Page 2 of Meet Me at Sunset

Camille Fontaine sashayed through Charles de Gaulle Airport and heads turned. She wasn’t a movie star, or a model, but she had a timeless French beauty, and she carried herself with an air of confidence that made people pay attention.

Camille was fifty-one years old but looked a decade younger.

She was chic and elegant, in wide-leg linen trousers with a cream silk vest, and her make-up was light, her dark hair pulled back in a smooth chignon.

Over one arm she carried a ‘Camille’ handbag made from the softest lambskin in a classic shade of olive green.

The coveted bag was every wealthy woman’s must-have – but the difference in this case was that Camille Fontaine owned the company and had named the bag after herself.

‘Gate Twenty-Seven, so we’re almost there,’ said René, Camille’s assistant.

Exceptionally tall and slim, with angular features and a sweep of blond hair, he hurried along beside her.

He was holding a briefcase full of the latest designs she was working on, which were too precious to go in the hold, and a garment bag containing a couture dress from her own label.

‘I don’t know why you didn’t want to fly private – you could have gone direct. ’

Camille shook her head. She’d spent the last few days in New York and was now jetting out to the Spanish island of Mallorca to launch her latest collection, making her connecting flight in Paris. ‘I don’t mind. Besides, first class with Air France is hardly slumming it.’

The airport was busy. Around them business travellers and tourists swarmed and hurried, but a path seemed to magically open up for Camille, allowing her to pass through with ease.

‘You must be looking forward to seeing Lucas again,’ René commented.

‘I am,’ Camille agreed, a smile crossing her face at the thought of reuniting with her son.

Mallorca was like a second home to Camille – so much so that her son Lucas, a talented chef, had established a restaurant in the beautiful north-west of the island.

It had been almost six months since she’d last seen him – he’d spent Christmas with her in Chamonix – and she couldn’t wait to catch up on all his news.

Since Andre’s death, mother and son had grown closer than ever, bound by loss and all too aware of the fragility of life, wanting to make the most of the moments they had together.

Camille and René arrived at the gate and were whisked straight through, past the lines of frazzled holidaymakers and fractious toddlers. Moments later, Camille was sitting in her seat next to René, as an attentive stewardess fussed around them.

‘Would you like a glass of champagne, madame ?’

‘Thank you,’ Camille accepted graciously. She would have just one glass, then stick to water for the rest of the short flight.

‘And may I just say how much I love your bag.’ The stewardess was staring at it with unconcealed admiration. ‘I’ve never seen a “Camille” in that colour before. It’s so chic.’

‘That’s very sweet of you, thank you.’ Camille was too modest to admit that she was the famous designer behind the brand, but she never grew tired of hearing people say that they loved her products.

A short time later, the captain came over the tannoy to announce their imminent departure, and then they were in the air, bound for sun-drenched Mallorca.

Camille gazed out of her window as they flew over the suburbs of Paris, the city where it had all begun for her.

It felt like such a long time ago now. Astonishingly, it was over thirty years since she, Andre and Michel had all graduated from their respective schools.

Whilst Camille and Andre had fallen in love and founded their fashion label, Camille Andre, their friend Michel had taken a different route.

He’d always been more interested in the manufacturing side of the fashion business, and now headed up American Athletics, a global, high-street label, insisting on ethical suppliers and revolutionizing the supply chain.

For Camille and Andre, it had taken years of hard work, of blood, sweat and tears, to go from unknown designers with dreams of making it big, to their breakout moment which catapulted them to fame and fortune.

The ‘Camille’ handbag had captured the world’s attention and become an instant bestseller, pictured on the arm of everyone who was anyone – from Princess Diana to Naomi Campbell to Julia Roberts.

Socialites, singers and starlets all wanted their piece of the Camille magic.

Business had exploded, and the brand was soon in demand on every continent, as they opened shops in every major city across the world.

But Camille’s life hadn’t magically become perfect overnight as she’d imagined it might.

Not even vast wealth and international success could shield her from heartbreak and regret …

‘Is Nicolas flying out to join you?’ René asked, his voice neutral. ‘I’ll add his flights to your diary if so.’

Camille took a fortifying sip of champagne before she answered. ‘I don’t know what his plans are yet.’

‘But he’s not going to miss the launch, surely?’

Camille hesitated. ‘You know, René, I’m rather tired after that long flight from New York. I’m going to rest for a while.’

‘Of course,’ René replied smoothly, but Camille knew he understood that she didn’t want to talk about it.

She pulled down her sunglasses and leaned back against her seat, letting her head roll to the side, taking in the view from the window. They were over central France now, and below lay a patchwork of fields, dotted with medieval towns and sprawling chateaux.

What Camille had said to René was true – she was tired. She had barely slept the previous night, going over and over the conversation she’d had with Nicolas before she left New York.

Nicolas Martin had been part of Camille’s life for more than thirty years now. He was one of her closest friends, her trusted confidant, and the person she’d turned to after the death of her husband, a shoulder to lean on following the accident that had claimed Andre’s life.

How has it come to this?

Camille exhaled sadly, closing her eyes as she recalled every word Nicolas had said to her barely twenty-four hours ago …

The two of them were having a late dinner in Nicolas’s New York apartment, where Camille had been countless times before.

It was a sleek, modern bachelor pad, a penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue, with a stunning view over the treetops of Central Park to the Upper West Side beyond.

Earlier, they’d sat out on Nicolas’s glass-walled terrace and watched as the sun set over the Hudson, lighting up the sky in vibrant shades of purple and orange as the rolling clouds streaked away towards New Jersey.

Now, the city lights blazed below them, the familiar skyline illuminated against the blackness, with a crescent moon hanging high above.

Looking out at that view, it felt to Camille as though they were on top of the world – that they’d achieved everything it was possible to achieve in life.

Nicolas had ordered takeout from Mr Chow, and they were sharing a very expensive bottle of Montrachet.

Sade was playing on the state-of-the-art Bang he was putting her in an impossible position. ‘You’re right,’ she said quietly, her voice thick with emotion. ‘We have waited too long … And now it’s too late. Our time has passed.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I can’t marry you. It’s impossible. Please, Nicolas, for Christ’s sake, get up.’

Nicolas stood slowly, confusion and hurt written across his handsome face. He closed the box and placed it on the table beside their empty plates. Now his shock had hardened into something else.

‘This is the last time I’m going to ask you, Camille. I mean it. If you say no, then it’s over between us.’

‘Don’t make me do this …’ Camille was angry, the fight-or-flight instinct kicking in as she jumped to her feet, longing to run out of his apartment and never look back.

She felt as though Nicolas had backed her into a corner.

Too much had happened between them over the years for her to hide her feelings from him.

Nicolas deserved the truth. ‘Why can’t things just stay as they are? ’

‘Because I can’t live like this!’ he roared, dragging his hands through his hair in despair. ‘I love you. I want to be with you. Please, Camille.’ His tone had changed now, and there was an undertone of anguish in his voice. ‘Marry me.’

Camille shook her head, angry tears coursing down her cheeks, agonized that it had come to this, but furious with Nicolas for ruining the relationship they’d enjoyed for the past three decades. ‘I’m sorry, Nicolas, but I can’t marry you …’

‘We’re beginning our descent into Palma, where the temperature is a very pleasant 26 degrees, and the captain has now switched on the seatbelt sign …’

The announcement cut into Camille’s thoughts, jolting her back to the present.

She realized she was clutching the strap of her handbag so tightly that her knuckles had turned white, as though her life depended on not letting go.

Perhaps her life did depend on it. This bag, and everything it represented – her business, her achievements, her life’s work – needed to be her priority right now.

Whatever else was going on in her life, Camille could always come back to her designs.

It was her true passion, the one thing – aside from her son – that gave her unbridled joy, and it was where she needed to direct her focus.

She’d done the right thing by saying no to Nicolas, Camille reassured herself.

Yes, she might be hurt and in pain now, uncertain of what the future would bring, but the sadness would pass, and Camille knew it.

She’d been through misery and grief and come out the other side – battle-scarred but stronger than ever.

She had been alone before, Camille reminded herself, as the plane touched down on the runway at Palma de Mallorca Airport. She had survived, and she would do it again.