Page 15 of Meet Me at Sunset

‘Thank you, René,’ Camille said coolly, taking it from him, hoping to conceal how unsettled she felt.

René nodded and moved away, back into the melee.

Camille took a deep breath and tore open the package.

It contained a box, and inside was a Camille bag – light tan, calfskin leather, gold hardware.

She identified it immediately as being from their 1995 autumn/winter collection.

But it appeared to be covered in some kind of liquid – something dark and red, with a metallic smell, that had soaked into the leather and stained it …

Horrified, Camille felt compelled to continue looking, unable to take her eyes away from the nightmare unfolding in front of her.

She realized that there was something inside the bag, something large, with sharp angles.

Summoning her courage, Camille snapped open the clasp.

She peered inside, trying to work out what she was looking at.

And then she realized, gasping as she almost dropped the box.

It was a car wing mirror, its surface shattered and mangled, so that when Camille peered into it she saw her own reflection sliced and broken.

Right now, she was aware of nothing except the contents of the box and her own heartbeat, roaring inside her ears, as she pulled out the items nestled in the silk lining beside the mirror.

Two photographs: a grainy one of the crash that had claimed Andre’s life, and a second of Camille and Nicolas coming out of the hospital. And beneath them both, a note:

Now it’s time to pay, once and for all

Bile rose in Camille’s throat. The fight-or-flight instinct kicked in and she was suddenly desperate to get away.

She hastily closed the bag, slamming the box lid tightly on top of it, her startled eyes searching the room for René.

She found him speaking with one of the team and made a beeline for him, the chatter in the room becoming an alarming buzz in her ears. She realized her body was shaking.

‘René,’ she interrupted. ‘I have a sudden headache. I think it may be a migraine. I’m going back to my room to rest.’

Concern was written across his face, beneath his sweep of white-blond hair. ‘Of course. Is there anything you need? Can I get you something?’

‘No, I … I’ll be fine.’ Camille went to leave, then stopped. ‘Actually, there is one thing. Did reception say who delivered the package?’

René shook his head. ‘I can go and ask them …’

‘No,’ Camille replied, more sharply than she’d intended. ‘No, don’t worry. It’s not important. They sent me a vintage bag,’ she said, forcing a smile onto her face as she lied, ‘I just wanted to thank them properly.’

Then Camille turned and raced to her room as fast as she could without causing alarm.

To an onlooker, she would have looked like a busy, professional woman on an urgent mission.

But when she got back to her suite and slammed the door shut with shaking hands, her legs gave way and she sank down onto the floor, tossing the box as far away from her as she could.

What do they want from me? she thought desperately. And, more importantly, How much do they know about what happened that night?

Camille knew she had been stupid to pay the first time.

Remembering the first note she had received months ago, goading her about knowing her ‘secret’.

She had paid the amount they’d asked for, desperate to keep a lid on the situation, but now it seemed things were spiralling out of control.

What did they want this time, and what would happen next?

What about her family, and the business she had spent years building up?

The tone of the notes had changed too, more chilling, more insistent: once and for all …

What the hell did that mean? Camille wished that she could call the police, but that would be impossible without revealing …

Well, without telling them everything and confessing all her secrets.

And that would ruin her. Her reputation, her money, perhaps even her son – all would be gone in the blink of an eye.

There was one person she could call, she realized, adrenaline propelling her to her feet and across the room. She should never have kept it from him in the first place. It didn’t matter what had happened between them – she needed Nicolas right now; he would know what to do.

Camille checked the time: it would be three p.m. in New York.

Snatching up her phone, she called his apartment.

It rang half a dozen times, eventually clicking through to his answering machine.

Camille hesitated, then left a message. ‘Nicolas, it’s me …

Camille. Call me as soon as you get this. I really need to speak to you.’

She hung up and dialled Nicolas’s mobile number, which went straight to voicemail. Either it was switched off, or he had no signal.

Camille left the same message, hearing the fear in her voice as she said the words.

She realized now how badly she needed Nicolas, how desperately she wanted to hear his calm tones offering words of reassurance, telling her that everything would be OK.

Camille closed her eyes, trying to ward off the sense of panic that threatened to overwhelm her.

Nicolas, where the hell are you? I need you.