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Predictably enough, the only people who were ready to leave on time were him and Shades. Everyone else was rushing about; Mia had slept in (as had Lily), Pierre had decided to take a wander around and Charlotte was busily hustling the queen to get ready and to finish as much of her work as possible. So he found himself sitting on the tail of the mini-van, his feet propped on one of Clarisse's ludicrously expensive monogrammed suitcases, eating an orange from the garden and arguing with Shades over the latest controversy in La Liga. He'd packed the cars, said good morning to her, checked the papers and news reports, briefed Anton on his duties around the palace, eaten a quick breakfast - again with her - and sorted out the rotas for the next week all before 9 am. His Jaguar, black and glorious in the sun, was parked in front. He rarely had the chance to drive it, the second most important machine in his life after his watch, and was jumping at the opportunity to drive her down the coast line.
"I love that car," he said absently to Shades.
"I know," his second-in-command laughed disparagingly, "You talk about it quite a lot."
"Not 'it' but 'her' please, have some respect for her," he said dryly.
"I hope," her voice rang from behind them, "You're not talking about me."
They both stood up and he couldn't help but smile. She was, as always, dressed impeccably. He hadn't really appreciated the power of a well-dressed woman until he had known her. He had certainly appreciated lingerie through the years but not necessarily clothes. He now appreciated both fully – particularly when they involved her.
"Your Majesty, Your Highness," he bowed, catching her smile and he was relieved that she was joking. She was followed by Charlotte, Mia and Lily who had also got the memorandum and were casually dressed for a week at the beach. Lily and Mia were sharing earphones again, a look of intense concentration on their faces.
It must be an interesting part; he had known from the moment they got on the plane that they were not listening to music. He cringed at the very thought.
"Not about Your Majesty," he motioned to the Jaguar, "But about my car."
"Of course," she turned to Charlotte, "Where is Pierre?"
"I'm here!"
Pierre came running down the stairs – two at a time. He nearly gave him a row, nearly said to calm down, but he had reached the bottom just as Joseph realised that wasn't appropriate.
"Where have you been?" Clarisse was half-scolding, half-amused by his persistent habit of being late, Joseph could see. The irony in that was that he took this trait directly from his mother, who was not known for her punctuality. Her son shook his head.
"I was reminiscing," he answered vaguely, kissing her cheek.
Joseph smelled dust as he brushed past him and knew exactly where he'd been. He decided to keep any question or revelation to himself though, instead slipping his glasses on.
"Are you taking your car Joe?" Pierre asked, running his hand over the sleek exterior.
"We are," he answered, a little pride flourishing at the love he had fostered in the young prince in regards to auto-mobiles, "You're welcome to join us."
"Thanks," Pierre said suddenly, "But I'll jump in the mini-van."
Joseph found that odd for a moment but then realised what Pierre was avoiding. Luckily, Clarisse hadn't heard or, if she had, she was choosing not to read the implication. It was easier to pretend there was nothing between them. It was always easier to pretend, even between themselves sometimes.
"Here's what we're going to do; the usual, essentially, but I'll go through it nonethless. Shades you will be with Her Highness and I will accompany Her Majesty in the Jaguar. Feel free to choose the car you want to ride in but there are only five seats in the car. Seven in the van. Shades, I'll lead and you'll follow. No stops unless we agree to it, or if there is an emergency of some sort."
Shades already knew all of this. He also knew to plug his cell in and keep his mic on. The reason he went over it all was for the benefit of the queen, who needed to know everything in order to feel that she was fully in the loop.
"Jaguar!" Lily and Mia chimed together and he would have sworn that Clarisse actually slumped with disappointment for a moment.
"Hey!" Pierre stepped in, "I thought you were meant to be getting to know me on this trip?"
Joseph was surprised, and a little touched, by her son's intervention.
Mia smiled a little – the placating smile of a well-meaning teenager – and shrugged her shoulders; "I suppose so. Only though, if Joe promises to spend one Sunday driving me about in it?"
He turned to Clarisse and was pleased to see she had somewhat regained her composure, "Only if Her Majesty permits?"
"By all means," she said coolly, "Shall we? I'm beginning to melt in this sun."
He wasted no time in holding the car door open for her, watching momentarily as Shades loaded the last of the luggage into the mini-van and slammed the boot shut. He slipped in beside her.
"Air conditioning?"
"Yes please Joseph," she fiddled with the electric controls of the seat, puffing out a little surprise of air as the seat moved back a little, allowing her to stretch out her long legs.
"Seatbelt please darling," he requested.
"Are you joking?" She questioned, pulling it across her body anyway.
He watched as she unfolded in front of him, her face smoothing out in relaxation. As she relaxed her shoulders sloped down a little more, her fingers fiddled with the scarf around her neck in a sort of comforting fashion, her ankles crossed.
He reached for the music player, pressing down on the play button, well aware that the van behind him was waiting for the flick of his hand that meant they could go. He waited for the opening bars of music before he stuck his hand up between the gap in the seats and turned the ignition.
"Really Joseph?" She murmured, "Really?"
"Driving music," he laughed over the rock music, taking his hand from the gear and placing it on her leg, "It is my car, Your Majesty."
"But you like classical," she whined, belaying her rather sweet grumble with her hand over his, squeezing his fingers.
"My car, sweetheart," he stole a look at her, "My rules. I don't drive as well to Tchaikovsky."
"My roads," she slid further down into the seat, inadvertently meaning his hand moved further up her thigh, "Darling."
"You play the queen card now?" He upped a gear, noting she gripped the side of her seat a little.
"Pierre is right," she murmured, "You do drive too fast."
"At least I don't do other things too fast," he laughed.
He enjoyed the blush that climbed up from her chest onto her throat. He loved that she let him do that to her now, that she blushed for him. It had taken her years to even do that in front of him. She was very good at suppressing everything which was both a trait he loved and found frustrating.
"Well, you do have that on your side," she looked out the window as the car sped past, "I'd love to do this more – risk my life in a ridiculously over-priced vehicle with you."
"One day you'll let me take you on my motor bike," he said softly.
"Dream on Joseph."
She reached out her hand and he had to resist flinching, out of surprise, when it rested on his leg. She gave a little squeeze – her nails digging through the denim of his jeans and into the hard muscles of his thigh. No matter how long she had allowed herself to place her hands on him (because it was she who allowed it) she managed to render him speechless every time she did; he'd never quite allowed himself to believe it. Even the slightest touch was synthesised.
He swallowed and regained his composure.
"My dreams," he guided the car expertly round a tight bend, driving them free of the city, "Have a tendency to come true."
"You're so smooth," she complimented, "I've never met a man so smooth. Well-bred, and at times charming yes, but never so smooth."
"Well thank you Clarisse," he smiled at her, "Years of practice."
"It has paid off," she smiled, in between humming along to the song coming from the speakers.
"See? You know this song," he said.
She shook her head and he could see she was fighting a smile.
"Do you know why I hate pop music?"
"This isn't pop music my dear but please, continue..." he answered.
"Just listen to it," she continued, "It sounds pleasant enough – upbeat and happy - but if you really listen to the lyrics, it's rather dark. I don't like that at all because it is tricking you into it and that is the case with the most of these songs. With Moonlight Sonata, I know what I'm getting."
He never underestimated her cleverness but he often forgot that she was as thoughtful as this. She rarely shared silly, philosophical musings like other people. She simply didn't have the time.
"Ha! I suppose. Still it's entertaining enough," he lifted her hand and kissed it.
"You're really taking advantage of this time together," she watched him.
"Do you blame me?"
"No. If I am honest I rather like it," she answered, "As long as I can force myself to stop being anxious."
He stole a look at her. He could tell she was tense again and he was annoyed at himself for leading the conversation down this path. He had wanted this to be as simple and uncomplicated as it possibly could be and yet it had become a serious conversation.
"What is there to be anxious about my darling? A week at the beach, some glorious cooking, time with your family."
"And with you," she tilted her head to the side, obviously having pushed her anxiety to the side, "Don't forget that."
They fell into silence then and he switched the music for her, concentrating instead on enjoying the drive and the handling of the car. She lowered herself down and stretched out her legs, cat-like, and closed her eyes as the coast line road came into view. He wound down onto the road, parallel with more popular beaches of Genovia and the tourist towns, and sped up. It might be a working holiday, he thought to himself, but it had been a long time since she'd fallen asleep in a car. Perhaps he'd achieved his goal after all.
-0-
Mia watched as the crowds thinned out and miles of coastline became less populated – less ice-cream vendors, fewer people splayed like starfishes or bobbing in the waves. The patches of people had worn away, leaving beautiful white sand and crashing waves. She had been surprised to see the busyness of it although she knew the popular seaside town of Mertz was a favourite destination of Genovians, and Spaniards and French from across the borders.
She could feel her uncle watching her as she watched the beaches and towns go by.
"It's a beautiful place, isn't it?"
"Yes," she turned to him, "It is really gorgeous. Post-card stuff. San Fran is a little rougher."
"I never left this country for anything, other than official tours and visit, until I went to boarding school," he said, "I love it here. You have everything you need; mountain rages to the north, sun and beaches in the south."
She smiled at him, "Do you like living in Rome?"
"It has its moments," he answered, a look of seriousness slipping onto his face, "It can be lonely at times and you belong to other people. It's funny; I gave up being one kind of leader to be another and never thought I was doing so. I had a calling and I couldn't ignore it but I never thought of the implications. "
"Yeah," she didn't really know what to say.
He was quite a serious person, and because he was in the Church, she had this sort of awkwardness around him that frightened her. Would he judge her? Did he think she was immature? She was probably being a little unfair but it was difficult to talk to him; he was quietly reserved and he spoke in quiet, liquid prose that flowed from one deep revelation to another.
"Want to play eye-spy?"
She laughed a little, squinted at him in confusion, "Really?"
"Yes. I'm a priest, not an alien. Let's face it; that's what you think. I don't blame you," he laughed a little, "I want to know you for one reason; that reason being you're my brother's daughter. You're going to have to see past the collar. That's why I left it in my car."
She knew she was blushing; "I'm sorry."
"Ha! It's fine. Right; eye-spy..."
The journey passed quickly after that and soon they were pulling up to a massive, white wash house. It looked like the houses in the Hamptons that she'd seen on those tacky TV shows and, like those houses, it was hidden behind a massive iron gate that closed slowly behind them and closed them off from the world. Behind it she could hear the sea rolling, and to the side, a sign that said 'private beach. No trespassing'. Of course, they were the royal family, there were no other beaches available to them, All in all, the kind of house she expected her grandmother to own. A little imposing, perfectly formed, white and cotton.
She watched as Joseph pulled the Jaguar up beside the mini-van and, always one to muck in because she often felt sorry for the staff, helped her uncle Pierre and Lily to grab the bags.
"May I have the keys please Joseph?" Her grandmother requested and Mia found that odd. Then, she supposed, her grandma must know how to use a key.
Joe fished in his pocket, pulled out a small set of keys, and followed behind her with the luggage.
Inside it was surprisingly cool, but light, and she was overwhelmed the by freshness of it all. It was so different from the palace; a large sitting room with spongy, soft couches and piles of board games and a wood burner. An oak kitchen with a massive table that was worn and battered, and the entire back wall of the kitchen was just French doors that led out onto a terrace and onto the white sand of the beach.
She had never fallen in love with a house before but she had now and she was sure that this was a sign of getting old. She frowned a little.
"Excuse me," her uncle cut away from the group at the bottom of the stairs and began climbing them, "I'm taking my old room. It's two singles; Shades?"
"Sure," Shades shrugged and Mia had to remind herself that the Royal Family aside, the other three adults were here to work.
She knew that Shades and Pierre were going to end up friends, simply because they were odd outsiders, just on the fringes of this bizarre mix of people who were holidaying together. For the first time on this trip Mia thought how odd the group was – a group that would never have come together in any other normal circumstance.
"Grandma, why didn't we come here before?" She followed her grandma up the stairs, Lily behind them, and Joe in front, "I mean, I know you have the winter castle but this is awesome..."
"It's not mine," she answered simply, as they came to a stop on a broad landing, "It's a friend's."
"Oh, who?"
"Mine," Joseph said casually, brushing past them and throwing open a white door on the left of the corridor, "Miss Lily and princess; your accommodation for the week."
"Shut up! This is not your house. It's so not Joe. I've not seen any black anywhere."
"Mia," her grandma pulled her scarf from her neck and leaned against the wall, "Don't tell people to shut up."
"Sorry grandma," she smiled sheepishly and cringed at the disappointment on her grandmother's face. She really had to stop telling people to 'shut up' but it was a habit that she couldn't shake. She hated to disappoint her grandma and no matter how many times she did so, she was humiliated afresh. It never got any easier.
Mia followed Lily in, hauling her bag behind her, as Joe held the door to their room open ceremoniously.
"I'll be in the attic Joseph," she heard her grandma say, and heard her expensive heels clacking along the wooden floors and up the other flight of stairs.
She would have sworn that the more expensive the heel, the more authoritative the clack. A very authoritative clack came from her grandmother's designer shoes.
Joe popped his head round the door, "Get settled in."
"There's attic rooms? I love attic rooms," Mia grumbled, though she had already settled herself on the bed that was under the window.
"Your grandmother prefers it. It's quieter and it means she can get her work done," Joe informed her, in that voice that told her it was not acceptable to argue.
"Ok," she felt chastised enough and she knew that Joe told her these things so she didn't look like a total fool, "Cool. She needs a break."
"She does," he nodded, "You're getting very astute."
She was pleased, and relieved, that she had impressed him at least. He was always a buffer to offer kindness and advice and a quiet word in her grandmother's ear.
Just before he closed the door he smiled and whispered, "Don't tell your grandma but this house has internet. So you can download more of your stories. And please, stop lying about listening to music..."
She looked at Lily and burst out laughing. She wasn't even embarrassed and, in fact, she thought it was rather funny that Joe knew.
"He just gets everything," Lily commented, pulling her case onto the bed and beginning to, as Lily always did, scatter her belongings all over, "Doesn't he?"
"Yeah. It can be quite creepy at times, in a sort-of 'I like to have him around' way," she laughed, "It's weird. He knows everything. He totally has my grandma's back all the time though."
"Yeah," Lily turned to her, "But he has your back even more. I mean, he always sticks up for you. And he makes sure you're looked after. He's close to your grandma, huh?"
She looked at Lily, "Yeah, he is."
"Yeah."
The silence grew a little and then Lily plopped down beside her on the bed.
"Chapter eleven?"
"Oh, yeah!"
She didn't even consider what Lily had meant. She popped her earphone in and cracked open her last, smuggled, can of Coke.
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