Page 32 of Meet Me at Sunset

The new Camille Andre headquarters on Avenue Marceau were enormous.

Situated on the third floor, the offices ran the length of three buildings, and were decorated in neutral, muted tones to ensure the backdrop didn’t influence the design work.

The ever-growing team worked busily, sketching and sewing, earnestly debating new ideas and trends, and there was a constant buzz in the air.

Working for Camille Andre felt exciting, inspiring and creative.

Over the last decade, the brand had continued to grow steadily but surely, finding a loyal customer base amongst an elegant, upmarket clientele who wanted to ensure they looked stylish and polished, with a classic French twist. Camille Andre remained somewhat niche, a label for those in the know rather than a household name.

That suited Andre, who didn’t see the appeal of mass market; in his opinion, having every other person on the high street wearing a design cheapened its value.

But Camille – spurred on by Nicolas’s advice – recognized the opportunities it could bring.

Whilst only the wealthiest fashionistas could splurge on Chanel couture, almost everyone could afford a lipstick, or perfume, or pair of sunglasses, and in recent years these had provided the big fashion houses with a valuable additional revenue stream.

Andre and Camille continued to hotly debate the future of their business, but there was no doubt that they were well established on the French fashion landscape and were making strong progress across Europe and the US.

‘Could you run out and get me a coffee?’ Andre said, as he passed by the desk of the newest intern.

He glanced at her briefly but found he couldn’t remember her name.

She was pretty – they inevitably were if they wanted to work in fashion, and were always well-groomed and sophisticated if they’d applied to Camille Andre.

This girl had thick, dark blonde hair, and her frame was larger than the stick-thin French fashionista silhouette, but Andre didn’t mind a little meat on a woman’s bones.

His eyes ran unashamedly over her curves.

‘Of course,’ she stammered, her French laced with an accent Andre couldn’t identify, Irish or Scottish. ‘You prefer a café serré , yes?’ she continued, naming the extra-strong shot of coffee.

Andre nodded, pleased that she’d remembered. Then his gaze fell on the sketch she’d been drawing. ‘What’s this?’

The young woman flushed. ‘Oh, nothing. Just something I was working on.’ Embarrassed, she attempted to hide it, but Andre persisted. ‘Let me see.’

Reluctantly, she handed it over and he examined it with a practised eye. ‘It’s good. Very good.’

‘Thank you.’

‘But it’s a handbag. We don’t make bags.’

‘Perhaps you should,’ she replied, before catching herself and blushing even harder. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—’

‘That’s OK.’ Andre smiled charmingly.

‘It’s just a sketch – nothing really, which is why I didn’t want you to see it.

I know you don’t make bags, but I was thinking about what would go perfectly with the Brigitte dress over there,’ she ran on, indicating the part-finished garment hanging from a mannequin.

It was made from a black tweed fabric, reminiscent of Chanel, but was far sexier and edgier, with a strapless bustier top and flared skirt with layers of tulle underneath.

‘It was so inspiring, and I just found myself drawing,’ she finished.

‘I love it,’ Andre beamed. ‘Mind if I borrow it?’

He held it out admiringly and the intern looked thrilled. ‘No, of course not. I’m so happy you like it. Now, let me go and get that coffee for you.’

Camille had her own office in the new atelier.

It was light and airy, the perfect mix of the modern and the traditional, with its stark glass walls and angular furniture contrasting with the building’s period features.

It echoed what Camille was trying to do with her design work – to seamlessly blend the classic with the innovative.

Right now, Camille was taking advantage of a brief window between meetings to immerse herself in design.

She’d discovered that the more successful she became, the less time she had for doing what she really loved.

She longed to spend all day sketching and designing, tinkering with ideas as though she had all the time in the world.

Now, her days were taken up with phone calls, meetings and interviews, not to mention being asked to sign off on endless decisions about marketing and suppliers and finance and recruitment.

What she wanted more than anything was to spend time on the new collection.

Camille had rediscovered the fire she’d felt in the early days of her career, inspiration flowing through her, and now she was pushing herself – and the brand – out of her comfort zone.

Camille saw now that she’d been too reliant on the classic French style, heavily influenced by Chanel, Dior, Yves Saint Laurent and Givenchy.

Now she was determined to push the boundaries, and her new ideas were sexy, like the Italians, and cool, like the British.

Camille herself was now in her early forties, but she had a renewed sense of confidence in herself, an attractiveness that went beyond youth.

She’d reached the age where women were supposed to disappear, but Camille had no intention of being invisible.

Her new attitude was even reflected in the way she was dressing. Today she wore an oversized shirt teamed with a figure-hugging pencil skirt of her own creation and a pair of Ferragamo heels – bold and sexy, just like her new designs.

The door to Camille’s office swung open and she looked up, although she knew exactly who it was – no one else would enter without knocking. Excitement was written across Andre’s face, his expression triumphant.

‘What do you think of this?’ he asked, spinning round the piece of paper he was holding and slamming it down on her desk.

‘It’s a handbag,’ Camille stated, wondering what he meant.

Andre nodded, as though she was an idiot. ‘There’s no getting past you, darling. But what do you think of it?’

Camille looked at it, examining the shape and the detailing, imagining the construction and the stitching.

Her heart began to beat a little faster.

‘It’s wonderful. Although perhaps if we add a zip here, and a concealed pocket there …

And it would look better in plum or anthracite, rather than black …

’ Instinctively, Camille picked up a pencil and began sketching.

‘It was inspired by the Brigitte dress,’ Andre explained.

Camille frowned. ‘Where did you get this?’

‘One of the interns.’ Andre waved his hand dismissively. ‘But it’s good. Better than good, in fact. I think we should make it – a mock-up, at least. Our very first handbag. We could call it the “Camille”,’ he grinned.

‘I like that idea,’ Camille smiled, hiding her amusement.

Over the past few months, she’d been having an ongoing conversation with Nicolas about the direction of Camille Andre.

He’d insisted that the future was in accessories, explaining how American Athletics were making a fortune from gym bags, baseball caps, scarves and so on.

Camille had raised the subject with Andre, but he’d remained stubbornly disinterested, insisting it would dilute their brand.

Now he was the one suggesting it. Sometimes, all Andre needed was to believe that he’d come up with the idea himself, Camille thought with a grin.

‘But it’s a big change, and a whole new style of working.

I know clothes – I don’t know handbags.’

Andre shrugged, seemingly unfazed. ‘I’ll ask Louis to take a look at the pattern and pull together the technical sketches. We can use our manufacturers in Cadiz.’

Camille nodded. They often used leather buttons or trim on their garments, and worked with artisans in Spain.

‘I’ll explain to José that we need something special for this. No need to go into production just yet. We’ll run up a couple of samples and send them down the runway for the autumn/winter ’93 show, see how they’re received.

‘Sounds perfect,’ Camille breathed. She was genuinely excited by this new challenge, fired up by the prospect of adding a new string to the Camille Andre bow.

She turned back to the sketch lying on her desk, quietly absorbed in making subtle changes, visualizing how the soft leather would fold, imagining the solid gold hardware.

She didn’t notice as Andre slipped from the room, yelling at some poor intern that his coffee had gone cold.