Page 83 of The Reluctant Wife

I also briefed the palace’s PR team on dealing with the publicity in the weeks leading up to the wedding.

"How are you doing?" Zoey hugs me, then takes a seat on the chair to the left of the settee where I am. “Are you happy to be back home?”

We’re in a conservatory within the Royal Palace in Verenza. The scent of flowers fills the air, but below it is the slightly salty air, reminding me that I’m never far away from the sea on this island. It’s been a week since I returned here. I spent three weeks in London fulfilling various public engagements, and before that, I was on a European tour, stopping in five countries.

“I’m happy to be back in Verenza. But I already miss London.”

“You do?” Grace asks, surprised.

I take a sip of my tea. “Verenza is where I will always be seen as a princess. London is where I went first, to boarding school and then, university. It’s where I led as normal a life as I possibly could. Also, the media in England is more fixated on the British Royal Family, so with careful planning, I can fly under the radar, unless I am at a public engagement.”

“I’d have never guessed that, but it makes sense.” Harper nods.

“I do miss some things about my home country, of course.” I place my teacup back in the saucer on the table. “The food, for one. The fish caught off the shore of Verenza tastes different from fish I’ve had anywhere else. I also miss the fact that everyone here speaks both Italian and English.”

Given we’re off the coast of Italy, everyone is fluent in both languages.

“And then, I like the slower pace of life. I’m also appreciative that, in many homes here, generations of families all live under one roof. Despite modernization we’ve kept the old ways alive.”

Grace laughs. "And let's not forget the weather. It's gorgeous here!"

"I can’t believe it’s only three days to go to the wedding," Harper exclaims.

I laugh. "It’s gone by quickly."

"A month is nothing in terms of wedding preparation time, let alone, enough to prepare for 'the wedding event of the century' as the media has been referring to it." Grace nods.

She’s perched on the chair opposite me, with the coffee table between us. Zoey is on a chair which is twin to hers. Harper and I are on the couch facing the door.

"You should know, Ms. Morning Show host. I caught one of your shows when I was in London. You were excellent," I gush.

"Thanks." Grace seems pleased by the praise. "It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. It’s why I embarked on a journalism career. What they don’t tell you is that you have to be up at three a.m. and at the studio by four a.m. to do your makeup and prep, so you’re in the studio and on air by six a.m."

"Ouch." Harper winces.

"Not that working for a Michelin-starred chef means you’re spared the early mornings." I turn to her. It’s thanks to Zoey that I know about their professional accomplishments.

"My boss is a bastard." Harper scowls. "A beautiful bastard, but a bastard, nevertheless. He’s so up his own arse, the only time he notices us is if one of us screws up, and then he’ll chew us out. He doesn’t even know our names and refers to us by numbers."

"He refers to his team by numbers?" Grace coughs on the sip of wine she’s taken. "That’s horrible."

"He says it’s because no one on the team stays around long enough for him to need to learn our names. I’m determined to prove him wrong," she says with vehemence.

The fire in her eyes tells me she won’t stop until she’s brought him to heel. It also tells me, perhaps, there’s more there than just hate for her boss, but I wisely don’t share that. Instead, Iask, "He’s a Michelin-starred chef. Is there a chance we know of him?"

"James Hamilton." She tosses her head. "He thinks the world begins and ends with him."

"James Hamilton?" I sit up straight. "He’s the one in charge of the food at the wedding reception."

"Really? Well, thankfully, I’ll be on holiday and attending the wedding as a guest. So hopefully, I won’t run into him." She mutters under her breath, "He probably won't recognize me, anyway.

"He’s invited to the reception," I warn.

"He is?" Harper seems taken aback. "I mean, of course, he is. He hobnobs with the rich and famous." She sniffs.

Grace clears her throat.

"What?" Harper scrunches up her forehead. Then her gaze widens as realization sinks in. "Ohmigosh!" She turns to me. "I didn’t meanyouby that. I mean, you are rich and famous, but I was referring to models and actresses and the kind of airheads he likes to date. Obviously, not you."

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