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Yet, it was true.
Be very careful what you wish for, she thought.
Beatrice might have demanded discretion, but Julius was taking it to a whole new level.
There was nothing—not a hint, not a breath of change in his texts, and nor, when he called again, in his tone.
‘Please ensure there is no mention in the media of my trip to my mother’s home.’
‘Of course.’
‘No confirmation I was there.’
‘Sir.’ She took a breath and then addressed the latest PR issue—though they were becoming comparatively few. ‘There’s a rather tasteless article regarding the Marchioness.’
‘Okay.’
He rang off, and she breathed out, and insisted again to herself that nothing had changed.
It hadalwaysirked her, the way he just called and didn’t introduce himself, nor said hi or bye.
Then, late on Friday, speaking with Jordan just before the entourage prepared to head home, Beatrice found out that the Marchioness had been sent flowers, and that Jordan had spoken at length with her to mollify her regarding the article in the press.
‘She can be temperamental,’ Jordan explained, and rang off.
You are not temperamental, Beatrice reminded herself, over and over.
You are not temperamental, she told herself, when for the first time she had to cancel her Saturday Mandarin lesson because she hadn’t done her prep.
Which meant she’d have two weeks to catch up on.
And her laundry wasn’t done, she realised as she pulled on her last pair of clean knickers.
All her routines had gone to pot.
She threw her washing into the machine and filled the dishwasher, happy to have things restored to their usual order.
Except she was doing housework in her knickers.
Selecting a lemon cheesecloth dress better suited to a day at the beach than a walk along the smart marina, she was determined to face the day.
She tied on espadrilles, put on a big hat and sunglasses, and put her headphones in, deciding it was easier to focus on Mandarin rather than the fact that Julius was due back this morning. Even if Mandarin was the hardest language to master for a Latin-loving girl.
The marina was practically deserted.
Even her favourite coffee shop was closed.
It was like a dystopian world, Beatrice thought as she took out her headphones. There was barely a soul around. And then suddenly there were cannons firing. They very often did here, only it seemed more than usual today—and then it dawned on her that she was possibly the only person in the country not at the Flower Festival.
Despite her aversion to all thingsfesta, Beatrice found herself arriving there. It was nothing like the festival at Trebordi. There it was all bright lights and carnival music, but here it was flowers, and more flowers, and food.
It was relaxed too. She saw Jasmine’s daughter Arabella with her best friend, and security guards following very discreetly behind them.
If she’d been staying, Beatrice would have bought some tulip bulbs to put in a pot on her balcony. Instead she bought some local beeswax lip balm from one of the little stalls, an insulating cup that promised six hours of heat for her coffee, and then decided to see if she could find some sunscreen as the sun was beating on her exposed shoulders.
During her search, she happened upon one of the Greek stalls and stood inhalingsapoúni. Soap. It smelt...not quite like him, but there was a beautiful bergamot note, and there was another with a jasmine scent ...
Princess Jasmine! Beatrice wandered towards the stage, curious to hear Jasmine’s speech, as were the women behind her.
