Chapter Five
As was to be expected from a princess, my cooking skills were barely adequate. Still, it was one of the unexpected benefits of being a commoner for the last nine months that I now knew how to boil water, toast bread and sauté eggs.
As Christian slept off his hopefully-not-fatal flu, I tried to keep busy preparing a simple meal and a short list of questions.
I know. I’m sure it seems very selfish of me. A man was on his sick bed and I was trying very hard not to use his illness in my self-interest. But as I scribbled my questions on a notepad, I decided it was evidence of my boredom.
It was all well and good to opt out of public life, to adopt a new name and an anonymous presence but, clearly, I needed a little more excitement.
And the Christian Fraser-Campbell story was going to be just the hit I needed. As soon as he woke up and could string coherent sentences together.
Here I had been, simply biding my time out of the public eye, counting the days until I could fashion some sort of new life for myself, and now, the perfect story had dropped into my lap.
Who better to interview Christian, to explain the trauma he had gone through, put it in a larger perspective for the world?
There was no one better than me. Or Clémence Diederich. Since she was me.
I itched to open up my computer and send a quick query to my editor at The Times. It would be informal; I couldn’t give anything away. Hi, it’s me. Been tossing around a few ideas for my next piece. Heard a crazy story about an infamous person who may have faked their death (or become a zombie. Or maybe he’s Jesus.)
Right. I might need some more information from Zombie Christian before I send that email.
But the thought of reanimating Clémence Diederich and Christian Fraser-Campbell at the same time…
It could also end in further disaster.
Personal disaster or career reinvigoration. Decisions, decisions.
An alert sounded from my laptop and I jumped, guiltily. No, I hadn’t emailed my editor. Yet. I was going to ask Christian for permission first before I spilled all of his personal details over the international media. Obviously.
I pulled the laptop over to me and checked my email. A very unprincess-like oath fell from my lips. It was the website where I listed the villa apartment for rent.
I cursed my Driedish practicality all those months ago when I listed it. I had thought it was wasteful, having the whole villa for only my occasional use. Yes, it was my escape house, but why not make some extra money and let Elena earn her rather substantial housekeeper salary?
Oh, why did Elena have to leave? My finger hovered over the email buttons. I could reject the reservation. The money wasn’t important to me, but the thought of Elena’s judgy face made me hit the “accept” button.
Two nights. One tourist who had obviously used a translating app to write an email in Italian. Easy enough. I could do this.
What did I have to do again?
Elena would never let me live it down if I screwed this up. Worse, she might quit in a fit of Italian pique and then I would have to find another tenant, another manager, another face for the outside world.
Not that it would be terribly hard. All sorts of celebrities and notable persons were able to buy help—if they threw enough money and legal contracts around. But honestly, the thought of trying to find someone else exhausted me, and I liked Signore Rossi and his irascible daughter. They were the only people in the world who cared if I woke up each morning.
I typed out a quick response to the last-minute renter: “Yes, there is availability. Please see the attached policies and payment instructions.”
I would have to double-check the rental apartment. Make sure there were linens and amenities. I wished I had paid more attention to what Elena usually did, but I had spent the last few months recovering and working, burying myself in the Formula One piece.
But just as I made my mental list of things I’d need to prepare and got up to go out via the back stairs, I saw Christian in the doorway.
His shirt hung open and his brown hair was dark from the shower he’d obviously taken.
“You’re feeling better, I see?” I said hopefully.
“Very much so,” he said with a grimace. “I hate so much that I’ve imposed upon you.”
He’d always had such perfect manners. It was no wonder my sister had thought him prince material.
“Please, Christian. It’s no imposition at all.” I went to the toast I’d made earlier. It was cold and slightly charred, but that made it dry, and wasn’t dry toast supposed to be just the thing?
I held the plate out. “Are you feeling up to some food?”
He nodded and sat down at the table in the kitchen where I put his plate. Perhaps I really had conquered the whole domestic-goddess thing because he actually ate the toast, blackened edges and all.
And as he was apparently feeling better, I felt I could start a conversation without being too cold-hearted. “This comes as a bit of a shock, so I have to ask.”
“Which part is a shock?”
“Seeing you,” I admitted. “Alive. Here in Varenna, especially.” When he didn’t explain his still beating heart, I wondered if perhaps he didn’t know. “You heard, of course, that the entire world believes you’re…” I paused because suddenly this felt a bit rude. It was all those years of royal etiquette training. Say this, not that. Address this topic, not those.
No one had ever explicitly given me permission to call someone “dead” to their face. It seemed a bit indelicate.
Still. I reminded myself that I was no longer a royal. No longer bound by formal protocol. I was an international journalist who had exposed a safety scandal after watching my husband die on television.
I could certainly tell a man to his face that he was dead. Or not, as the case might be. Just spit it out, Caroline.
“I was led to believe that you were no longer living,” I said, slowly picking out the words.
Christian did not seem surprised. But then, he seemed to have almost no reaction at all. He frowned slightly, pushed back his plate of toast crumbs and regarded me solemnly.
“I see. And who gave you this information.” His eyebrow rose. “Your sister? Theodora?” He said her name carefully, like he hadn’t said it in a while.
Just like a zombie would.
I shook that silliness out of my head once and for all. Obviously, whatever had happened to Christian was far more catastrophic than zombiehood. He was a changed man—I could tell just by looking at him. Yes, he was leaner, his hair different, and there was a tattoo on his chest that hadn’t been there on that last holiday we’d all taken to Mykonos. But also, this Christian was less suave, less charming, than the man who had laughed loudly at the house parties with a royal princess on his arm.
A chill ran down my spine. This Christian was a different person and he’d signaled that he knew…things…about me. He knew about my pen names, so what else did he know?
I needed to handle this delicately. The way he’d said Theodora’s name, the way he’d reacted to my “news” of his death, there was something I had to unravel, tissue by tissue, like a surgeon. Or catastrophe would strike.
“Thea and I don’t speak,” I said, not quite answering his question.
“Ah.”
I waited. No need to respond to that.
“You don’t speak often? Or not at all?”
There was a gleam in his eye when he asked these questions, which seemingly sounded an alarm in the distant part of my brain.
But then I realized. My brain had not just emitted a beeping sound. It was my security system.
I murmured an apology to Christian and went to the front door, where I had several discreet monitors placed. I saw nothing, but the system showed that someone had just let themselves into the building.
Either Elena had come back or my new tourist tenant had already arrived. Ugh. I should have specified a check-in time. “Christian, I have to run downstairs for just a moment!” I called out as I traversed the hall to the back entrance.
Of course there’s a back entrance to a penthouse apartment in a villa overlooking Lake Como. I may have had my royal titles stripped, but I wasn’t living in some sort of hovel.
When the villa was split into the three apartments, they kept the servant’s stairs that connected them and I had installed code boxes to get into all three. What use was a hidey-hole if I didn’t know all the ins and outs?
I skipped down to the second level and punched in the code, wincing at the loud beeps it made and already regretting saying yes to letting out the apartment. What if the beds weren’t made? What if I had to restock the toilet? This could be supremely awkward.
The back door to the apartment, like the other two, led to a utility area. This one had once been a small kitchen and the sink and storage still remained. I quietly opened the door to a broom closet and was relieved to find that yes, my intuition was correct and this was where Elena kept the spare soap, towels and cloths. Excellent. I tucked several of each into my arms and decided to act like I was just running in and out.
“Hello?” I called out in English, then added in Italian, “Scusami?” The apartment was dark, I noted as I carefully crept out into the main rooms. Perhaps I had been mistaken—or my security system had. Perhaps the new tenant had dropped off their bags and then left to find dinner or meet a friend.
When no one replied, I exhaled with relief. Perfect. I would just go put these extra supplies in the washroom, check that there were sheets on the bed and sneak out. Elena would be so proud of me.
Then I was hit by a truck.