Page 14 of Meet Me at Sunset

‘Lucas.’

Lucas was prepping for the evening service, lost in his own world as chopped piles of lush purple aubergines and velvety mushrooms grew on the work surface in front of him.

His mind had drifted to thoughts of Stephanie, and everything she’d told him that afternoon, the secrets they’d shared with one another, not to mention how incredible she’d looked in that bikini …

‘Lucas!’

‘Elle,’ Lucas exclaimed in surprise, guilt flickering across his face as he turned and saw her.

He went to kiss her, but she tossed her head to the side, offering him her cheek instead.

‘ Chérie , what’s wrong?’ he asked, but Elle wouldn’t meet his gaze, resolutely avoiding his eyes as she pushed her glossy lips into a pout.

‘What is it?’ Lucas persisted, beginning to feel frustrated.

He was busy with his work and didn’t have time for Elle’s theatrics today.

A sudden pang of worry struck him that she’d somehow discovered that he’d spent time with Stephanie that afternoon, but he quickly dismissed the thought as ridiculous. He hadn’t done anything wrong, had he?

Finally, Elle turned her baby blue eyes on him, huge and shining wet with tears.

‘I saw your mother yesterday, at the hotel. She was so mean to me, and she said …’ Elle took a shaky breath, as though fighting back the tears. ‘She told me I couldn’t model for Camille Andre.’

She collapsed into Lucas’s arms, and he had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes.

‘Darling, I know you’re disappointed, but Maman has always said that you’re not the right look for the brand.

It’s nothing personal, it’s just …’ Lucas trailed off, struggling to find the right words.

He knew if he said the wrong thing, she could fly off the handle.

‘Look,’ he continued, pressing little butterfly kisses on her nose, her cheeks, her lips.

‘You’re beautiful, stunning, everything a man could want.

But that’s not the Camille Andre look – it’s more elegant, and chic. ’

‘I can do elegant,’ Elle screeched, pulling away from Lucas as he inwardly grimaced. ‘Are you saying I’m not chic?’ she demanded, striking a dramatic pose against the stainless-steel backdrop of the walk-in fridge.

Lucas stared at his girlfriend. She looked like every man’s fantasy, with her tumbling blonde hair, enormous kohl-lined eyes and strawberry lips.

Not to mention the endless tanned legs emerging from a white, crocheted mini dress, and the full breasts pushing against the criss-cross lace fastening.

She looked like Brigitte Bardot in her heyday – but he knew his mother wanted to conjure the image of Audrey Hepburn for her brand.

He’d fallen hard for Elle at first, her fiery temperament and sulky sensuality had driven him crazy with lust. But now her demands and petulance just drove him crazy full stop.

She was immature and selfish, and he’d come to realize he wasn’t in love with her.

But the last few years since the accident had held him in a kind of suspended animation, avoiding big decisions and change.

Now he felt like he was finally waking up and wasn’t entirely sure he was happy with the way his life looked, and he was as much to blame as Elle for that.

‘You’re incredible,’ he assured Elle, hoping she wouldn’t notice that he’d avoided the question.

‘It’s not fair,’ she sulked, stamping her foot in her wedge heels. ‘I want that job!’

Lucas’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline, and – sensing that she’d gone too far – Elle tottered back across to him and wrapped her body around his.

‘It’s just a big disappointment for me. A contract like this could catapult me into the big league.

I don’t want to be doing catalogue shoots for Wonderbra for the rest of my career,’ she said bitterly, naming the high-street brand.

At that moment, Paulo strolled into the kitchen. ‘You’ve got a modelling job with Wonderbra?’ he asked sarcastically. ‘Congratulations, Elle. Your career’s really on the up.’

‘Shut up, Paulo,’ she shot back, her eyes flashing with venom, as Paulo laughed and helped himself to a handful of the fresh red peppers Lucas had been slicing. Elle ignored him, turning back to Lucas. ‘Why do you always take your mother’s side?’ she complained.

‘I don’t,’ Lucas assured her. ‘But it’s her business. I can’t interfere.’

‘She interferes in yours all the time,’ Elle retorted, as Paulo let out a snort of laughter that inexplicably irritated Lucas. He took his anger out on Elle.

‘It’s not my fault that my mother doesn’t think you’re good enough,’ Lucas snapped. ‘She’s been running her company for thirty years. You’ve been a model for two minutes and your biggest job was a print commercial for dandruff shampoo. Why the hell would she want to hire you?’

Elle’s mouth fell open in shock. Tears – genuine this time – sprang into her eyes, hurt written plainly on her beautiful face. Then she slapped him hard across the cheek and stormed out of the restaurant.

Lucas exhaled slowly, feeling the sting on his face, aware that his cheek must be glowing red.

He knew he’d been an arsehole, that he should run after Elle and apologize, but he’d reached the limits of his patience.

He’d meant what he said – he wasn’t responsible for his mother’s choices, and he didn’t appreciate being forced to choose a side.

‘You deserved that.’

Lucas glanced up to see Paulo watching him, leaning languidly against the worktop whilst crunching on the crudités. ‘Leave some for the customers, hmm?’ he snapped.

Paulo’s sardonic expression didn’t change as he slowly shook his head. ‘Lucas, Lucas. Never satisfied, are you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Ever since you were a boy you’ve been the same. You were given everything – but you never appreciated it. As soon as you got something, it lost its value.’

‘Since when did you become such a philosopher?’ Lucas replied sarcastically.

‘Just sharing my observations …’ Paulo shrugged, taking a wrap of plastic from the pocket of his shorts and twisting it open.

He tapped out a line of white powder on the shiny steel surface of the countertop, using one of Lucas’s best chopping knives to marshal it into a line. Then he bent over, snorting it ostentatiously. Wiping the residue with his forefinger, he rubbed it into his gums.

Now it was Lucas’s turn to shake his head. He angrily snatched up the knife, washing it thoroughly before wiping down the counter with a troubled expression. ‘You shouldn’t do that here.’

‘Don’t start lecturing me.’

‘Well maybe it’s your turn to hear a few home truths. You’re doing too much of that shit. It’s not good for you, or for the restaurant.’

‘Hey, give me a break. We can’t all have rich mummies to help us out.’ Paulo grinned to imply it was a joke, but Lucas wasn’t blind to the deliberate barb. He fell silent as he went back to his prep, slicing deftly and precisely.

‘Why are you spending so much time in Palma? You’re hardly ever here.’

‘I thought you had everything under control,’ Paulo replied, a challenge in his tone.

‘I have – when it comes to food. You’re supposed to take charge of the logistics, and it feels like things are slipping.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Paulo said easily, coming up behind him and placing a hand on Lucas’s shoulder. ‘You need to chill, my friend. Here, take this,’ he suggested, offering the rest of his wrap to Lucas.

‘Not my scene. And you need to be careful.’

‘And you need to take the stick out of your ass. Have a good night, man. I’m out of here.’

‘You’re not staying?’ Lucas was frustrated.

‘People to see, things to do,’ Paulo winked, clapping him on the back. ‘Maybe I’ll give Stephanie Moon a call, see if she’s free tonight.’

‘Stephanie?’ Lucas’s head snapped up so sharply he almost sliced his finger.

‘Yeah …’ Paulo looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Hope it’s not a late one for you tonight. Remember, all work and no play makes Lucas a dull boy,’ he finished, as he strode out of the back door of the restaurant with a swagger in his step.

Lucas cut into an onion with relish, carving it in two in a single, smooth motion.

He was frustrated with Elle and irritated by Paulo’s hostile jibes.

But the thing which annoyed him most of all, he realized, as the glittering blade sliced through the onion’s layers with ease, was the thought of Paulo and Stephanie together.

Late afternoon slid into evening and Camille barely noticed. She was so preoccupied with overseeing her small team, making a hundred last-minute decisions and issuing instructions. She was thrilled with how it was all coming together, but still worried it wouldn’t all be finished before the show.

Endless boxes were arriving by courier, sample pieces from Italy and Spain, beautiful garments from Morocco and India.

Camille said a silent prayer of thanks as each one was ticked off the list. But she knew it wasn’t over yet – there’d be alterations to make, and fittings with the models to ensure the clothes hung perfectly as they sashayed down the runway.

Camille checked her slender Cartier Tank watch, debating whether to tell the team to take a break and come back in an hour, or whether to order in food and ask them to work straight through, when René strode over with another parcel.

‘What’s this?’ Camille asked, trying to hide her irritation. Her team dealt with the incoming packages – she had more important things to do.

‘It just arrived,’ René explained quickly, knowing exactly what Camille would be thinking. ‘But there’s only your name on the front – no import stamp or customs papers. Someone dropped it off at reception, so I thought perhaps it was personal.’

Camille stared at it, a sudden surge of dread balling in her stomach. René was right – it was simply a plain, brown package, a little bigger than a shoe box. Camille’s name, and the hotel’s, had been handwritten in stark, black letters on the front, but there were no other identifying marks.