Page 26 of Fake Fiancée, Real Baby
“Does anyone actually write facts, or is it all just lies?” Claire said, tossing aside a magazine, in which — purportedly — a distant relative of hers had given an interview about a troubled upbringing in which Claire had struggled every day to fit in.
The fact she knew of no such relative, nor recognized any of the apparent description of her life to date made no difference. What was written was true.
“Veritas odit moras,” the prince replied, glancing up from his phone.
Claire raised her eyebrows. “For those of us who didn’t go to an English public school?”
“Truth hates delay. They don’t know anything about you, so this is the next best thing. You’ll get used to it.”
“And if I don’t want to get used to it, what then?” Claire said. “Are you used to it? I suppose it’s water off a duck’s back to you.”
She’d been in Flandenne for three days now, and was only just beginning to find her way round the palace, let along navigate the tricky rules and protocols of royal life. To say the palace was a family home would be an exaggeration. The family lived there together, but their lives were separate, and day to day they hardly saw one another. Claire had only spoken to the queen once more after their initial interview, and that had been by chance when she’d opened a door and found the prince’s mother sitting at a desk writing letters.
“Are you settling in?” the queen had asked, and Claire had mumbled something about still finding her feet.
The prince looked at her sympathetically. “I’m used to it because I’ve never known anything different. That’s why I enjoyed being on the yacht. There was no sense of expectation there. I could just… do as I pleased,” he said.
Claire nodded. “That’s how I feel now,” she said.
She was surrounded by luxury, she had everything her heart could desire, and yet she was finding palace life boring. Where was the effort? There was little by way of satisfaction in having everything but doing nothing. Claire was used to hard work, and, while she knew many women in her situation carved out lives of charitable endeavor, the fact this was all a sham meant it was hardly appropriate to think in such a way about a possible future that wasn’t going to occur.
“We don’t just have to sit here if you don’t want to. We could go to look at a site for the restaurant, or take the car somewhere,” the prince said.
But Claire wanted to do something more spontaneous. She wasn’t used to everything being planned and formal.
“I think I’ll go for a walk round the palace. There are still parts I haven’t seen yet,” she said.
The prince nodded. He’d been lounging in front of the enormous television in his private apartments where Claire had come to sit with him. It was a real bachelor’s pad, filled with his collection of art displayed next to games consoles and music systems. His bed was enormous, canopied in red and gold, and with the royal coat of arms hung above. It was a far cry from Claire’s cabin on board theAurora.
“You don’t want me to come with you?” he asked.
“We don’t need to do everything together, do we?” Claire replied.
In truth, she was becoming somewhat claustrophobic, surrounded constantly by attention, and was beginning to realize just how restrictive the life of a prince could be. He couldn’t just take a walk or go to the movies. Everything had to be planned. For a moment, the prince looked disappointed, but nodding, he agreed.
“I’ll see you later.”
Leaving the prince’s apartment, Claire made her way along a carpeted corridor, past priceless antiques and imposing portraits. But it was below all this she wanted to explore, and trying a few doors, she eventually found her way onto a spiral staircase which wound its way down into the bowels of the palace below. Voices echoed up the stairs, and Claire smiled to herself, realizing she’d stumbled on an entrance to the palace kitchens.
“I ordered duck eggs, these are hen eggs,” someone was complaining, as Claire reached the bottom of the stairs, where she found herself on a brightly lit service corridor.
“My apologies, Monsieur Faronne. I’ll return later with the correct order,” a second voice replied.
Claire was about to retreat, not wanting to be seen, when a tall man in whites and a starched chef’s hat emerged from a door, followed by a man who was presumably the supplier. At the sight of Claire, the chef paused, looking startled.
“I’m sorry. I think I got lost,” Claire said.
“It’s quite all right, Miss Bellamy. You’re in the kitchen — shall I show you how to get back to the upper rooms?” the chef replied.
The supplier was beating a hasty retreat, but Claire was in no hurry to leave — not now she’d been caught.
“Actually, I’d like to see the kitchens,” she said.
Monsieur Faronne looked surprised, but holding out his hand to her, he smiled.
“This way, mademoiselle,” he said, in his thick French accent, and ushering her through a swing door, Claire found herself in the palace kitchen, where a brigade of chefs was busy preparing lunch.
It was a kitchen the likes of which Claire had never been in before. Everything was immaculate — including the uniforms of the brigade. The kitchen gleamed with silver and brass, even as pots bubbled, and the sound of chopping and the clatter of saucepans filled the air.
