The Forbidden Prince. Alison Roberts

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       CHAPTER THREE

      WHO KNEW THAT military training would end up being so useful in the daily life of an ordinary person?

      It meant that Raoul de Poitier was conditioned well enough that yesterday’s strenuous exercise had been no more than a good workout. It also meant that he’d been able to sleep on a lumpy old couch that was actually a lot more comfortable than sleeping on the ground.

      He’d tapped into a bit of initiative in making the best use of available resources, too. Mika had a laptop computer and he’d borrowed it for long enough to send an email to his grandmother to let her know he was safe but not to expect to hear from him for a little while.

      Mika had been busy with her technology for a while after that, downloading photographs she had taken that day, her busy tapping suggesting she was adding notes to the images. Her frequent glances away from the screen told him that she wasn’t entirely comfortable having him share this small space; the idea to turn the couch around so that the back of it faced into the small room came to him in a flash of inspiration. The effect of the change had been to create the illusion of a wall and, once he was lying down—with his legs bent and his knees propped on the wall—he couldn’t see Mika in the single bed that was only a few feet away. Any tension ebbed as it became apparent that the arrangement would give her more privacy as she worked and then slept.

      The bathroom facilities were shared with all the other occupants of the rooms on that floor of the old boarding house. That had been more of a shock than Raoul had expected after a lifetime of a sparkling clean, private en suite bathroom always having been available but, on the plus side, there was no queue at this early hour of the morning.

      Mika wasn’t due to start her shift in the café until eight a.m. but it opened at six a.m. and she was taking him in to meet the owner, Marco, in the hope that there might be some work available for a new dish-washer. She’d used the bathroom first and came out in her uniform of a short black skirt and a fitted short-sleeved black shirt. It was an outfit designed to cloak a member of the army of invisible people and, when Mika tied on a pretty white apron with a frill around its edge, he realised the uniform was probably also intended to make her look demure.

      The shirt certainly covered the tattoo on her arm but Raoul doubted that anything would make Mika look demure—not with that aura of feistiness, combined with the impression of intelligence that one glance at her face was enough to discern.

      ‘It’s a horrible job,’ she warned Raoul. ‘A dishie has to be a food-hand as well and help with the food prep to start the day, with jobs like chopping onions and making sauce, and then he has to keep up with all the dishes as soon as service starts, and that’s not easy.’

      ‘I’m sure I could get up to speed.’ How hard could it be to do such menial work? This was the twenty-first century. Even a small establishment would have commercial dishwashing machines, surely?

      Mika turned a corner as they headed downhill towards the beach. They walked past a series of shops still shuttered and sleeping in the soft light of a new day.

      ‘Dishies get yelled at by the chefs if they get behind,’ Mika continued. ‘The waitresses hate finding they’ve suddenly run out of cutlery or something and the barista will have a tantrum if he runs out of coffee cups.’

      ‘Who’s in charge?’

      Mika looked up to grin at him. ‘Marco thinks he is but everybody has to keep the head chef happy. A dishie is right at the bottom of the pecking order, though. He has to keep everybody happy.’

      Raoul wondered where the waitresses fitted into the pecking order. He would do his best to keep Mika happy if he got this job.

      It was a surprise to realise how much he wanted to get this job. It wasn’t simply the opportunity of gaining a different perspective on life—the idea of it was beginning to tap into a yearning that went way back.

      Didn’t every kid dream of being invisible at some time? And maybe that fantasy had more meaning to those who grew up under a very public spotlight. He would be visible to the people he worked with here, of course, but it felt like he would be stepping into an alternative reality. Nobody who knew him would expect to see him in this kind of work and that would be enough to make him blend into the background, even if they took notice of the people who spent their lives in service of some kind.

      ‘Here it is.’ Mika began to cross the cobbled street to a shop front that had canvas awnings over the footpath. The name of the café was printed on the dark terracotta canvas in big, white, cursive letters—Pane Quotidiano—the ‘Daily Bread’.

      A short, middle-aged man with a long, white apron tied around an ample waist was lifting wrought-iron chairs from a stack to position around small tables. ‘Buongiorno, Marco.’

      ‘Buongiorno, Mika. Why are you so early?’

      ‘I’ve brought a friend—Rafe. He needs a job. Is Pierre still here?’

      Marco threw his hands in the air and his huff of breath was exasperated. ‘He walked out СКАЧАТЬ