3. Claire
CLAIRE
L et’s see, now… I think that’s everything arranged. If they’re here early enough for lunch, they can have gnocchi, and then the langoustines for dinner. I should have a dessert ready, too.
It was the following morning, and Claire was busy preparing for the arrival of their guest. Mr. Bellagio had said nothing as to their identity, only that a certain level of discretion would be required.
“That’s why I’m not telling you who it is,” he’d said, when Claire had ventured to ask as to the person’s likes and dislikes.
But whims were something she was used to.
As was cooking for people with particular tastes.
In a restaurant, there was a menu. The diners chose from the menu and that was that.
On a yacht — or in any private household — things were somewhat different.
Claire had prepared for all eventualities: vegetarian, vegan, allergies, and fussy eaters.
She’d risen early that morning, already at work in the kitchen, when Anna-Marie had come to fetch Mr. Bellagio’s early cup of coffee.
“Who do you think it is? Some celebrity?” she’d said.
Claire had shrugged. She wasn’t particularly bothered who it was. Though if it was someone really famous, she might show some interest.
“Oh, I don’t know. We’ll see soon enough, won’t we?” she’d said, squeezing past Anna-Marie, who had a habit of getting in the way.
She was a few years younger than Claire and had come to work on the yacht after a disastrous winter season spent as an au pair in Cannes.
The two of them got on, but Anna-Marie was prone to falling in love with men she shouldn’t, and it was Claire on whose shoulder she’d inevitably cry.
She was a pretty creature, with long blond hair and big blue eyes, which she fluttered just a little too much at Carlos and Anton.
The time for the crew’s lunch came and went, and Claire served the gnocchi she’d prepared to Carlos and the other two members of the crew, not wanting it go to waste.
“Mr. Bellagio’s gone to collect the guest,” Carlos had said, shaking his head.
He was still complaining about missing his brother’s birthday, even though Mr. Bellagio had told them he’d be paying them a bonus for the extra time spent at sea.
“How long are we going to be away for?” Anna-Marie had asked.
“For however long our mystery guests wants to escape for,” Anton had replied.
He was a rugged man, older, and the most experienced of them all when it came to being at sea. He spent most of his evenings in his cabin, and Claire would often hear him talking loudly in German to his wife in Naumburg.
“But who is it?” Anna-Marie persisted, with an exasperated tone.
“I think we’re about to find out,” Carlos said, gesturing out of the cabin window to where Mr. Bellagio’s limousine had just pulled up by the gangplank.
There was a scrabble to clear the table. Anton hurried up on deck to ensure the gangplank was secure, while Carlos returned to the skipper’s station, leaving Claire and Anna-Marie to clear away the lunch things and disappear below deck.
“We can see from the galley window,” Anna-Marie said, with an excited tone in her voice.
Claire was distracted by the dirty dishes.
It wouldn’t be Anna-Marie who’d be washing them up — or cleaning down the kitchen.
But her interest got the better of her, and, leaving the dishes, she went to stand with Anna-Marie at the galley window.
They were just above the waterline but could see the gangplank and the limousine parked in front.
“Why aren’t they getting out?” Anna-Marie asked.
“I don’t know,” Claire said. “Perhaps it’s someone really famous and they’re waiting in case there’re paparazzi around.”
Photographers were always taking photos of the superyachts, or waiting slyly on the strip across from the mooring, ready to pounce with their camera lest someone remotely famous should appear.
Claire watched with interest. The door to the limousine had still not opened, but a moment later it did — opened by Mr. Bellagio’s driver, Emile.
First came Mr. Bellagio himself, glancing from left to right, and thus confirming Claire’s suspicions.
“He’s looking for the cameras, isn’t he?” Anna-Marie said, leaning up and straining her neck to get a better view.
Claire was curious, and she did the same, craning to see who’d now emerged from the limousine.
From its dark depths, a figure appeared, dressed casually in deck clothes, though stylish to a fault.
He was dark-haired, with a tanned complexion, a neatly trimmed beard, and aquiline nose — a handsome man, and one Claire thought she recognized, though not from the movies or world of music.
Anna-Marie gasped. “It’s Prince Mertens — Adrien Mertens,” she exclaimed, clasping her hands together as she spoke, her expression changing to one rapt enchantment.
Claire looked again. Could it really be the prince?
Adrien was the heir to the throne of Flandenne.
He was always in the papers or splashed across some clickbait website — “ Fresh Scandal Engulfs the House of Mertens. ” Claire had read about him often enough.
He was a playboy, and forever getting mixed up with the wrong women.
In fact, there’d been something about him she’d read just the day before — “Prince Adrien Leaves Princess High and Dry” someone had posted, with a link to a tabloid story about Le Paradis and a stand-up — apparently, the prince had slipped out the back in the middle of a date.
That had been why she’d stopped at the restaurant that morning — she must’ve remembered without realizing.
“Are you sure that’s him?” Claire asked, looking again at the man, who was now being ushered up the gangplank by Mr. Bellagio.
Anna-Marie was already scrolling on her phone.
“Yes, look, there he is,” she exclaimed, holding up the phone, on which was now displayed a picture of the crown prince.
There was no mistaking it was him, and Claire’s eyes grew wide with astonishment. To see him up close was extraordinary.
“Goodness… I’ve never cooked for a crown prince before,” she said, wondering if her plans for the langoustines was now too simple.
“I wonder what he’s like,” Anna-Marie said. She was swooning, and Claire turned to her and rolled her eyes.
“He’ll be just like the rest of Mr. Bellagio’s guests — self-entitled and stuck-up. They all are. We’re just staff to them. To be seen and not heard.”
Anna-Marie looked disappointed. “But if it’s just going to be us with him on the yacht for the next few days… won’t he get bored without talking to someone?”
Claire smiled. “I don’t think so. I’m sure he’ll find plenty to amuse himself. Anyway, we should get back to work. If Vittoria knew we were standing here gawping, she wouldn’t be pleased.”
“I’m going to try to get a better look at him. I’ll pretend I’m taking some towels up to his cabin,” Anna-Marie said.
Claire smiled and shook her head. She’d never been particularly interested in celebrities.
Monaco was full of them — whether those deserving of the accolade, or those who simply thought they deserved it.
One royal someone was much the same as another, as far as she was concerned.
Food was a leveler. Everyone had to eat.
And that’s my job. To feed them.
The langoustines were waiting to be boiled, and Claire had it in mind to serve them simply with tomatoes, garlic, and parsley.
Good produce spoke for itself, and this was the kind of food she hoped one day to serve in her own restaurant — a dream that still seemed a long way off.
As she busied herself in the kitchen, Claire could hear the sound of footsteps above on deck, and the voice of her employer talking to the prince.
“We’ll have lunch, then I’ll leave you. I wish I could stay, but I’ve got to fly to Milan — business with the bank,” he was saying.
It would be strange to set sail without Mr. Bellagio on board.
Claire had gotten to know his likes and dislikes — how strong he liked his coffee, the way he preferred his eggs, how he detested anything with anchovies.
But the prince was an unknown entity. She didn’t know anything about him, other than his reputation.
“I’ll manage well enough, I’m sure. It’s good of you to do this, Giuseppe. I needed to get away from this place — after all that business with the princess,” the prince was saying.
Claire was trying not to listen, but she could hardly avoid it.
They must’ve been standing almost directly above her on the deck, and, with the galley window open, their conversation was clearly audible.
The prince spoke with a soft, pleasant accent — a mixture of French lyricism and German exactness.
“It was hardly your fault — she has a reputation for being difficult. You shouldn’t blame yourself. Lots of people walk out on dates,” Mr. Bellagio replied.
There was a pause. Claire was chopping parsley, but she, too, paused, listening for the prince’s excuse as to why he’d slipped away from the restaurant in such a furtive manner, abandoning the princess to what was surely the young woman’s embarrassment.
It was a pretty mean thing to do.
Even princesses had feelings.
“But not everyone has the paparazzi on their tail twenty-four hours a day. I’m tired of it, Giuseppe. My mother was furious. She said I’d disgraced her — and embarrassed myself, too. But there was no chemistry, and the princess made no effort at all.”
Claire raised her eyebrows.
Still, princess or no princess, she must’ve been terribly embarrassed. And what had the prince done to endear himself? I’d like to hear the other side of it.
Claire wasn’t sure she was warming to the prince, though she reminded herself it wasn’t her place to do so. She was there to cook for him, not judge him.
“Put it behind you,” Mr. Bellagio said. “For the next few days, the yacht’s yours. Go where you wish, do as you wish. My crew will take care of your every need.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I just want to be anonymous — and to have at least a few days where no one’s writing something awful about me,” the prince said.
Claire smiled to herself.
He certainly seems to think he’s the one in the right.
Shaking her head, she returned to her chopping, as the conversation continued above.
“I have an excellent chef on board. She’ll keep you well fed. Carlos, my skipper, will take you wherever you want to go, and the maid and the steward will see to your every need,” Mr. Bellagio said.
Again, Claire paused to listen to the prince’s response.
“As long as I’m away from all this, I don’t care what happens,” he replied.
Claire was still none the wiser as to the sort of food the prince liked, but the menu at Le Paradis had recently included a dish of langoustines cooked in just the way she was preparing them — with tomatoes, garlic, and parsley.
In the hands of a Michelin-starred chef, it had been elevated, of course, but Claire was hopeful the prince would approve of her offering.
She prided herself on attention to detail in her dishes, presenting them simply, yet stylishly.
But today, she found herself taking extra care, and, when the time came for lunch to be served, she’d prepared what she hoped was the perfect dish.
“They’re sitting down to their lunch in a few moments. Anton’s just pouring the wine,” Anna-Marie said, appearing in the galley just as Claire was putting the finishing touches to the plates.
“Have you spoken to him?” she asked, and the maid made a face.
“He ignored me,” she said, with a somewhat indignant tone.
Claire smiled. “What did you expect? He’s a prince. He’s not going to notice us, is he?”
Anna-Marie sighed. “I just… well, I thought he might’ve said something,” she said, as Claire handed her the plates to take up.
“Just smile when you put these down — and don’t expect too much,” she replied.
But as Anna-Marie took the plates up, Claire couldn’t help but wonder what the prince would think of her dish. She hoped he liked it, otherwise the coming days at sea were going to be a challenge.