Page 31 of Meet Me at Sunset

Camille stretched languorously in the morning sunshine, enjoying the taste of freshly brewed coffee and ensa?madas that lingered in her mouth.

It was so peaceful in the Tramuntana mountains, only the call of birds and the drone of insects to disturb the silence.

Right now, the temperature was perfect. It would be almost unbearably hot later in the day, but by then Camille would be gone.

‘I wish we could stay a little longer,’ she sighed.

‘No rest for the wicked,’ Andre laughed, his gaze running over her.

Camille knew she looked good, in pale pink shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, her dark hair cut into a fashionable crop that emphasized her fine bone structure and gamine frame.

At the age of thirty-two, she felt as though she was in her prime, both personally and professionally.

She’d found her signature style as a designer, and Camille Andre was now well established, not to mention her little family.

‘ Can you stay a bit longer, Maman ?’ asked Lucas. He was sitting across from her on the terrace, outside Andre’s mother’s villa.

‘I’m afraid not, darling,’ she sighed, feeling guilty as she saw his face fall. He had just turned eight years old, was tall for his age and slender, with a shock of dark curly hair and a freckled face, his eyes the same enchanting hazel as Camille’s.

‘When will you be back?’ he asked solemnly.

‘In a couple of weeks. Perhaps three.’

‘And then it’ll be school again,’ he said glumly.

‘Yes, but in the meantime you’ll have lots of fun with Abuela ,’ his grandmother assured him, wrapping her arms around him and cuddling him to her.

Andre’s mother Margarita was glamorous and flamboyant, in a brightly coloured kaftan and white-rimmed sunglasses, and she doted on her son and grandson.

‘I guess,’ Lucas replied, not looking convinced.

‘Cheer up, Lucas, we’ll be back before you know it,’ Andre said briskly. ‘And we’ll bring you a fantastic present. What would you like, hmm? A BMX? Sony Walkman? A new Lego set?’

Lucas thought for a moment. ‘All three,’ he said eventually, as Andre roared with laughter.

‘Just like his father,’ he chuckled. ‘Knows what he wants, and he wants it all!’

Camille watched the scene play out, feeling uneasy.

Sometimes she thought that Andre spoilt Lucas.

He seemed to be creating a boy in his own image at times, often treating him as though he was older than his years and Andre would often give into his son’s urges and Lucas had grown used to having whatever he wanted.

Perhaps it was guilt, Camille thought. They both worked long hours, and although they told themselves it was for Lucas’s future too, it was ultimately for selfish reasons – they both wanted to be successful.

All three of them had spent a long weekend together at the villa, but now Camille and Andre would spend the rest of the summer working.

It wouldn’t be too much of a hardship; most of Europe took August off, and so instead of formal meetings, there’d be networking on yachts in the Greek islands, long, boozy dinners in the south of France, and raucous parties in Spanish villas.

It was no life for a child; they didn’t want to be dragging Lucas round with them, and he’d have been bored out of his mind anyway, so Margarita had helpfully stepped in.

Business was slowly building. The Camille Andre label was now stocked in high-profile outlets all over France, and they had their own boutique on the prestigious Avenue Montaigne.

Their designs were a favourite of the sophisticated, monied French women who were their target demographic, and they were beginning to make inroads into the fashion capitals of Europe – London, Milan, Madrid and Stockholm.

But like any high-end, high-priced product, it was hard to sell in volume, and Andre insisted on such high quality that their margins were squeezed.

Their next target was America, and that meant leveraging Nicolas’s connections.

He and Lisa had married three months after he’d moved to the US.

It had been a spontaneous decision – they’d got their licence and married the following day, in the presence of a witness who they’d invited in off the street.

Camille had been utterly shocked, and their relationship had come under strain.

But when Nicolas filed for divorce less than six months later, they’d gradually started to rebuild their friendship.

They were both busy, but there were long, late-night transatlantic calls, where they would pick one another’s brains about business issues, or simply catch up and chat about what was happening in their lives.

There were periods when they spoke almost every day, yet at other times Nicolas pulled back from her, his calls becoming infrequent, and the messages Camille left on his machine going unanswered.

At those times, she respected his decision and left him alone, though it would eat her up inside, wondering if he’d met someone new, if it was serious, if he’d marry within weeks like he had with Lisa.

Camille knew she had no claim on him, and didn’t have any right to think so possessively about him, but in truth she considered him one of her best friends and missed him terribly when—

‘Lucas!’

A young boy came running up the path towards them, seemingly right at home on her mother-in-law’s property. Camille was astonished when Lucas’s face split into a broad grin and he called back happily, ‘Paulo!’

Paulo came up to the patio with a swagger, beaming at Lucas.

He reminded Camille of the Artful Dodger in an old movie she’d once seen; he had jet-black hair and was dressed scruffily, dirty marks across his face like an urchin who’d been left to fend for himself.

His expression was full of mischief, his dark eyes alight as he and Lucas conversed in rapid Spanish which Camille struggled to follow.

‘Darling, why don’t you introduce me to your friend?’ she suggested sweetly.

‘Mama, this is Paulo. He lives on the farm over there.’ Lucas waved his hand vaguely in the distance. ‘They have a dog, and chickens, and a pig called Chancho,’ he added excitedly. ‘We played together the last time I came to stay with Abuela .’

‘How nice,’ Camille said, but the sentiment didn’t reach her eyes, as she looked critically at Paulo from behind her dark glasses. She didn’t want to be a snob, but equally, she didn’t want Lucas to come home with lice at the end of the holiday, and this boy looked as though he was infested.

Camille glanced at Margarita, but she was beaming at the two boys, clearly not sharing her daughter-in-law’s misgivings.

‘Would you like something to eat, Paulo?’ she asked, indicating the spread of bread and pastries and fruit on the table.

He took an apricot coca in one hand and a croissant in the other, biting into them ravenously, as Lucas jumped up from the table. ‘Can I go and play now, Mama?’

‘Your father and I will be leaving shortly. Don’t you want to wait and say goodbye?’

‘I can say goodbye now,’ said Lucas, hurling himself into Camille’s arms, then formally shaking hands with Andre. ‘I’ll see you in a few weeks,’ he called, as he ran off down the path with Paulo, the two of them laughing and calling to one another.

‘He’ll come back when he’s hungry,’ Margarita smiled.

‘Will they be safe?’ Camille asked in alarm. Perhaps she should insist to Andre that they needed to stay here, or at least take Lucas with them.

‘This isn’t Paris,’ Margarita said easily. ‘He’ll come to no harm around here; everyone looks out for one another. It’s nice for him to have a friend, and not have to spend all his time with his grandmother.’

‘Hmm,’ Camille said, pursing her lips. Lucas and Paulo were little more than specks in the distance, and she couldn’t hide her concern. She’d bet her last sou that that boy was trouble.

Lucas hadn’t returned before they left, and – as they said goodbye to Margarita – Camille couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling she’d got from his friend.

In the taxi, heading for the airport, the relaxed atmosphere of the morning was slowly drifting away, to be replaced by an unmistakeable sense of tension.

Camille was powerless to stop her thoughts turning to work, and it seemed as though Andre was feeling the same as he turned to her and said, ‘I don’t want to waste this summer.

We have so many opportunities, and we’re on the cusp of something big, I can feel it. I want to push us to the next level.’

Camille bristled. ‘You don’t have to tell me. It’s my business too. I want us to be as successful as you do.’

‘We should be doing better than we are by now. Look at Diane von Furstenberg or Vivienne Westwood. Their labels have exploded over the past few years.’

‘I know.’

‘Which makes me want to figure out what the problem is with Camille Andre …’ Andre trailed off and stared pointedly at his wife.

‘ Me? ’ Camille asked incredulously.

‘Not you. Your designs. I know they’re elegant and tasteful, blah blah blah, but they’re plain.

Unadventurous. Look at Diane – she designed one incredible dress that every woman fell in love with and now she’s a multi-millionaire.

Vivienne’s doing punk – it’s fresh, it’s innovative, it’s sexy .

No man wants to be with a woman in a Camille Andre dress. ’

Camille was too stunned to reply, her mouth falling open.

When she recovered, she said, ‘I’m not doing punk ,’ she pronounced the word disdainfully, ‘because we agreed our aesthetic right at the beginning – French, chic, classic. Neutral colours, clean lines. And if I were to think about the problem with Camille Andre, I’d say it’s not the designs – it’s that they’re not reaching the buyers.

And that’s your job, darling,’ Camille said sweetly, a dangerous edge to her voice.

‘You’re supposed to be overseeing the marketing, making contacts, schmoozing the journalists.

You’re out every night spending a small fortune on networking .

Most of our profit goes on dinners and drinks that you deem necessary, and for what? Something’s not adding up, Andre.’

‘None of that’s going to work if the designs aren’t good enough! How can I do my job with one hand tied behind my back?’

Camille was stung, but she wasn’t backing down from this fight. ‘Did you ever consider that you’re the problem?’

‘ Me? ’ Andre laughed dismissively.

‘Yes, you. You have this bullish attitude which alienates people. You’re so convinced that you’re right about everything, but you’re patronizing and arrogant.

And the truth is that you’re not talented enough to design, and you don’t have the business acumen of …

’ Camille trailed off. A pulse twitched in Andre’s jaw, and she knew that he was furious.

‘Of Nicolas? Is that what you were going to say?’ Andre turned to her, eyes blazing.

Camille stood her ground. ‘Yes, actually. We should never have let him go. Look at all the incredible things he’s achieved at American Athletics.

They have a presence in every country in Europe, with flagship stores in all the major cities.

They’re one of the biggest names in the world, they’ve just signed Farrah Fawcett as the face of their new campaign, and they had the highest opening share price of any fashion retailer when they floated on the stock exchange last year. ’

Andre gave a slow, sarcastic handclap. ‘Bravo, Nicolas. He did all this single-handedly, did he?’

‘You know damn well what I mean. He’s been instrumental in their success, whilst all you ever do is criticize other people to hide the fact you’re not good enough.’

The tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife. Outside the windows, the motorway flashed past at speed, and the driver kept his eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead. Camille doubted he spoke much French, but it didn’t take a linguist to work out that they’d just had an epic fight.

Camille was livid, but relieved to have got some home truths off her chest. Everything she’d said was true.

In just a few short years, American Athletics had become one of the most recognizable brands in the world, specializing in high-end leisurewear.

Nicolas had pioneered the use of ethical labour, and favoured short supply chains that were better for the environment.

His views were revolutionary. Whilst he’d been painted as a crank by his detractors, the tide of opinion was now moving in his direction, and American Athletics were leading the way.

Nicolas had been rewarded with all the trappings of success.

He had a stunning penthouse flat in New York, a chauffeured limousine at his disposal and access to a private jet – everything that his rivals aspired to.

Yet although Nicolas enjoyed the perks that came with his position, he remained resolutely unimpressed by them all.

His response was always to put his head down and work harder, always looking for the next deal, the next innovation.

And he had never remarried after the disastrous, short-lived union with Lisa, despite regularly appearing on Page Six of the New York Post with an ever-rotating carousel of models on his arm.

Camille found herself wondering – more often than she would have liked – about what her life would have been like if she’d stayed with Nicolas.

She could be wealthy and successful, instead of exhausting herself by trying to build up a business and constantly fighting with Andre.

And she would feel loved and secure, instead of belittled and neglected.

‘Well,’ said Andre, as though he could read her thoughts, ‘perhaps you should have turned me down all those years ago. Stuck with Mr Dull.’

Camille didn’t reply. He was being sarcastic, but perhaps Andre was right. Maybe she had made the wrong choice.