Page 29 of Fake Fiancée, Real Baby
“I’m glad to hear you say so, Adrien. Your father and I have been worried about you. You didn’t seem happy the last time you were here. There was a restlessness about you. Let’s hope this is the beginning of something new,” she replied.
“Another, another… one, two, three. Drink, drink, drink,” Adrien shouted, raising his tankard as his friend Friedrich glugged from the tankard of beer — half of which was spilling down the front of his shirt.
With a gasp, and the look of someone who’s about to be sick, he raised the tankard above his head, tilting it over to provehe’d finished it. A cheer erupted around the tavern, and Adrien slapped him on the back with a triumphant cry.
“He did it, he did it!” another of the group cried out, and calls went up for another round of drinks.
The atmosphere was raucous. Adrien was enjoying himself. It was the bachelor party of a close friend of his — Friedrich Althusser, whom Adrien had known since childhood, a dark-haired and usually serious young scholar from the university. He was to marry the daughter of a wealthy businessman, and he and his closest friends were spending the evening in a beer hall. Adrien had been glad to come and toast his friend’s happiness, and the evening was now passing in a blur.
“You’re next,” Friedrich shouted, pushing the empty tankard into Adrien’s hands.
For a moment, Adrien was struck by the thought of whether this was a good idea or not. But the exuberant cheers of his friends urged him on, and holding out the tankard for a waiter to fill, he steadied himself against the nearest table.
“For the honor of Flandenne,” he cried out, tipping the tankard back into his open mouth, as the beer spilled down his throat.
A cheer went up when he’d finished, holding the empty tankard over his head with a triumphant cry. Phones were held aloft, even as Adrien backed away.
“None of that,” he said half-laughingly, though even in his current state he knew how such pictures could be construed.
“Who’s next?” Friedrich called out, and the tankard was passed to someone else.
But as Adrien sobered up, he couldn’t help but wonder what that photo might be worth…
“How many times do we have to tell you, Adrien?” the king exclaimed, glaring at Adrien, as he held up the front page ofLa Almaviva —the most popular daily newspaper in Flandenne.
Adrien winced. The front page showed a picture from last night’s party at the beer hall. Adrien himself was the subject, pictured with the upturned tankard on his head and the caption “Still Partying.” The article went on to ask where Claire was in the midst of this drunken revelry, and speculate as to whether Adrien’s playboy lifestyle had really come to an end.
“I know, but… what harm can it do? I’m only doing what every other man does with his friends,” Adrien complained.
“But you’re not every other man. You’re engaged to be married. You’re supposed to be settling down, not compromising yourself like this, Adrien. Really… it’s just… won’t you ever learn?” the king demanded.
Adrien mumbled an apology. He felt like a schoolboy again. His father was always like this, though he knew what the retort would be if he said so — “then don’t behave like it, then.”
“And think of Claire. What must she think of you?” his mother asked.
Adrien hadn’t yet seen Claire to ascertain what she thought of it — if anything. Knowing there was no point in arguing, Adrien excused himself, making the vague suggestion that he’d go to find her and apologize. As he was leaving the royal apartments,he met her on the corridor, blushing at the thought of what she must be thinking.
“Sore head?” she asked, smiling at him as he approached.
“I… yes, well, something like that,” he replied.
She looked at him sympathetically.
“Why don’t I make you something for the hangover?” she said.
There wasn’t a trace of anger in her voice. In fact, it seemed to Adrien as though she found the whole episode somewhat amusing.
“That would be good, thank you. You’ve seen the pictures, then?” he ventured, as she led the way down to the palace kitchens.
“I’ve decided not to bother looking at the newspapers — though it was the first thing that came up on my feed this morning. You with a beer tankard on your head. You looked ridiculous.”
Adrien couldn’t help but laugh. “I felt it, too. And I was sick in the night. I don’t know how much I drank.”
He’d been prepared to grovel. To beg for her forgiveness and to promise never to do anything so stupid again. But it seemed he’d underestimated her, and for that, he was both grateful and relieved.
“I’m going to make you French toast,” she said, as they entered the kitchen, where the bemused-looking brigade watched the two of them head towards one of the stoves.
“That’ll help,” Adrien replied, watching as Claire set to work.
