Page 24 of Meet Me at Sunset

Camille tiptoed barefoot around the apartment, not wanting to wake Nicolas who was still sleeping. She washed her face and moisturized, adding a slick of mascara and lipstick; her skin was flawless with a youthful glow, and she didn’t need to hide beneath layers of make-up.

She pulled on a dress that she’d bought at a flea market the previous weekend.

It was an oversized A-line shape, in a garish purple and green pattern.

On anyone else, it would have looked like a monstrosity, but somehow on Camille it was the height of chic.

She paired it with knee-length socks and Mary Jane shoes, before backcombing her hair at the crown and tying a scarf around her head like a headband, letting the ends flutter loose.

Then her look was complete: stylish and gamine, quirky but ultra-fashionable.

She crept over to the bed where Nicolas lay sleeping, the sheets gathered around his waist, exposing his toned stomach and broad chest. Her gaze ran over the curve of his muscular shoulders.

With his light brown hair and handsome face, Camille felt a warm glow of happiness as she looked at him.

She’d never dated anyone who made her feel like Nicolas did – loved and secure and completely able to be herself.

She stroked him gently on his forearm to rouse him. ‘Bye, darling, I’ll see you later. Don’t forget, you have lectures at ten.’

Nicolas murmured groggily as Camille bent down to kiss him. She smelt of perfume and hairspray, and Nicolas stirred, pulling her down onto the bed with him.

‘Do you have to leave?’ he grumbled, wrapping his arms around her as she snuggled against him. He was warm and the bed was inviting, and Camille was tempted to peel off her mini dress and slide back between the sheets in the tiny apartment they shared. But she knew she had to go.

‘I do. But I’ll see you later. Meet me at sunset, the usual place.

’ she said, giving him a long, lingering kiss before heading out of the door.

She ran down the spiral staircase – she and Nicolas rented an attic apartment and it was four floors to the ground – and out through the heavy wooden door into the Parisian morning.

It was a warm day, still more summer than autumn, though the leaves were beginning to turn and the boutiques she passed displayed cosy sweaters and woollen cape coats.

Camille bowled down the boulevard towards the Metro, soaking up the energy of the quartier.

She lived in Montmartre, in the north of Paris; it was vibrant and cosmopolitan and the apartments were cheap, Camille and Michel always met for a drink at their favourite little café near Sacré Coeur Basilica, watching the sunset from its elevated position was the perfect way to end the day.

She headed downhill through the picturesque, winding streets – the eighteenth arrondissement resembled a village perched on top of a hill – before making her way along the Boulevard de Clichy, home to the famous Moulin Rouge nightclub.

The city was still reeling from the strikes and student protests that had taken place earlier that year, and the sense of revolution crackled in the air.

The world was changing, and Camille was determined to be part of it.

She got on the Metro at Pigalle, hopping on the familiar trains that rushed noisily along the tracks. It was only half a dozen stops to central Paris, and Camille was content to sit and daydream, anonymous amidst the other commuters.

She had grown up in a small town in Normandy, where life was quiet and mundane.

Her mother, Béatrice, was a seamstress, and worked in a small shop taking in clothes for mending and tailoring.

She’d taught Camille everything there was to know about constructing and fitting garments, and the young Camille became passionate about fabric and design.

Her father, Albert, sold electrical goods, like televisions and radios, working long hours to bring in a little more income.

They were comfortable, but there was never a lot of money to spare.

Camille had always been a dreamer. She remembered once, when she was around seven or eight years old, the whole family went to Paris on the train.

Her father had business there, and Camille and her mother spent the day in the city whilst he attended meetings.

For Camille, the French capital was like nothing she’d ever experienced before – glamorous people who all seemed to be rushing along the busy streets, and enormous, beautiful buildings laid out along wide boulevards flanked by horse-chestnut trees.

Camille and Béatrice turned onto an avenue where the shops boasted smart iron railings and perfect window boxes and immaculate cream awnings, and Camille couldn’t help but be drawn to the wide, brightly lit windows where mannequins displayed exquisite clothes.

She remembered feeling that she didn’t quite belong as she took in the names on the shopfronts – Chanel, Dior, Givenchy – but knew instantly that this was the world she wanted to inhabit.

Not even the uniformed men on the doors who frowned at her, or the imperious saleswomen staring out from behind the windows with a look of distaste, could put her off.

When Camille got home, she devoured everything she could from her local library on clothing and the fashion industry.

She learned that Gabrielle ‘Coco’ Chanel hadn’t been born into wealth either.

In fact, she’d grown up in an orphanage, being raised by nuns, but her simple, monochrome style had revolutionized the fashion industry.

If Coco Chanel had done it, why couldn’t Camille?

From that moment on, she devoted herself to her dream, imploring her mother to teach her all she knew about sewing, and dedicating herself to learning everything she could about sketching, designing, and the history of fashion.

Her ambition was to leave Normandy and move to Paris to study at the prestigious école de la Chambre Syndicale de la Couture Parisienne.

The school admitted only a handful of applicants a year, and was known for its exclusivity.

But despite not having wealth or contacts, Camille had blown the interview panel away with her talent and passion.

Now she was following her dream, taking her first tentative steps into the fashion world by studying haute couture – its history and origins, its rules and regulations and, most importantly, how to create a garment of the highest quality that was like a piece of art.

A few weeks after starting her course, Camille had met Nicolas in a bar one evening when she was out with a group of friends.

He was attractive – not classically handsome, but with a certain presence, and a quiet confidence that Camille was drawn to.

He spoke intelligently and eloquently, and she discovered that he was also a student, studying for his Masters in Economics.

He invited her for dinner the following night, and it seemed to Camille to be an old-fashioned and romantic invitation, in an era where their contemporaries wanted to get stoned and practise free love.

He clearly adored her, and Camille revelled in his devotion.

A few weeks later, they moved in together, scandalizing her parents and risking the wrath of the elderly building concierge, who was outraged by the idea of an unmarried couple living together, and shocked by the liberal changes sweeping the nation.

Camille and Nicolas had been together ever since.

He was her first serious boyfriend, and they adored one another, swept away by young love in the most romantic city in the world.

Nicolas worshipped her like a goddess, but they were best friends too, and Camille felt loved unconditionally, able to be herself entirely around him.

Sex was a revelation, and they couldn’t get enough of one another.

But their relationship was about more than just the physical; Nicolas understood her wants and needs, and supported her in her ambitions, never undermining or belittling her.

He knew that she could be headstrong and impulsive sometimes, and didn’t try to rein her in, but he wasn’t a doormat either.

Nicolas exuded a quiet strength; he didn’t need to scream and shout to make himself heard, and though they rarely had arguments, he was no pushover.

He seemed to know how to handle every situation, and instinctively took control in his calm, assured way.

Camille felt so lucky to have found him – they were the perfect fit.

Her train pulled into the station and Camille jumped off, running up the stairs, out into the fresh air.

The magnificent buildings loomed above her, the distinctive limestone facades with decorative balconies and mansard roofs looking their best in the sunshine.

Outside, people were sitting at pavement cafés drinking their morning coffees, or walking their dogs, or strolling arm-in-arm with their lover; Camille loved being part of the beat of the city.

A short walk along the street was the grand building that housed the école de la Chambre Syndicale.

It had been founded by the Fédération de la Haute Couture to train future generations of designers and teach them the strict rules of the industry.

Only certain fashion houses were allowed to call themselves haute couture, and they had to follow meticulous regulations covering styles, collections, models, press and taxes.

Today’s lecture was on finance. Camille found a seat and pulled her notebook and pen from her bag.

She tried to keep her mind from wandering, but she was struggling to concentrate.

She knew the subject was important, but it was far from the most interesting aspect of the business; she would have much preferred to be sketching, or sewing, or …

just about anything else other than learning about VAT and import duty.

Nicolas would have loved it, she thought fondly, watching the lecturer in his cord trousers and polo neck drone on about assets and liabilities.

She knew that Nicolas’s brain would have made sense of the complicated concepts in seconds; he was a whiz with numbers and had an instinctive flair for business.

Camille had no doubt that he’d go far in life; he was focused and determined with a razor-sharp mind.

As her thoughts drifted, she gazed around the lecture hall.

A few seats away, she locked eyes with a guy and immediately felt a jolt, as though every atom in her body had jumped to attention.

He was incredibly good-looking, with Mediterranean colouring – tanned skin and rich brown eyes and thick black hair, which he wore longer so the ends spilled over his collar.

He was wearing a fitted jumper that showed off the shape of his muscular chest, and as he caught her looking, he grinned at her.

Camille instinctively looked away, rolling her eyes – who the hell did this guy think he was?

But a few moments later, she found herself glancing in his direction once again.

This time when he smiled, Camille smiled back.

When the lecture was over, he approached her, as she’d expected he would. Camille knew she looked good, her long, dark hair glossy and loose, her slender body poured into the chic dress.

‘I’m Andre,’ he introduced himself.

‘Camille,’ she replied, sizing him up, oblivious to the other students who hurried out of the lecture theatre around them, eager to leave behind the world of balance sheets and corporation tax.

‘I’m going to grab a drink, Camille. Would you like to join me?’

Camille hesitated, sure that her desire would be written across her face.

She was intrigued by this man who was suave and charismatic, utterly masculine and confident in a completely different way to Nicolas.

Nicolas had a quiet assurance; this guy acted as though he knew he had the world at his feet.

‘I can’t,’ she replied eventually. ‘I’m meeting my boyfriend.’

Andre threw back his head and laughed. His teeth were white and wolfish, and she could see the shadow of stubble along his jawline. His eyes sparkled roguishly; when he looked at her, it was as though he was imagining her naked.

‘Oh Camille, whoever he is, he doesn’t deserve you,’ Andre smirked. ‘And I can promise you, a drink with me will be a hundred times more exciting than anything you do with your boyfriend.’

Camille gasped, enraged by his arrogance. But it was impossible to ignore the way her heart was racing, the way her body was already yearning for his touch. There was no way she could say no, and he knew it.