her famous namesake, della Francesca.
Claire had a brother — Mike — who’d followed their dad into the car trade and become a mechanic. It was just… ordinary.
“I don’t think they’ll believe it at first,” she said, imagining the conversation over the phone.
“You’ll tell them, though, won’t you?” the prince asked.
The jet had taken off, gaining height over the landscape below — the sea, the urban sprawl, the green hills and trees. Claire nodded.
“When I know more about… everything.”
She still had so many questions — so much could still go wrong. In a short while, they’d be landing in Flandenne, and she’d be the one in front of the lens. What would the press write about her? What would Adrien’s parents think of her?
“I promise, it’ll be all right. Nothing’s going to go wrong,” the prince said, and he leaned forward in his seat and took her hand in his, giving her a reassuring smile.
Claire nodded. She was nervous, even as she trusted in his promise. “You’ve got to remember, this is all new to me. I’ve only ever seen this world from outside. I don’t know what it’s like to walk down a red carpet and pose for the cameras. I wasn’t born into any of this.”
Squeezing her hand, he raised it to his lips, kissing the back of it, and raising his eyes to her gaze.
“Just follow my lead. It’ll be mad for a few days.
But it’ll all calm down soon enough. They’ll soon see there’s no scandal involved.
Just two people who’ve fallen in love and are getting married,” he said.
“The press love scandal. They feed off it. The ordinary doesn’t sell newspapers or get clickbait.
If we’re ordinary, they’ll soon get bored. ”
Claire could only hope that was true. But the matter of the king and queen was more complicated.
“What about your parents? What are we going to tell them?” she asked.
The prince sat back in his chair, pondering for a moment.
Claire had only ever seen the king and queen of Flandenne in photographs.
The prince’s father was older, and had married the prince’s mother when she was just twenty years old.
Queen Helena had been a beauty in her day, and she still exuded the sort of glamor that graced the front pages of the world’s fashion magazines.
Claire was nervous at the prospect of meeting her — of being judged by her.
“We’ll tell them we met on the yacht. There’s no shame in it. We’ll be honest… they might want to keep the details secret. You could be a restaurateur — an entrepreneur who’s about to open her own restaurant in Flandenne. It’s not a lie.”
“And when they start digging around in my past? What then? What if they discover I was just a cook on a yacht?” Claire replied.
She was already beginning to doubt herself — to doubt her ability to play the part she had to play, and that he was expecting of her. But the prince only smiled and shook his head.
“And if they do, why does it matter? There’s no shame in who you are. Calling yourself a cook on a yacht hardly does you justice. You’re a skilled chef, with drive and determination. You’re passionate about what you do. You’re an artist of food,” he said.
His words made Claire blush. No one had ever described her as an “artist of food” before. But it was a flattering description, and his words gave her confidence. Perhaps it would be all right.
They’d barely been in the air for half an hour before they began their descent, and it wasn’t long before the prince pointed out the medieval roofs and spires of Flandenne.
“What a beautiful city,” Claire exclaimed, as they flew above the cathedral, with its famous three bell towers, set in the middle of a vast square, on the far side of which was the royal palace.
“You can see the gardens where I used to play as kid,” the prince said, pointing to an expanse of greenery in the center of the city, behind the palace walls.
They landed at a small airport a few miles beyond the city limits and were escorted from the jet to a waiting car — another Bentley, displaying the flag of Flandenne, and driven by a liveried chauffeur.
They left the airport by a rear gate. There was no showing of passports or faff in baggage reclaim.
Everything about their journey had been effortless, and driving towards the capital — Flandenne being both the name of the country and the capital — Claire reflected again on the extraordinary change of fortune the past week had brought her.
“It’s a beautiful country,” she said, looking out across the fields and woods as they drove along a main road towards the city.
“It’s very flat. I don’t think I’d ever seen a real hill until I was sent to school in England. But look, we’re coming to the old gates,” the prince said, pointing out of the window.
The road had split with a ring road traversing the city walls, where modern office blocks rose in the financial district.
But passing below the medieval gate, Claire found herself transported into another world.
The road had narrowed, and centuries-old buildings crowded round them.
Claire was gazing into the windows of Flandenne’s famous chocolate stores, with their rows of delicious confectionary temptingly displayed.
“What a beautiful place,” she exclaimed.
“I can’t wait to show you it properly. Look at the puppets in the window there — that’s Monsieur Caraconne’s famous puppet workshop,” the prince said, pointing to a window where half a dozen puppets, dressed in elaborate costumes, were staged in what looked like a scene from a fairytale.
The car purred into the central square, where the bells of the cathedral were ringing out, as though to welcome the prince and his bride-to-be.
“I can’t believe I’m here,” Claire said, her heart skipping a beat as they turned into the palace gates, to be greeted by the smart salute of soldiers dressed in brightly colored uniforms.
“Believe it,” the prince said. “This is your home now.”