Page 3 of Fake Fiancée, Real Baby
Claire rolled her eyes. It was only eleven o’clock. Lunch wasn’t expected until one, and Mr. Bellagio had demolished the croissants and fruit she’d laid out for breakfast. But Carlos was a stickler for doing things by the book.
“Don’t worry, I won’t be. Do you want anything while I’m out?” she asked, pausing on the steps leading up from the galley.
“Some lager — French, not Italian,” the skipper replied.
Claire smiled. Carlos seemed to detest anything with the slightest whiff of his homeland. She’d been working as Mr.Bellagio’s private chef for six months now, and in that time she’d come to know the likes and dislikes of everyone on board theAurora— the private yacht owned by her employer. Carlos liked French beer, French wine, and French cheese. Anna-Marie, the Swiss maid, preferred lighter, Mediterranean food, whilst Anton, who acted as both a steward and the engineer, had grown up in Germany and only ate “hearty” food. As for her employer, Mr. Bellagio’s tastes changed with the seasons, and sometimes he’d demand dishes from the places he’d traveled to or the countries he was doing business with.
“I want sushi,” he’d announced the day before, and Claire had spent the morning researching recipes and techniques before hurrying to the fish market to bring back bluefin tuna and swordfish.
But Claire enjoyed her work — it was varied. One moment, she’d be preparing dinner for the crew, and the next, she’d be cooking for a dinner party at which her host might well be entertaining some of the wealthiest people in Monaco. They’d had a princess dining with them two nights ago, and she’d complimented Claire on the dish of clams she’d served, asking her to send the recipe to her personal chef. It was a far cry from Claire’s chaotic upbringing in Detroit…
“I’ll get you the one you like,” Claire called out.
It was a relief to get away from the kitchen for a while, and stepping up on deck, Claire breathed in the fresh air of the marina, with its crystal-clear waters, where the lines of superyachts competed for prestige on the glamorous frontage of the Monaco strip. The sun was pleasantly warm, and Claire smiled to herself, reminded of just how lucky she was to live and work in such a remarkable place.
Not that I have the money for it.
Monaco was a place of glamor and wealth. There was no hiding its ostentation. Everyone was there to be seen, and, as Claire made her way down the gangplank from the yacht, she wondered if passersby would mistake her for its owner. She’d put on a dress to go out in — a short blue skirt with different shades of blue running up to her shoulders — and was wearing a wide-brimmed hat to shade her face against the sun. With her sunglasses on, she could easily have passed for any of the glitterati surrounding her. But unlike them, her destination was less than glamorous.
I think I’ll go the market— it would be nicer than fighting her way through the supermarket.
Claire knew Monaco well. Mr. Bellagio often moored his yacht there, and, in the past six months, they’d docked four times, having sailed around Sardinia and Corsica, too. Claire was wondering if she’d have time for a swim before serving her employer’s lunch when her cellphone rang. It was Mr. Bellagio’s PA, Vittoria.
“Hi, Vittoria. I’m just out picking up a few things for lunch,” Claire said, preempting what she thought would be Vittoria’s question. The PA was in charge of the staff, and she kept a close eye on their comings and goings from the yacht. Mr. Bellagio had exacting requirements, and Vittoria was the one who ensured they were met…
“Yes, yes, that’s fine,” Vittoria replied. “I’m phoning to tell you about a change of plan.”
Claire smiled. She was used to changes of plan. Mr. Bellagio could be fickle and often acted on a whim. Once, when they’dbeen due to dock in Villefranche-sur-Mer, he’d changed his mind at the last minute and ordered Carlos on to Cannes, where he’d announced they’d be joined by eight guests for dinner. With no extra supplies on board, Claire had been forced to improvise, producing a three-course meal from canned and dried provisions. Everyone had said it was delicious.
“Right… what are we expecting?” Claire replied.
“Mr. Bellagio’s away on business this week, but he’s lending the yacht to a friend. I don’t know how long you’ll be at sea, but you’ll need to get extra provisions on board and make sure you can cater to whatever tastes this person might have,” Vittoria replied.
“Is there anything else I should know — is it a man? A woman? Where are they from? Do they have any allergies?” Claire asked, thinking ahead as to what she’d have to buy and prepare.
“You’ll figure it out. I’ve got to go, Claire,” Vittoria said, and before Claire could reply, she’d rung off.
Claire shook her head, smiling to herself as she continued her walk to the market. The coming days had just become far more complicated than she’d imagined they would be. But Claire was used to Mr. Bellagio’s whims. She had to be. It was part of the job.
Being a private chef was very different to working as part of a brigade. In a normal restaurant, there might be half a dozen chefs, and large refrigerators and freezers stocked with whatever was needed. On a yacht — even a superyacht — things were very different. Claire had only a galley kitchen from which to produce her dishes, and limited storage, too. She was cook, pot washer, server, and could be called on night or day to provide Mr.Bellagio and his guests with something to eat. From a perfectly boiled egg to caviar served at just the right temperature, there was nothing Claire didn’t turn her hand to. But that was how she liked it. She liked being her own boss.
All right, let’s see… we’re going to need far more than parsley and French beer.
The market was busy — stalls piled high with the freshest produce: ripe tomatoes on the vine, fish with glimmering silver scales, deep red marbled steaks, freshly baked breads, exquisite looking cakes. Claire was in her element. She loved to be surrounded by such inspiration and stopped to talk to the stallholders as she made her purchases, delighting in the sights and smells and the hustle and bustle.
“You won’t find fresher than this,” one of the fishmongers said, holding up an enormous bluefin tuna.
Claire spoke fluent French and Italian — it had been a requirement of the job, for Mr. Bellagio spoke little English. It was her mom who’d taught her. She was Italian, though she’d married an American, leaving Claire with a very ordinary-sounding surname: Bellamy, rather than her mom’s somewhat more exotic-sounding della Francesca, making her a distant relative of the renowned medieval artist. It was for this reason Mr. Bellagio had chosen her — and because she could cook. It was her dad who’d taught her. Her mom couldn’t boil an egg, but her father’s love of food was his gift to Claire, who’d grown up surrounded by deliciousness at every stage.
“I’ll take a tuna and a swordfish,” she said, handing over the details of the yacht for delivery.
It had occurred to her their guest might well be vegetarian — or even vegan. There was no telling with the sort of people who inhabited Mr. Bellagio’s world. Fad diets were de rigueur. Only a week ago Claire had been forced to change the entire menu at the last minute when she’d discovered one of the guests wouldn’t eat carbohydrates with fats. It had all gotten very complicated.
Plenty of fruit and vegetables. That’s usually safe. They all like smoothies. I’d better get some canned stuff, too. What about meat? I could get some steaks. Carlos can always have one if the guest isn’t keen. I don’t even know if it’s a man or a woman. Why does Vittoria always have to be so cryptic?
Vittoria liked being in charge. She treated Claire as “staff” — which she was, but there was no reason to look down her nose. Fortunately, she coordinated from Mr. Bellagio’s office in Milan. Claire had only met her once, but she was just as formidable by phone.
Let’s see now — bread, dairy, something sweet. We’ll need some more champagne. And what about breakfast? It’s always better to have more than not enough. I think I’ll bake the pastries fresh.
