Page 1 of Meet Me at Sunset

When Andre Fontaine had taken the wheel of his car earlier, just as the daylight was fading, full of champagne and post-lunch bonhomie, he’d felt like he had the world at his feet, he was expecting to head back to his chalet in Switzerland to carry on his birthday celebration.

It wasn’t every day you turned forty-nine, or had so much to celebrate.

His fashion brand with his wife Camille had been the talk of the catwalk that spring, their most recent collection had been worn by some of the most famous fashion icons around the world.

Andre could buy whatever he wanted and go wherever suited him; he had a talented, dynamic wife and a son who was growing into a fine man – a son he adored. Life couldn’t be better.

Perhaps he and Camille argued more these days than they used to when they were first married, when their passionate disagreements were quickly forgotten in the heat of their equally fervent lovemaking.

Andre knew he could be difficult, mercurial some said, and maybe not the faithful husband he should be.

It was all part of the image, the legend of the Camille Andre fashion brand.

Extraordinary people do extraordinary things, he would have said in return – we don’t live by conventional rules.

But Andre could neither speak nor move now.

He lay shattered by the side of his treasured Ferrari sports car, and his flickering thoughts were of his only son Lucas, who had been sitting next to him in the car, and who Andre could distantly perceive was still caught in his seat. Trapped. Possibly dead.

If only Andre had listened to Camille. You indulge him too much, Andre …

Andre’s broken body and mind clung to what life was left to him in the silence of the empty mountain road, but he could feel that life slipping away and now Andre was starting to drift far above the scene.

He felt detached from his body, as light as air, able to see big things and little things; the snow-covered tops of the Swiss mountains; a swift darting through the pine trees, its black and white wings flickering like quicksilver; the melting teardrops of crystal-clear icicles falling from the branch of a tree.

He could also see the approach of a car, hear a voice he recognized speak to Lucas. Angry voices.

Please don’t let my son die.

If only he’d listened. If only he could tell Camille and Lucas how much he loved them both.

But it was too late for words. It was too late for anything now.