Page 28 of Meet Me at Sunset

‘Oh, Camille. No!’

‘What? What is it?’ Camille looked up from her desk in surprise as Andre loomed over her.

‘This,’ he snapped, jabbing his finger towards the tunic that hung on a mannequin behind her. ‘Is this the finished design? But this is not good, Camille, you must see that?’

Camille looked up from the sketch she was drawing, a long-sleeved maxi dress in a printed fabric that reflected the new bohemian style.

It was late, and she was tired, but right now Andre was looking at the sample they’d received as though it was something he’d stepped in.

It had arrived earlier in the day, and Camille had hung it on the dummy in their small atelier so that she could view it through the day and work on it later.

‘What’s wrong with it?’ she shot back, her voice sharper than she’d intended.

Andre picked up the hem between his thumb and forefinger, as though he didn’t want to be contaminated by touching it. Then he let it go dismissively, letting it drop back down.

‘You don’t see the problem? You have eyes, yes? I thought you were a fashion designer, Camille, but perhaps you still think you’re producing shapeless sacks for old ladies.’

Anger rose in Camille’s chest, stung by Andre’s words. They’d always enjoyed a free and frank exchange of views, but lately all Andre seemed to do was criticize, without offering any ideas of his own.

A chair scraped and they both spun round, surprised by the interruption. It was Mathilde, the intern. She pulled on her jacket and grabbed her bag, looking awkward as their eyes swivelled to her.

‘Goodnight, Camille. Goodnight, Andre,’ she stammered. It was clear that she wanted to get away before the arguing began, to avoid being caught in the crossfire. Camille and Andre’s fights were legendary.

‘Goodnight, Mathilde,’ Camille said calmly. ‘See you tomorrow, and thank you for your work today.’

The young intern scampered out of the door, leaving Camille and Andre alone.

It was dark outside – the nights drew in early now – and it was chilly too, with the small, three-bar heater in the corner doing little to raise the temperature.

The space was tiny, with half a dozen mismatching desks crammed in at all angles, all littered with sketches and fabric samples, partially constructed garments and rolls of fabric.

A sewing machine was set up in one corner, along with half a dozen mannequins.

If they’d rented an office in the outskirts of the city, they could have afforded something double, or even triple, the size.

But Andre wanted the prestigious address in the seventh arrondissement, so they were crammed into this second-floor space above an antiques shop.

There was a pause after Mathilde left, which could have led to a ceasefire, but then Andre spoke.

‘I need to leave. I’ll see you at home later.’

‘You’re going home?’

‘No, of course not. I have drinks with Carine Roitfeld, and then the Elle magazine event.’

‘But I thought I was coming to Elle with you?’

‘You were. But now you’re going to stay here and fix that heap of shit,’ Andre snapped, with a dismissive glance at the maligned tunic. ‘We need something decent to show the buyers at Samaritaine next week. As it stands, they’ll laugh us out of the building.’

Camille’s mouth tightened into a thin line. ‘Will Hélo?se Beauvais be at the Elle party?’ she asked pointedly.

A flicker of something crossed Andre’s face, then he laughed cruelly. ‘Just concentrate on the clothes, Camille. Jealousy doesn’t suit you.’

‘I’m sick of you making a fool of me, Andre. Always running round with other women, not caring who sees you.’

‘I’ve told you before, darling, you’re so petite bourgeoise. No one in our circle bats an eyelid at a little aventure . Don’t wait up,’ he added with a smirk, before shrugging on his smart woollen jacket and walking out of the door.

Camille let out a scream of frustration.

She picked up a pair of fabric scissors and hurled them after him with a cry of rage.

They hit the door and fell to the floor.

It didn’t make her feel any better. Glancing down at the sketch she’d been drawing, Camille immediately saw all its faults, imagining how Andre would react if he’d seen it.

She screwed it into a ball, threw it in the bin and slumped down in her chair, overwhelmed by frustration and exhaustion.

She let her head drop forwards into her hands as her hair fell around her face, feeling the solid gold of her wedding ring press into her temples.

Life was not working out the way that Camille had imagined. The business was taking an age to build up. She wasn’t na?ve – she hadn’t imagined that they’d become Chanel overnight – but it was such a long, hard, thankless slog and it was beginning to wear her down.

Camille spent day after day, night after night, working away with their small team, designing garments, selecting fabrics, running up samples.

All Andre seemed to do was swan around town, attending parties and galas, wining and dining journalists at expensive restaurants, always charging the costs to the company. Networking, he called it.

When Camille, Andre and Nicolas had first sat down in the early days of 1970, buoyed by the wave of optimism that had swept them up on New Year’s Eve 1969, they had drawn up their roles in the new business.

Camille would, naturally, be creative director, responsible for all design decisions and the aesthetic vision of the brand.

Nicolas, with his head for numbers, was chief financial officer, whilst Andre designated himself CEO.

All major decisions had to be signed off by him although, Camille thought uncharitably, he seemed to avoid most of the hard work, instead throwing his weight around and enjoying the perks of the job.

Sometimes it was stifling being together twenty-four/seven.

There was no part of their lives that didn’t revolve around the business; it was like a third person in their marriage, constantly coming between them.

They were still as passionate as ever, but often that found an outlet in a different way – instead of wild lovemaking in the bedroom, they had vicious rows in the boardroom, often in front of the whole team.

Despite everything, Camille still loved Andre desperately.

There was no doubt that his ego was enormous, but he was charismatic and undoubtedly the driving force behind the business.

Sometimes she would watch him from across the room at a dinner party or event, see him laughing, flirting, being so goddamn dominant, and it was sexy and enraging as hell.

She loved knowing he was hers, but it came at a price.

Dimly, Camille heard footsteps, then someone cleared their throat close by. She glanced up, startled out of her reverie. ‘Nicolas! I’d forgotten you were here.’

The small office off the main atelier was shared by Nicolas and Andre. Nicolas had obviously been working quietly inside, and Camille’s cheeks reddened as she realized he must have heard every word of her argument with Andre. She swiped at her eyes which had filled with tears.

‘Are you OK, Camille?’

There was something in the gentleness of his tone, the kind look on his face, that made Camille crumple inside. ‘No.’ She shook her head, in an unexpected show of vulnerability. ‘No, I’m not.’

Nicolas stepped forward, taking her in his arms, and Camille fell into them willingly.

It felt so good just to be held, as she snuggled into the softness of his shirt, the steady fall and rise of his chest instantly calming her.

She and Andre made love almost every day, but tender moments between them were rare; Andre wasn’t one to snuggle up on the sofa, or laze in bed on a weekend doing nothing but cuddle.

He offered passion, but seldom affection.

Camille sighed, not wanting to move, feeling loved and adored in Nicolas’s arms, his chin resting on the top of her head. Memories came flooding back of when they’d first got together. He’d been her first love, but they’d been little more than kids, in the first flush of youth.

Camille wondered how different things would have been if she’d stayed with Nicolas.

Andre was handsome and exciting, but as a result, Camille was often jealous or anxious.

Life with Nicolas would have been a smooth boat ride on calm seas, not an out-of-control rollercoaster like her current existence.

And Nicolas would have adored her unconditionally.

She remembered the sweet little gestures he had made when they were together – impulsively buying a bunch of freesias from the flower seller by the Metro, or running her a bubble bath after a long day of classes.

Andre would never do anything like that.

His actions were always grand and public – what was the point in being extravagant if there were no witnesses?

Camille exhaled slowly, louder than she’d intended.

Nicolas’s strong hands caressed her body, and she could feel his warmth through the thin cashmere sweater she was wearing, setting off unexpected sparks.

She remembered their slow, unhurried lovemaking, the deep sense of connection she had always had with him, the sense he was her soulmate, that he knew and revered every inch of her.

‘I should have come out sooner,’ he apologized. ‘I wasn’t sure whether to intervene.’

‘It’s fine,’ Camille insisted.

‘I hate the way he treats you. He doesn’t deserve you.’

Camille looked up at him. ‘You’re a good man, Nicolas.’

‘I told you. I’m here for you, Camille. If you ever need anything.’

‘I know you are,’ Camille murmured gratefully. He’d never stopped loving her, it was plain to see on his face. And she loved him too, she realized; there was a deep and unbreakable bond between them.

Camille stroked his cheek, her fingers tracing his clean-shaven jawline.

Nicolas closed his eyes and whispered her name, the word full of longing.

And then somehow her lips found his and it felt like coming home, the taste of him bringing back long-buried memories.

Camille could feel how much he wanted her, years of pent-up desire in that one kiss, and she needed him too.

Nicolas had put her on a pedestal and he made her feel like a goddess; it felt so good to be adored after Andre’s cruel words and casual dismissal.

Nicolas’s hands slid beneath her sweater, roaming over her bare skin and awakening her body as though she’d been sleeping, every inch of her bursting into life. With fumbling fingers, she began to undo the buttons on his shirt before moving down to his belt.

‘Wait, Camille …’ Nicolas panted, his voice thick with wanting. ‘Are you sure … I don’t want you to regret this …’ He trailed off, undisguised lust in his eyes.

Camille didn’t want to think about anything right now.

She wanted to push everything from her mind and act on instinct, to block out all the horrible things Andre had said and concentrate purely on the physical.

She knew that Andre had cheated on her over the years whilst she’d stayed resolutely faithful, but now that was about to change and, perhaps selfishly, she relished the thought of revenge.

Camille pulled her sweater over her head, revealing her breasts encased in just a wisp of lace, gratified to see the desire flare in Nicolas’s eyes. Her breath was coming fast, determination in her eyes. ‘Yes,’ she said boldly. ‘I’m sure.’