Page 3 of Meet Me at Sunset

The journey from Palma Airport to Cala de la Belleza, in the north-west of the island, took less than forty-five minutes. Isobel and Stuart MacFarlane were travelling in style, in a luxurious black Mercedes provided by their hotel, the Palacio del Sol Radiante.

‘Makes a change from back home, doesn’t it, darling?’ Stuart said, in his rich Scottish burr, reaching across to place a hand on Isobel’s knee.

‘It’s beautiful.’ She gazed out of the window as the two of them were transported through the spectacular scenery, with rugged, sun-bleached mountains soaring around them and warm, golden light slicing through the Aleppo pine trees.

It had been drizzling when they had left Edinburgh Airport that morning, and although Isobel loved Scotland, the weather sometimes left a lot to be desired.

‘ You’re beautiful,’ Stuart replied, and Isobel couldn’t help but smile at her husband’s sweet words.

At forty-two, Stuart was a decade older than her, but as far as Isobel was concerned, he was in his prime.

His sandy-coloured hair had yet to see its first strands of grey, and the fine lines around his eyes merely served to give him character.

Regular gym workouts ensured he stayed in buff shape.

Isobel turned back to the view as the winding road continued through idyllic villages, with green-shuttered, honey-coloured houses swathed in a profusion of bright pink bougainvillea, church bells chiming midday.

The air was delicately scented with a heady mix of the herbs and plants that flourished on the rocky slopes: rosemary, lavender, thyme and sweet genista.

Isobel could feel her shoulders beginning to drop, her whole body starting to relax.

She and Stuart led busy lives back in Edinburgh.

He was an extremely well-regarded and successful plastic surgeon, who owned thriving practices in both London and Edinburgh.

He regularly travelled between the two, though his consulting work took him all over the world.

‘And I love your dress,’ Stuart continued. ‘Is it one of your own?’

‘Yes, it is one of my designs,’ Isobel smiled, pleased with the compliment.

The dress was bias-cut and clung to her figure, with fluted sleeves and a sweetheart neckline.

The buttercup yellow colour complemented her fair complexion, and she’d left her long, thick, honey-blonde hair loose, to tumble in soft waves down her back.

‘You’re so talented, darling. I’ve always said it.’

‘Thank you,’ Isobel replied quietly. She knew that Stuart had nothing but the best of intentions with his praise, but his words touched a nerve. She, too, considered herself a talented designer, but her career had never taken off in the way that she would have liked.

At least he was being less insensitive than he had been the previous evening.

He’d arrived home late, quickly taking a shower, while she’d been making sure they were packed and ready for travel the next day.

In the bespoke, Shaker-style kitchen, the fridge was almost empty ahead of their holiday, but Isobel had nipped to M&S that morning, and quickly rustled up the grilled salmon and a fresh green salad she’d bought.

Mindful of her last-minute holiday diet, she served herself a small plate with no dressing, and she was pouring two perfectly chilled glasses of Chablis when Stuart walked in.

His hair was still damp, and he looked relaxed in chinos and a polo shirt.

‘Thank you, darling, this is perfect,’ he smiled, helping her to carry the plates through to their elegant dining room. ‘Only a small portion for you?’ he added, raising an eyebrow.

‘A last-minute attempt to shift a few pounds,’ Isobel said ruefully.

‘Oh, you don’t need to do that. I mean, I know all those models look great, but it’s not what men really want. Anyway, I like you with a bit more meat on your bones,’ Stuart laughed, as he squeezed the soft flesh above her hips.

Isobel had wriggled out of his reach, irritated by his flippant comments. ‘Well, it’s not up to you,’ she told him, as she sat down and defiantly speared a forkful of lettuce. ‘It’s about how I feel. And if I want to lose weight, I’ll do it for myself.’

‘Of course, darling,’ he said, as he reached over and patted her hand. ‘Whatever you want.’

Isobel’s irritation simmered to the surface again, though Stuart always seemed oblivious. Drop it, Isobel , she told herself, not wanting anything to ruin their holiday.

Despite training at the prestigious Central St Martins in London, followed by internships with high fashion brands in Milan, Madrid and Paris, Isobel’s career had faltered.

She’d had to cut short her time in France and return to Edinburgh, to take care of her mother, Sheena, when her father died unexpectedly.

Despite Sheena’s insistence that she would be OK alone, Isobel hadn’t wanted to leave her, imagining that she could pick up her career at a later stage.

One year off turned into two, and by the time Isobel met Stuart in the hospitality lounge at Murrayfield, her ambitions had taken a back seat.

Marriage and a settled life in Edinburgh had been the final nail in the coffin of her dreams of a high-flying, high-profile career in international fashion, and Stuart had been quite happy to have a wife with more modest aspirations.

She was lucky that they enjoyed a great lifestyle – a beautiful home, enough money not to have to worry about bills, able to enjoy luxury holidays and top-of-the-range cars. But if Isobel was being honest with herself, she knew that it was largely provided by Stuart.

After their wedding, Isobel had soon grown restless, finding herself sketching and designing once again, dusting off her sewing machine to bring her creations to life.

Seeing how happy it made her, Stuart had suggested she should source a manufacturer, and offered to invest in his wife’s fledgling business, allowing her to rent a small boutique on George Street, in an affluent area of Edinburgh, and produce her first collection.

To supplement her own designs, Isobel sold pieces from other independent labels, and one of her favourite parts of the job was discovering and nurturing new, undiscovered talent.

She adored owning the boutique – she’d built a wonderful team, and the women were like family to her.

Business was thriving, though at times Isobel had the nagging feeling that it was a long way from the ambition she’d had as a child of building a fashion empire like Coco Chanel or Diane von Furstenberg.

And there was another unfulfilled dream that had been on her mind a lot recently …

‘I’ve been thinking …’ she said quietly, as the landscape flitted past them. ‘While we’re away, it might be the perfect time to …’ Isobel hesitated, suddenly feeling nervous, then pressed on, ‘Start trying for a baby.’

Panic passed fleetingly across Stuart’s face, and Isobel felt a stab of annoyance and disappointment. Why was he always so resistant? She’d thought they were on the same page about having children, but whenever she raised the subject, he insisted it wasn’t the right time.

‘Maybe …’ he said slowly.

‘But our lives couldn’t be more perfect – we’re financially secure, we have established careers and a beautiful home … We have so much to offer a child.’

Stuart stared out of the window, but didn’t say anything.

‘Just imagine,’ Isobel continued, leaning across and taking his hand. ‘A little girl, a daughter who’s as pretty as a picture and adores her daddy. Or perhaps a son, a little boy who looks just like you. You can teach him to play rugby. Maybe one day he’ll play for Scotland, and you can—’

‘Oh look, here we are already,’ Stuart interrupted, as they drove beneath a whitewashed stone archway that read Palacio del Sol Radiante – Palace of the Radiant Sun – and bumped down a long, stony driveway surrounded by glorious gardens.

The palacio was a five-star boutique hotel, a converted finca built from traditional stone, but now completely modernized and catering to an upmarket, jet-setting clientele.

From the hotel’s location high on the clifftop, it was a short, steep walk down rugged steps carved into the headland to reach the most perfect sandy cove with a sweeping crescent of soft golden sand.

From there, guests could dive from rocky outcrops into the dazzling turquoise of the Mediterranean, where white yachts dazzled on the water, dropping anchor a short distance from the shore.

Alternatively, there was a coastal path flanked by palm trees that led directly from the hotel into the small town of Cala de la Belleza, a bustling hub of beachfront bars and restaurants serving delicious food and refreshing cocktails.

It was the perfect place to watch the array of water sports taking place out in the gentle waves, whilst locals and holidaymakers relaxed on loungers beneath colourful beach umbrellas.

It was idyllic, Isobel thought with a sigh, leaning forwards to stare out of the window, drinking it all in.

She would put the conversation with Stuart out of her mind for now.

They had two weeks here together – that was plenty of time to bring him round to the idea of a baby.

If everything went according to Isobel’s plan, it would be an unforgettable holiday.

‘Senora Fontaine, we are so pleased to welcome you back to the palacio. It’s been too long.

’ Roberto Garcia Pérez, the general manager of the Palacio del Sol Radiante, came out to greet Camille as she arrived at the hotel with René.

Roberto was in his fifties, a similar age to Camille, with tanned skin and sparkling dark eyes and greying hair which he wore swept back to give him a distinguished air.

Despite the heat, he wore dark trousers and a crisp white shirt, with a matching waistcoat and jacket.