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Clarisse pulled her jacket closed, ran her fingers through her hair, pulled the edges of her jacket together again. She rubbed the nape of her neck – damp. Her hair would be curling. Then she stopped herself – she needed to calm down.
"Charlotte," she said, and it almost sounded like a complaint, "It's so warm."
"The air conditioning is on full, Your Majesty," Charlotte answered and Clarisse knew that her tone had been a little sharp. She patted her assistant's arm kindly and Charlotte smiled.
Heat, combined with the imminent return of the crown princess, was making her very agitated. She had a terrible habit of taking it out on those around her too and since Joseph wasn't here, Charlotte was getting the brunt of it. She had had a fitful sleep the night before and had ended up throwing open the French doors, staring out into the moon, convinced that if she looked long enough the shadow of a jet would fly through it. She hated the thought of Mia flying. No such luck. She must have fallen asleep in the early hours which, for her, was always worse than getting no sleep at all. Three hours of sleep were just a tease rather than a good rest. She woke in the middle of a terrible nightmare, just as Olivia had come into her chamber.
"Charlotte, did you arrange for a few new items for Mia?"
"Yes," Charlotte nodded, "The department store are sending a selection over this afternoon. I am assured they are fashionable and 'cool' for summer."
"Poor you Charlotte," Clarisse laughed a little, "The last summer she was here, you must remember, those tiny shorts? Those aren't fashionable any more, I hope?"
Charlotte joined her in a laugh, "No, I made that explicit."
"Good!" Clarisse looked at her, "Do you know I actually had to confiscate those from her? Can you imagine! At 15 she would never have worn those."
"Well, I did add 'appropriate for a princess' in my directions, so we shall see what arrives," Charlotte said, seeming a little more relaxed.
"Sorry I have been a grouch all morning Charlotte," she turned to her, "I can sometimes be so very curt, usually when I am anxious. I know you know that but I do believe it's important to apologise."
"I understand Your Majesty."
"I know you do Charlotte," Clarisse patted her arm again, just as the double doors opened.
She liked her assistant a great deal and often felt that Charlotte, Joseph aside, was the only person in her life who had a genuine insight into how difficult she found it at times.
"Grandma!" The Princess came bounding in, nearly knocking Shades from his feet as he stepped forward. A rucksack dangled from one arm and a magazine from the other. Her hooded top and jeans were creased, her hair was tangled. She looked, in short, like a transatlantic mess.
"Amelia," she opened her arms to her granddaughter, then looked over her shoulder at Joseph and Lilly, who had followed behind, "There weren't any press at the airport, were there?"
He smirked a little, bowed in a rather cheeky fashion and said "No, Your Majesty."
"Hi Your Majesty," Lily embraced her in an awkward half-hug, "Thanks for having me."
Clarisse liked Lily and she liked the influence she had on her granddaughter too. She didn't necessarily hold all her libertarian beliefs, and where Clarisse was a traditionalist who had feminist tendencies, Lily hated all traditional beliefs with a zealous passion but, and this was the biggest thing she admired about her granddaughter's best friend, she had such strong conviction. She also had faith in humanity and an urgent desire to make change happen. Clarisse was quite happy to have her at the palace and in Mia's life. Plus, she had a dry humour that Clarisse rather liked.
"Not at all Lily," she answered genuinely, moving seamlessly back into the role of queen.
She took a moment for herself though to share a look with Joseph. He smiled, she smiled back and then it was gone as he broke apart to catch-up with Shades.
"Your schedule," she said to Mia, as Charlotte handed over the paper, "For the next few weeks. I don't want to hear a word of complaint."
Mia studied it for a moment, tipped it to the side, looked at it from an angle. She looked so like her father that Clarisse felt pain bloom in her chest and had to squeeze it down into her gut because, so many times when she looked at the girl, she was debilitated by it. Mia did what he did; tipping his head to the side when he was confused or unsure. She had first noticed it one spring in the garden when he was a toddler; he was playing with one of those peg toys. He was stumped by it, pudgy and soft, sitting on a tartan blanket under the massive oak tree. It took him a while, tipping his head from side to side. She had lay on the blanket beside him, while Pierre played on a trike nearby. It was beautiful and hard and sore to be a mother – it was even more difficult to be their mother.
"Wait a minute -" Mia's face broke into a beautiful smile, "Grandma it says we're taking a vacation! And every Sunday is free?"
"It's a 'holiday' and yes, every Sunday is a day to do as you wish. We'll draw up a few suggestions. We leave tomorrow, don't we Joseph?" Clarisse brushed her granddaughter's hair behind her ear, "But first I want you to come and regale me with your last twelve weeks of school. Tea, in the garden, then you can pack for your holiday. Or vacation, as you insist on calling it."
Joseph caught her eye and smiled as she continued, "Go ahead Mia, go and get settled in and changed. I will see you in the garden in an hour Charlotte - you many have the afternoon to yourself to prepare for our trip. Lilly – you will join us too. Joseph - walk with me."
"Poor Joe! Grandma," Mia laughed, already climbing the stairs with Lily at her heels, "You never give him a break."
Aside from Shades, who seemed to be suspiciously busying himself with one of the computer monitors, they were now alone in the foyer. He brushed a hand over her arm, she touched his cheek as was their custom. He lifted her hand, kissed the back of it and then turning it, placed a kiss on the pulse of her wrist.
"I didn't sleep. I…missed you both," she whispered.
Despite her desire not to say what she wanted to say she was compelled to say it in as plain terms as she could manage – yet they weren't plain at all. She was so unbearably glad to see him that she had wanted to fall into his arms. She didn't of course, she couldn't.
"I know," he offered her his arm, "You don't ever give me a break apparently."
"She's so dramatic," she laughed, shrugging off her jacket as they walked towards her suite.
"Why don't you change? You have time and that suit looks very heavy."
"This coming from the man who wears black all the time," she turned to him, a smile on her face.
"Clarisse," they were entirely alone now, though just ahead there was a set of footmen guarding her doors, "I know you think I'm rather handsome in black."
"I think you're rather handsome full stop," she leaned towards him, her voice low and conspiratorial, and was pleased when she drew that delicious half-smile from him. It was both a smirk and a frown and it was very attractive.
She admired his blasé, casual approach when they were like this. He was so much more comfortable with their blooming relationship than she was. She knew the staff turned their heads, averted their eyes and yet it still made her uncomfortable. Joseph, however, nodded casually to the footmen who held her door open and followed her into her cool suite as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She both admired him and was jealous of his ability to be so composed. She wanted to tell him that but she knew how absurd it sounded just in her head.
"I want to nap," she might as well say it, "I didn't sleep well last night."
She smiled at him but she knew it was shy. She scolded herself but he reached out to touch her cheek, to reassure her that it was okay to admit a weakness. She stared into his eyes, kissed the pad of his thumb that he ran across her lips. Then she moved away, pulling out her earrings as she did so.
"And I'm assuming you think I need a nap as well," he asked, already kicking off his shoes while he pulled his tie apart.
"Don't tease me," she murmured, leaving her shoes beside his and, pulling her shirt from the waistband of her pencil skirt, walked towards her bedroom, "You can debrief me in here."
He laughed as he followed her into the cool darkness of the room and she was pleased she had made him laugh because it broke the tension a little. Or, she thought to herself, you're making a tension that doesn't exist.
She lay down on her side, as was her custom, and he was behind her. Suddenly everything seemed to have tilted back onto its ordinary axis. She felt so much safer. He smelled faintly of sweat, underneath leather and cologne. She wondered if he'd had any sleep on the plane.
"You'd be comfier with your shirt off," he murmured, kissing her neck, his hand underneath her blouse and making small circles on her abdomen. He pressed into her and already she was drifting.
"You'd probably be comfier on the couch in that case," she laughed a little, tempted to give into his request anyway, "But nice try sir."
"God loves a trier," he yawned, reaching down to pull his socks off and throw them down onto the floor, "I hate sleeping with socks on."
"I missed you," he said softly, after a moment's silence.
"I missed you too," she answered, "Can you set an alarm?"
"Is that all I am to you woman, a time-keeper?"
He tickled her hip lightly, making it clear he was teasing. Then he sat up, pulled his cell-phone from his pocket and set the alarm. He readjusted then, pulling her round so she rested against his chest.
"Yes," she smiled, "A very good-looking time keeper."
"Pierre's joining us," he muttered and she could tell he was nearly asleep. She felt guilty suddenly; he had obviously not rested and yet he had made sure her son was able to join them for a few days. He never stopped thinking about her or how to make life a little more palatable for her and, by extension of that, for them as a couple.
She looked up at his face, traced her finger across his jaw and the rough stubble there. He looked older when he was tired. She looked older when she was tired too. God, they were getting old. They were too old to be doing this; stealing moments to sleep, to speak, to call each other 'darling' with no concern.
When had her friend become her lover and when had her lover become the man she couldn't live without?
"You're tired my love," she whispered, sure that if she kept her voice low it made it less dangerous.
"Exhausted Clarisse," he answered, "Now you promised me a nap."
"I know," she closed her eyes, desperate for something that was just out of her grasp, "I will be quiet now."
But he was already asleep.
She thought of the beach house and felt the sand under her toes and between her fingers. Expensive wines and traditional cooking. Dances on a jetty, hidden from the eyes of the world. And then her boy, her beautiful boy, dancing along the sand – she couldn't see his face any more, no matter how hard she tried. It was more painful than anything she'd ever felt. She turned her face into his black shirt and let tears fall.
-0-
The palace was in the quiet throes of the evening, no functions or dinners. He pulled his car up at the garages at the back, sandwiched in between a limo and Mia's ridiculous Mustang. He'd need to ask the mechanic to look at it because it was making a very odd noise – though it had just driven him all the way from Rome, through Spain, and into his country. It had changed in recent years; he had become a patriot since he had resigned the throne, where he had never been before.
It always smelled the same in summer; roses sweet in the heat, dry grass, the smell of bread from the kitchens, the faint smell of oil from the garages, the hot smell of horses in the stables. He slung his hold-all over his shoulder, pulled his collar from his shirt, dropped it onto the front seat of the car, and closed the door behind him.
He took his time strolling towards the kitchens (he had always preferred coming into the palace through the kitchens, rather than the doors on the stairs or the terrace). The gravel crunched under his foot and he thought of the miles of sand on the beach at the house – driftwood and picnics, messing about in the surf, his first ever glass of wine. Spending all night speaking with Philipe; first about games and books and being older, then about girls and school, then nothing at all as their worlds spun apart. He promised himself he would visit the nursery and the double room they had shared before they left for the beach house, otherwise he wouldn't get the chance.
"Hey Claude," he smiled at the old resident baker, frightened he would startle him if he just stole his way into the bowels of the palace.
"Prince Pierre!"
He didn't have the heart to correct him on the two fronts; I'm no longer a Prince, in fact, people call me Father now.
"Is that for my maman?" He spotted the silver tray, complete with steaming tea pot, on the large table that occupied the middle of the kitchen. And a cup of coffee, of course.
"Yes," Olivia turned to him with a little curtsey, "It is sir."
"I'll take it to her," he slung his bag further round his shoulder.
"No sir, really, it's ok. Do you want me call for the butler, to get you settled in?"
He'd already scooped up the tray and was half way out the door, "No, I don't need the butler. I'll take this to my mother. Have a nice evening."
He took the route through the ballroom, not because it was the quickest, but because nostalgia forced him to. He wondered if it was like this for children all over the world; if, whether they'd grown up in a palace or a shack, they still felt this kind of comforting happiness and still felt the need to take the stairs two at a time. It was hard with a tray and his rucksack though, so he stopped after a few stairs.
"Oh!" He heard heels and a voice behind him, "Sir?"
He turned and found Olivia behind him, carrying a six-pack of Coke.
"I forgot this," she explained, "It's for the princess and miss Lily – the queen's letting her have it because it's her 'vacation'."
He held the tray out, so she could balance it between the cups and the tea. God, his mother was softening.
"And," she looked at her shoes, "I forgot to tell you, but they're in the film room."
"Oh, thanks," he followed her down the stairs, "Don't worry, Olivia – it's late."
She smiled and headed in the other direction.
The film room was to the left of the ballroom, and had been installed on the whim of his father. He had watched old westerns with his father there and manly, gun toting military films with Joe and his brother. He'd watched the Berlin wall falling down and the coming together of Europe – he was still meant to be King then – in that film room. They weren't watching a film though on this occasion. Instead they were all intently watching Mia as she played one of those interactive consoles with Lilly. At this point, her and and Lilly were playing Tennis against each other.
"We have a perfectly good tennis court in the garden," he said loudly, causing his mother to jump in her chair.
She smiled at him, standing up and coming towards him. Joseph followed and took the tray from him, setting it down just as his mother embraced him.
"Hello my darling," she held him at arm's length, "You look tired. How was your drive? Joseph didn't tell me you were driving until an hour ago! Otherwise-"
"Otherwise what? You'd have made him come and get me? I'm a big boy mama, and I had a good driving instructor," he was not content to shake Joe's hand, so pulled him into a hug, "Though I do have a terrible habit of driving a little faster than I should. Can I take the Jag out while I'm here?"
Joe nodded and laughed, "Of course you can and I don't drive too fast."
"How are you Pierre?" Joe smiled at him, held him at arm's length much as his mother had done.
"Thin, I'm sure mama will say," he turned to his niece. She had gotten taller since he had saw her at Christmas which the third time he'd really met her properly. She looked so like his brother that he was taken aback by it. Pain, which was cold and sharp, shot into his chest. He begged God; take this away.
"Hello Amelia," he smiled and kissed her cheek, "How are you?"
"I'm good," she said, but he knew she was awkward, "Want to play tennis?"
She held out one of the controllers – was this a twenty-first century olive branch? - he took it anyway.
"Sure."
"Not much longer please," his mother touched his elbow as she settled back on the couch beside Joseph, "We have an early start in the morning."
"Grandma," Mia turned her head, missing the start of the game and causing Lily to cry out, "We're on holiday. Chill-out!"
He laughed at his mother's face and was also bemused by her lack of reaction which totaled a roll of the eyes and a little laugh. She really was relaxing.
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