9. Claire
CLAIRE
D essert was simple that day — fresh berries marinated in kirsch with a shortbread biscuit on the side. Claire served it out in something of a daze, though she didn’t dare take it up to the prince herself, having seen the mood her early venture had given rise to in Anna-Marie.
“Mr. Bellagio wouldn’t like you going up there. I should’ve taken the fish,” the maid said, as she snatched the dessert up from the counter.
Claire was growing tired of her jealousy. “I can’t help it if the prince likes talking to me, can I? I like talking to him. He’s… interesting.”
Anna-Marie glared at her. “He’s not interested in you. Why would he be?” and she stormed out of the kitchen and clattered up the steps to the deck.
Had Claire been feeling uncharitable, she might’ve retorted that there was no reason why the prince should show any interest in Anna-Marie either.
It did seem strange to find herself the object of his interest, and yet, the more they talked, the more they seemed to find in common.
Claire’s dream of opening her own restaurant wasn’t one she shared openly.
Mr. Bellagio had employed her on the understanding she was committed to remain in his employment for some time, and yet the dream remained — everyone has dreams.
And it’s what every chef hopes for, and most never achieve.
Claire had planned the menus, the décor, the service.
She knew every detail of her restaurant, except for how it could be realized.
Money was her first barrier. Second was location.
Third was a lack of confidence. It was just as she’d said to the prince — she didn’t think her dream would come true.
And yet his words about being trapped resonated with her.
Had she been asked before, she might’ve replied that a man like that deserved no sympathy over what he was born into — his was a life of privilege, replete with everything his heart could desire.
But his own dreams were nothing when it came to birth.
He was what he was, and nothing would change it.
I suppose even princes can be unhappy.
The thought remained with her for the rest of the day.
She thought about the things she’d read about him — the playboy prince — but he seemed more a tragic figure than a man to be admired.
His life was at a crossroads. There was pressure on him to marry, but it was clear he was resistant to the idea.
Claire wondered if the yacht wasn’t so much a vacation as an escape.
In the hope of cheering him up, she made a batch of chocolate brownies — a recipe of her grandmother’s.
They were unctuous, with a gooey center, and Claire put them out on deck when the prince was swimming, glancing over the side of the yacht for a moment to watch him striking out powerfully towards the headland.
Beneath the water, almost gleaming, she could see his taut, muscular body gliding below the surface.
It sent a shiver running down her spine — until Anton appeared to interrupt.
“Did you want something?” he asked.
“Just tell the prince I’ve left some brownies up here for him, and I’ll bring up some juice, too,” Claire said.
She didn’t think it would do to linger further, though she couldn’t help wondering what would happen if she did.
The prince had surprised her — first by even noticing her, and second by the manner of his conversation.
There was nothing haughty or arrogant about him.
He was quite different to the way he was portrayed in the media, where pictures of his partying antics sold copies across the globe.
But, on his own, without the show of cameras or the glare of publicity, he was really quite… normal.
“What are you making?” Anna-Marie asked, as Claire crouched down to look into the oven.
“Soufflé,” she replied. “And I’ll have to take it up. They don’t like waiting around. It needs to come straight out and go up.”
Anna-Marie pouted. “I think I know how to serve a soufflé.”
But Claire ignored her. She wanted to be the one to present the soufflé to the prince — chocolate and Grand Marnier, with just a hint of mint. It was something she’d learned at the cookery school in Paris.
“The secret to a perfect soufflé is the whipping of the eggs and the heat of the oven,” Monsieur Larofette had told his students, and Claire prided herself on a faultless rise.
Now, she watched with trepidation as the soufflés began emerging above the rims of the ramekins.
Anna-Marie had disappeared, but Claire remained by the oven door, ready to remove the dessert the instant it was ready.
Timing was everything. Despite her years of experience, a soufflé could still go terribly wrong, and she wanted this one to be perfect.
They’d been moored in the bay off ?le Sainte-Marguerite for three days now, and, during that time, Claire had served the prince dishes she hoped he’d enjoy, delighting in seeing the empty plates returned with his compliments.
He’d eaten everything she presented him with, telling her she should pursue her dream of the restaurant, and making her feel a sense of confidence she’d previously lacked.
In turn, she’d told him more about her dream for the restaurant, and how she’d planned every detail, even down to the menus and the opening night.
He knew everything, and he’d been good enough to listen to her — to really listen to her.
Now, as the tops of the soufflé began to turn golden brown, she opened the oven door, removed the tray and hastily transferred the ramekins to a waiting plate she’d dressed with a berry coulis and a dusting of icing sugar.
It was already beginning to sink as she hurried up on deck, where she found the prince waiting for her at the table.
“Soufflé!” he exclaimed, his eyes lighting up as Claire placed one of the plates before him.
She’d brought two, and now she wondered why — he was only going to eat one.
“I wanted you to see it before it sank,” she said, feeling relief at having achieved a successful rise. He smiled at her, pulling out his phone to take a photo. “You turned it back on, then?”
The prince had confided some of his woes to Claire — how he resented always being in the spotlight, his face splashed across the tabloids, and ever more bizarre untruths being written about him.
“I had to in the end,” he said, putting it back in his pocket as he took up his spoon.
There was a tone of regret in his voice, as though being without that constant connection to the outside world had been a balm to him — a relief from the stresses and strains of life beyond the confines of the yacht.
“And was it as bad as you thought?” Claire asked.
The prince sighed and nodded. “Why don’t you sit down?” he said. “You could eat yours here.”
Claire was taken aback by this invitation, though it was surely the natural progression of a growing sense of ease between them.
Claire felt comfortable in his company. She’d told him things she rarely admitted to others, and it seemed he’d come to trust her, too — sharing his woes over the media, and the expectations placed on him as the crown prince.
Knowing what Anton would say but not caring, Claire sat down opposite the prince.
He smiled at her, taking a spoonful of the soufflé, and closing his eyes for a moment as he savored it in his mouth.
“Do you like it?” Claire asked.
Opening his eyes, the prince smiled. “It’s like eating a cloud — the most delicious cloud I could imagine.”
The description made Claire laugh, but she was grateful to him for his compliment.
“I don’t know how many times I practiced making them in Paris. It’s all about the whisk and the heat — that’s what we were taught.”
“I don’t know how to cook. Not really, at least. I used to go down to the palace kitchens and ‘help’ when I was a kid, but I was probably more of a hindrance.”
“I could teach you,” Claire replied.
She said it without thinking — it was as though she was talking to a friend, rather than a prince.
But why shouldn’t they be friends? Over the past few days, they’d gotten to know one another over the dishes Claire had prepared.
It felt natural, though Claire knew just what Anna-Marie and Anton would say.
“That sounds like fun. What are you going to teach me to make?” he asked.
Claire thought for a moment.
“What about the steamed sponge pudding? If you can make that, you won’t need me here to do it for you.”
At these words, his face fell, as though the prospect of being without her pained him.
“Actually, I’ve gotten rather used to your cooking… and to you,” he said.
Claire’s heart skipped a beat. For a moment, she didn’t know quite what to say, or what he himself was saying, either.
“I… well, I’m sure other people cook just as well as I do,” she said.
The prince was gazing at her across the table. It made her blush, even as she caught his eye, though still not knowing quite how to react.
“But they don’t all have dreams like you — and determination. I can see it in you. You’ve got ambition, and drive, and… passion.”
It was certainly a compliment, and one Claire found flattering.
She hoped it was true, too. She’d worked hard for what she had, even if her dreams remained elusive.
As a kid, she’d seen her parents working hard for what they had — and struggling, too.
Life wasn’t easy. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be so.
The prince’s story had proved that no life was without its difficulties.
“I suppose I have. I like to do things properly. And I want to do my best. Like with the soufflé, I suppose. I practiced and practiced until I got it right. There’re a lot of people who aren’t prepared to put in the work, I suppose.”
Claire hoped she didn’t sound arrogant in this, but the prince nodded.
“And that’s why you deserve to succeed in what you do,” he replied.
Claire had quite forgotten about her own soufflé in the course of their discussion. It had sunk now — like all her youthful dreams.
“But I haven’t got there yet, and with the years going by…” Claire said, but before she could finish, the prince interrupted her.
“I can make your dream come true. I can give you the restaurant. You can have everything you’ve ever wanted.”
Claire’s eyes grew wide with astonishment at these words, and she stared at him in disbelief. He’d blurted it out as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“But… how? You can’t… it’s…” she stammered, but again, the prince interrupted her.
“How would it be if we told a little white lie to make it happen?” he replied, raising his eyebrows and leaning forward as he spoke.