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"Eat with me tomorrow evening?"
The tone was one of placation, of kindness. Her son looked up at her from the magazine he was reading.
"I have dinner with -"
"Phillipe," she whispered, "I don't want to argue with you. I just want to dine with my son. Please, there is no agenda. Hidden or otherwise."
"Yes," he answered, almost too quickly, "Of course mama."
Joseph watched the exchange from behind a lens of nostalgia. He saw the 10 year old boy, curled up on his mother's lap. Her mouth shaping around childish words in reading books. The promises that he would love her forever and his love was infinite. Did all children make those promises? Even to a queen, those promises must have meant something.
He thanked God he did not have children. He cursed God that he did not have children. He cursed God that he had borrowed hers. He hated himself for feeling this way.
She smiled, "Thank you Phillipe."
He proceeded to follow her out of the door but the crown prince called him back.
"Joe, is there an agenda?"
The door was barely shut before he asked, accusation lacing every word.
Joseph thought back to when the prince had been young and trusting. Somewhere along the line of life he had shed that trust like a skin and now all he was full of was suspicion. Life had a habit of doing that to you. He sighed inwardly; he had become an arbiter in the most bitter of fights.
"Your Highness, I-"
"Since when did you call me that in private?" the prince scoffed.
"Since you spoke to me like a mere employee, Phillipe," Joseph answered simply.
The smirk slid from Phillipe's face and he curled in on himself, like the 10 year old boy being scolded,"I was asking you a question, that is all."
His tone was belligerent.
"It was not the fact you were asking," he answered, body rigid as he stood before the prince. He could not bring himself to treat this child as no more than a boy whom he felt responsible for, "But what you were asking."
"You always defend her," Phillipe grumbled.
"I don't," he answered, "But I won't have you insult your mother, because bare in mind she is your mother, in front of me. She told you she wants to dine with you. She asked kindly, with far more grace than you are inclined to offer her. The least you could do was to pretend to believe her."
"Do you believe her?"
"Of course," he answered.
"She hates me Joseph," he said suddenly as if the thought had just come to him and the urgency to say it had been absolute.
"That's ridiculous Phillippe," he answered, feeling suddenly exhausted with his role of arbiter, "She is your mother."
"Every thing I do lets her down," he continued, wringing his hands rather nervously, "Do you remember I was her favourite? Do you remember? Do you remember how she tucked me into bed, even though there were nannies and all sorts."
"You are blaming her for your own decision."
"I didn't really think it would happen Joseph," he ignored the other man's accusation, "I didn't think my father would really die and leave me this. Not really. I remember when Pierre abdicated and thinking, "It'll never really happen." I remember Mia being born and thinking "I don't need to leave her, not really." I did it all without thinking. I did it all when I was dreaming."
Joseph nodded, reaching forward and squeezing the younger man's shoulder companionably. He didn't have the energy to engage in this self-same conversation they'd been having since he had left Mia and Helen at the airport in San Fransisco. He hadn't even visited his child since then and it was because he couldn't bare to do so – because he had never been particularly excellent at facing up to his mistakes.
"Just have dinner with her," he answered, "Ok?"
"Ok."
As Clarisse did with everything in her life, she fretted over this dinner. She fretted over what linens to use and in which dining room it should be hosted.
"He won't care," he finally answered, after she asked for his reassurance in regards to the crockery choice, "His favourite food is a Big Mac."
"What's that?"
"Never mind," he smiled at her ignorance, "Listen – you're fretting over nothing. It's 10 o'clock. You need to sleep. Clarisse...I need to sleep."
"I know," she cradled her head in her hands. It went a lot deeper than crockery, he knew, but there was only so much she could make right or fix. Some things just had to happen of their own volition, "Ok, ok."
"Ok," he stood up, offering her his hand.
He escorted her from her office to the room, pausing at the doors.
"Come in," it wasn't even a question, "I want to have some tea."
' I am exhausted' lingered on the tip of his tongue for a moment. He swallowed it. Clarisse rarely made a request. She'd stopped making them a long time ago because queens didn't have to make requests.
"Only if I can have coffee," he responded, nodding at the footmen as they passed. They held the doors to her suite open.
"That will keep you awake," she answered thoughtfully.
"I doubt it," he watched as she lifted the phone and requested a tray with coffee and tea and some pear tarts.
She removed one earring when on the phone, then switching the receiver to the other ear, removed the remaining one. She kicked off her shoes and then scratched behind her knee lightly, hiking up her skirt with ignorant fingers as she did so. She pulled her blouse out from the waist band too.
He was mesmerised.
She hung up the receiver and bent down to tidy her shoes. Then she turned to him and smiled; completely ignorant of his admiration.
He scolded himself.
"I'm utterly, thoroughly, exhausted," she sat down on the couch, just as Priscilla entered with the tea.
Joseph took the tray from her and deposited it on the coffee table. He began to pour the tea, at great pains to ensure it was just as she liked it. She tipped her head back, her mouth open slightly, her hands splayed out on the cushions.
"I am so...tired," she said at length.
He placed the teacup before her, "Ma'am. Your tea."
"Thank you Joseph."
"If you're tired, you should sleep," he sat back on the opposite couch, twining his fingers around his mug.
"Not that kind of tired," she sat forward and took a sip, "No, not like that. I am mentally tired..."
"It's worse than physical tiredness," he agreed.
"And my body is in agony," she said quietly, "I am -"
"A foot massage might help."
She lifted her head sharply, "Well, I haven't saw my masseuse in the longest time."
"I meant from me," he said, without a hint of humour. He was either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.
"Joseph..." she shook her head, "That would be strange."
"I'm your friend," he answered seriously, "I was merely offering. Let me try it, if it's odd...you can ask me to stop."
He stood up and moved to the empty spot on the couch. She uncurled her legs from beneath her.
He slapped his hands against his thighs, "If I am going to do this, I need your feet."
"It's strange," she repeated.
"Fine," he laughed lightly, "As you were."
"I used to be so young," she whispered, combing her fingers through her hair, "I was so able to keep going Joseph."
"You're still going," he answered.
"Yes, but you should hear how my body protests in the morning," she laughed dryly.
"Just like my knees," he answered, straightening his leg out for emphasis.
"How are they?" She tilted her head to the side, "I mean, one would not know when they don't visit the doctor of course. I told you to visit my physician."
"And, in the typical fashion of my gender, I didn't listen," he answered, "I need a knee replacement, Clarisse. I've ruined them through years of stress and exercise. If I get one I'm out for at least 3 months. I can't afford to leave you for 3 months."
"I can look after myself," she responded sharply.
"Yes, I know but I don't want to go, not at a time like this. I didn't mean to imply anything."
"I know. I'm sorry," she touched his arm, "I want you here. It's very simple. I am sorry – to need someone is to be weak. Or at least, to admit it."
"You can admit it to me," he said softly, "I promise."
"I know Joseph," she answered, "After all, I admitted to you that he doesn't want it and nothing has changed. He still doesn't want it. I asked you here for tea because I have a request for you."
"Yes?"
"Will you be my security, when I am former Queen Clarisse? I hate to sound self-interested but it is a sad fact that I will need security."
"What else did you think I'd do?"
"I thought you might retire," she shrugged, "Or perhaps back to Spain."
"No," he shook his head, "I hadn't thought about it."
"So you'll stay?"
"Yes," he laughed, "Of course."
"Good," she said evenly, "I got one thing I wanted tonight."
"Though not a foot rub."
She huffed and pulled her legs from underneath her, landing her feet squarely in his lap. He nearly flinched but not quite. Her stocking covered toes wiggled invitingly, challenging him.
This was stupid, he thought to himself. He hated himself for it.
"This will be strange."
"It won't," he pressed a firm thumb into the sole of her foot.
It elicited an involuntary gasp, her lips parting as she relaxed under him.
"Maybe not," she whispered.
Silence rested across them then, aside from the noises she made. He tried to shut down his own thought process as he did it, to concentrate solely on the task at hand. The noises were unbearably, uncannily, like other noises he had heard from a good few women in the past. The way her foot flexed at his touch was...erotic. He had miscalculated quite astonishingly.
"I can't decide if I like the idea of freedom or not," she lifted her head as he switched to the other foot, begging his own consciousness to concentrate on the task as if it were detached from her.
"How do you mean?"
"I mean, think of the free time I will have. I will be able to visit Pierre in Rome, finally. I will go to Germany and visit my family. I will be very...comfortable so I will be able to do as I wish."
"You will."
"And yet I don't know how to be," she continued, "This is all I've ever know. Perhaps I will write."
"I should like to read it," he patted her ankle, "Relaxed?"
"Yes, thank you," she nodded but she did not move.
He looked properly then at her, her long legs propped up onto his lap, her chest rising up and down gently. Her shirt had ridden just a fraction above her skirt waist band, revealing a centimetre of skin. He kept the silence for a while longer. He couldn't admit that he was attracted to her. He wouldn't admit he was in love with her.
"Clarisse?"
Eventually his knee had grown stiff but he could tell, from the shallowness of her breathing, that she had fallen asleep.
"Clarisse, your majesty..."
She didn't stir. He moved her legs gently and stood up, giving himself a moment to gain his own footing. He hated to admit it even more than her but he was getting on. He rubbed his knees, gave her another moment to stir, and finally gave in. He moved across the suite and opened the doors to her bed chamber, then making his way back to the couch, scooped her up. He didn't really know what he had expected of her – he hadn't expected her to be heavy, but not this light either. She had, because he had thought about it enough times to decide, a very good figure that implied healthiness and a strict diet, not thinness. But she felt thin and frail in his arms. She was little hassle and she offered barely any protest. In fact, she buried her face in his chest.
"Put me down," she finally muttered as he lay her on her bed.
"I have," he murmured, "Good night Clarisse."
"Good night."
Perhaps she had been right about the coffee because sleep proved elusive. He tossed and turned, tangled himself in cotton sheets because he was cold, threw them off because he was too warm. He thought about her bed – about the silk night gown he had spied, a corner of it creeping out from under her pillow. The queen kept her nightgown under her pillow. It both amused and irritated him. She was so normal, yet she was worlds away.
He hated himself for being attracted to her. He had always, always thought her beautiful and they had been friends for a long time but now he found himself looking at her from another, entirely different perspective. He found himself thinking criminal, treacherous things.
And he hated himself for it.