4. Adrien
ADRIEN
“ T hank you, Anna-Marie,” Giuseppe said, as the maid who’d been hovering nearby when Adrien had come on board the yacht set the plates down on the table.
Adrien was hungry. He’d slept late and hadn’t bothered with breakfast at the hotel.
Leaving had been difficult. He’d had to slip out the back way, taking his own car as far as the embassy, where Giuseppe had met him with the limousine.
All that, just to avoid being photographed.
But coming on board the Aurora had been a welcome relief.
It seemed no one knew he was there — yet.
They hadn’t been followed, and there’d been no signs of photographers when they’d gotten out of the limousine.
It was a relief to Adrien to be finally hidden away, relaxing beneath the awning of Giuseppe’s yacht, about to depart from the marina.
He was grateful to his friend, though he knew Giuseppe would hold the favor as a return.
“Langoustines — one of my favorites,” he said, looking down at the dish in front of him.
It reminded him of something he’d eaten at Le Paradis a week or so before — the tender, pink langoustines arranged around a salad of fragrant scented tomatoes and parsley.
The wine was perfectly chilled, and Adrien at last began to relax.
“Like I said, I have an excellent chef,” Giuseppe replied, raising his glass in a toast.
“You’re lucky. We can never get anyone decent in Flandenne — the good ones use it as a steppingstone to better things.
My mother despairs, though Monsieur Faronne does his best with the younger ones,” Adrien said, thinking back to the palace kitchens and the brigade of chefs under the watchful eye of his father’s French master.
The langoustines were delicious — cooked to perfection, and full of flavor. The wine was good, too.
“Ah, well… enjoy it while you can,” Giuseppe replied.
“How long are you going to be in Milan? Will I see you when you get back?” Adrien asked, as he trailed a piece of bread around the last fragrant drops of olive oil on the plate.
“Possibly. It’ll be a few days, at least. But don’t worry. I can always check into the Metropole or the Hermitage,” Giuseppe replied.
Adrien pulled out his cellphone. He’d kept it turned off all morning, knowing there would be messages from his mother and news alerts about himself. The things he’d read over the past few days…
“Don’t tempt me — I might just sail away and never come back,” Adrien said, replacing the phone in his pocket.
Giuseppe looked at him sympathetically.
“You’re finding it difficult, are you? They want you to marry?”
Adrien nodded. “Settling down — that’s what they call it. But why should I? I don’t know… I… It frustrates me. All my mother ever talks about is marriage. Maybe I don’t want to get married… I never wanted to get married.”
Giuseppe laughed. “Why get married when you can have a different girl every night?”
Adrien groaned. “And have them write another story about me every day, too… I hate it,” he said, sighing and shaking his head.
There’d been a time when the press was more tolerant.
They’d left him alone growing up — everyone was allowed to make a few mistakes along the way, even the crown prince of Flandenne.
But in recent years, public opinion had shifted.
The republican movement had been growing, and Adrien had increasingly found the press more hostile towards him — “the playboy prince,” that’s how they’d dubbed him.
“You’re just giving them ammunition,” his mother had said, after lecturing him down the phone about his responsibilities.
Adrien knew she was right, but it was the fact he didn’t care that worried him. He’d walked out of Le Paradis without really considering the consequences. He was his own worst enemy. Adrien knew what he had to do, but he wasn’t about to marry someone just for show, or to appease his parents.
“I want to marry someone for… love,” Adrien said, glancing at Giuseppe as he spoke. “And don’t laugh at me. I’m serious.”
He’d expected Giuseppe to make a joke of it — he’d always been a joker, all the way through school and in those early, hedonistic years of freedom they’d enjoyed together, when “settling down” had been the last thing on their minds. But to Adrien’s surprise, Giuseppe nodded.
“I’m not laughing. You’re different to the rest of us.
No one cares if I have a mistress in Cannes and a wife in Milan — I’m not the heir to a throne,” he said.
“But you… they expect things of you. You’re meant to be perfect, and when you’re not…
well, they don’t like it. The fact you’re no different to them, that’s the problem. ”
Adrien was confused.
“But I’m no different to anyone,” he replied, and Giuseppe laughed.
“Nonsense. You’re the crown prince of Flandenne.
That makes you different, and when they see you struggling in just the same way as them, they don’t like it.
You’re meant to be perfect. You’re meant to show them how to behave — forget the fact they don’t,” he said.
“I don’t envy you. It’s impossible. You’re only human, but in their eyes, you’re something else. ”
Adrien sighed. There were times when he wished he was no one.
That he could walk down the street and not be recognized or gawped at — that he could make mistakes without judgement.
But Giuseppe was right. He was different, and that was why more was expected of him.
The lunch concluded with a platter of fresh fruit, and they finished the bottle of wine before drinking an espresso each and parting ways.
“I’ll try not to stay away for too long,” Adrien said, but Giuseppe only waved his hand dismissively.
“I told you, stay away as long as you want, and when you come back, I hope you’ve found some peace,” he said, placing his hand on Adrien’s shoulder.
Adrien watched him go, feeling somewhat strange to be left alone on someone else’s yacht. The maid was clearing the table, casting furtive glances towards him as she did so.
I hope she’s not going to be awkward.
Adrien had left his own staff behind, though he’d brought Grieg with him for security. No one knew he was on board the Aurora, but secrets had a nasty habit of getting out, and it was better to be safe than sorry.
“Could you tell the skipper to come and see me?” Adrien said, addressing the maid, who looked up like a rabbit caught in headlights.
“Yes… Your Highness,” she said, bobbing into a curtsey as she spoke.
Adrien smiled to himself as he retreated to his cabin, which was actually Giuseppe’s cabin.
It was comfortably furnished, the pine-clad interior replete with nautical additions — there was even a ship’s wheel, along with charts of the Mediterranean and nautical prints on the walls.
He was just examining one when a knock came at the door.
It was Carlos, the tanned skipper, who Giuseppe had dressed in a white uniform, like something out of South Pacific.
“We can get underway as soon as you’re ready, Your Highness,” he said.
“I want to go to ?le Sainte-Marguerite,” Adrien replied, pointing at the chart on the wall. “We can moor there in one of the bays. I don’t want to go far on this trip. I just want to go somewhere I won’t be found.”
Carlos nodded. “As you wish, Your Highness. We’ll get going straight away. Can I ask Anton to bring you anything? A beer perhaps, or wine?”
Adrien shook his head. “No… I’ll have dinner at eight. But I don’t want to be disturbed until then.”
The skipper left the cabin, and Adrien lay down on the bed, staring up at the pine-clad ceiling above as he felt the gentle movement of the yacht, its motor powering into life.
Through the cabin window, he could see the marina drifting past, the Monaco strip, with its restaurants and hotels drifting further away.
He breathed a sigh of relief at leaving it all behind.
Out here, on the sea, no one could get at him.
Pulling out his cellphone, his finger hovered over the power button, but tossing it aside, he decided to wait. It would all be there waiting for him when he switched it on, but for now, he closed his eyes, as the rhythmic purr of the engine, and gentle movement of the waters, lulled him to sleep.
When Adrien awoke, the sun was setting. The bottle of wine he’d shared with Giuseppe at lunch had done its work.
According to the digital clock on the television, he’d slept for almost six hours.
Yawning, he sat up, stretching out his arms and smiling to himself at the thought of having taken a nap.
Just like father does. Maybe I really am getting old…
Rising from the bed, he glanced out of the cabin window, where the setting sun was casting a shimmering golden light across the sea.
It was calm, and the shore was a distant haze, drifting past as the yacht cruised along the coast. At last, Adrien felt as though he’d escaped.
Monaco, the press, his parents, the expectations…
all of it was far behind him, and he was looking forward to the coming days, when he’d do nothing but swim and relax on the deck in the sunshine.
And not turn on the phone.
It was almost time for dinner. Adrien showered and changed, putting on a fresh shirt and his lagoon-blue jacket and white deck trousers.
He scented himself with aftershave, the fragrant scent of orange blossom filling the cabin as he did so, and put on his gold watch — a gift from his parents on his thirtieth birthday.
He was hungry and wondered what the chef had prepared for him that night.
He certainly knows how to cook langoustines.
Out on the deck, a pleasant scent filled the air — was it seafood again? Standing looking out across the Mediterranean, Adrien smiled to himself. The papers could print what they wanted for the next few days. He didn’t care.
“Good evening, Your Highness. Something to drink, perhaps?” the steward asked, and Anton turned to find him standing at the door leading to below deck.
“Some champagne, I think. Whatever Mr. Bellagio drinks.”
The steward gave a curt nod, disappearing below deck and returning a few moments later with a chilled glass of champagne.
Adrien stood for a few moments looking out to sea.
They were cruising past Le Sémaphore, rounding the headland towards Nice.
He could see the lights of the Grand Hotel du Cartola, where he’d once spent a memorable weekend with a Swiss business analyst…
“Dinner won’t be long, Your Highness,” Anton said.
“Thank you. Tell the chef I thought his langoustines were excellent. I hope there’s more to come,” Adrien said.
The steward smiled. “I’ll tell her , Your Highness.”
Adrien was surprised, though there was no reason why he should’ve been. Women could be chefs — women were chefs. He smiled to himself at his mistake, thinking of Giuseppe’s compliments about the woman cooking his dinner below deck.
Now I know why he was so complimentary.
But the comment still stood — the langoustines had been excellent, and Adrien was looking forward to seeing what tonight’s offering would bring.
His palate was varied. He liked clean, simple Mediterranean food — a welcome relief from the rich, cream- and cheese-laden cuisine of Flandenne with its German and French influences.
But at boarding school in England, he’d developed a taste for the sort of dishes such institutions specialized in — there was nothing better than a steamed sponge pudding.
Taking another sip of champagne, he sat down at the table, laid for one, imagining the chef in the galley below.
He wondered if she was anything like the maid — curious about him. People usually were.
As long as she keeps cooking like she did at lunchtime — that was all that mattered.