Page 33 of Meet Me at Sunset

This season, the Camille Andre show was taking place in the renowned Petit Palais, a beautiful Beaux-Arts building just off the famous Champs-élysées.

In the domed exhibition space, with its marble walls and mosaic floors, the great and good of the fashion world waited expectantly.

There were journalists and celebrities, alongside the industry’s movers and shakers; Anna Wintour was seated beside Carine Roitfeld, whilst Charlotte Gainsbourg looked immaculate in a vintage Camille Andre cream shift dress decorated with pearls.

Kristin Scott Thomas looked as elegant as ever, seated beside Naomi Campbell, who had all eyes on her in a black tuxedo jacket with nothing underneath, paired with leather trousers.

Behind the scenes, Camille barely had time to breathe.

In between answering questions from the reporters who’d been invited backstage, she ensured that each model looked perfect before they hit the runway, whispering words of encouragement to every girl.

Some of them looked so young, full of youthful enthusiasm, and Camille couldn’t help but think back on how far she’d come over the years.

But right now she didn’t have time for reflection.

The last six months of her life had been leading up to this crazily busy, stressful time.

The fashion world was like a treadmill, with shows twice a year, and the need to design and produce an entirely new collection for each one.

Not to mention the cruise shows in between, and new accessories drops every quarter.

For Camille, there was more riding on this show than ever before.

She’d gone out on a limb, taking a radical new direction, and she wasn’t sure how it would be received.

Andre had been pressing for change, and Camille had delivered – it seemed to blend the new grunge style that had been showcased in New York, with the overt sexiness of Versace and Gucci at Milan Fashion Week, in addition to the quirkiness from the Brits.

Camille had focused on metallics and leather, with figure-hugging silhouettes and low-cut necklines to display decolletage.

She was dimly aware of the music and lights in the main auditorium, of the cheers and applause, then suddenly it was all over.

Fashion shows were surprisingly short – six months of hard work for just ten minutes of showtime – then the models and journalists would pack up and race across town to the next presentation.

But before that happened, it was time for Camille to take her bows, knowing that she’d earned the adulation.

Andre appeared at her side. ‘Time to go,’ he said, taking her hand, looking incredibly handsome in a black polo shirt and relaxed-fit trousers.

Camille was glad to have him beside her as she stepped out onto the runway, feeling uncomfortable in the full glare of the spotlight – she wasn’t a model or a celebrity, and this wasn’t her natural arena.

Andre adored the limelight, enjoying it far more than Camille.

Even though she was the head designer, together they were Camille Andre, and they always presented a united front after each show as they smiled and waved for the cameras, flashbulbs popping like fireworks.

With a final bow they turned and returned backstage, as Camille fought off a sense of anticlimax.

It was over, and all she could do now was wait for the reviews, then start work all over again on the next collection.

It was in the hands of the critics now, and there was nothing more to be done.

A few friends and admirers were still milling about, but most had to dash off to the next shows, the most popular models and make-up artists jumping on the back of motorbikes to speed them through the traffic.

The Camille Andre employees quickly packed up the space – Comme des Garcons would be showing in the Petit Palais later that day – then someone thrust a glass of champagne into Camille’s hand.

She took it, grateful for a moment of calm amidst the chaos.

‘I don’t know why you’re celebrating,’ Andre’s voice hissed beside her. ‘That was a goddamn disaster.’

Camille turned in alarm. ‘What?’

Fury was written across Andre’s face. ‘Anna Wintour left before the end – didn’t you notice?’

Camille’s blood ran cold. ‘No, I didn’t see. Maybe she—’

‘Do you know what Carine Roitfeld just said to me? “It wasn’t one of your best.” That’s what they were all saying out there, Camille. Confused. Chaotic. Shambolic. You took a gamble and it backfired.’

Each word was like a dagger in Camille’s heart. ‘Let’s wait for the reviews,’ she managed, with a calmness she didn’t feel. She’d been so proud of this new direction, so certain that she was doing the right thing.

‘Let’s not,’ Andre shot back. ‘I won’t put myself through the humiliation of reading them, and I suggest you do the same. Unless you can pull off the biggest coup of your life, we’re finished.’

Then he stalked off, leaving Camille alone and in shock, her face flaming. She couldn’t believe he’d been so cruel. Regardless of success or failure, they were supposed to be a team.

The champagne glass in her hand felt totally inappropriate now, and she set it down on the side then looked around for her assistant – she would call a taxi and get out of here as soon as possible.

‘I love that bag,’ a voice beside her said in English. ‘Mind if I have it?’

Camille looked up to see Naomi Campbell standing beside her and almost gasped.

She looked incredible, her skin glowing, her cheekbones razor-sharp, as she towered over Camille in skyscraper heels.

It took Camille a moment to process what she’d said, and she looked across to see the ‘Camille’ bag still sitting on the accessories table as an assistant hastily packed everything away.

‘Sure. Of course,’ Camille replied in surprise. She didn’t care if she never saw the damn thing again. Right now, she hated everything about this collection. ‘Please, take it,’ she smiled, picking up the bag and handing it to the supermodel. ‘And thank you so much for coming to the show.’

Naomi didn’t reply, simply taking the bag from Camille and swinging her long, glossy hair over one shoulder before sashaying out of the door.

Camille stared after her, trying to take in what had just happened. The space was almost empty now, and there was no sign that the show had ever taken place – all traces were gone, vanished. She just hoped the same wouldn’t happen to her career.

‘ Mon Dieu ,’ Camille gasped, leafing through the Saturday papers the weekend after the show.

She’d risen late, after attending a number of Fashion Week parties the night before, flitting around the city from one to the next.

Andre had insisted they keep up appearances, and Camille had been surprised how much she’d enjoyed herself, catching up with old friends and hearing the latest industry gossip.

‘What is it?’ Andre asked. He was seated opposite her at the breakfast table, the radio playing softly in the background. Lucas was already up and had headed out with his friends.

Excitement and disbelief were written across Camille’s face.

Pale spring light spilled in from the long windows, bathing her in a warm glow, as she slowly turned the copy of Madame Figaro round to face Andre.

An enormous picture showed Naomi Campbell stepping onto a yacht in the Caribbean.

She looked stunning, her long legs spilling out of a white mini dress, her glossy hair flowing almost down to her waist. In her right hand, displayed prominently, she carried the ‘Camille’ bag.

It was the epitome of chic, complementing her outfit perfectly.

Andre inhaled sharply, looking up and locking eyes with Camille, who let out a cry of jubilation.

They’d had celebrities, socialites and even minor royals wearing their clothes before, but this felt different.

It was a breakthrough to the mainstream; an A-list, international supermodel – and one of the most famous women in the world – endorsing their brand.

And it was for a handbag, something completely new to them.

This could create an explosion of interest in the company outside their native France – if it was handled correctly. Andre stood up abruptly.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To make some calls.’

He strode over to the telephone, punching in a number.

‘Get me Marie,’ he said, naming the head of their PR company.

‘I don’t care if it’s the weekend, God knows I pay her enough to be available when I need her.

’ There was a short pause, then she obviously came on the line.

‘Have you seen the newspapers? Good. I want a press release out within the next hour – “Naomi Campbell, pictured in Jamaica, carries the Camille Andre ‘Camille’ bag. Made from the finest lambskin and crafted by artisans in Spain, the ‘Camille’ is the first handbag from the chic French label. Adding a timeless elegance to your wardrobe, the bag is a powerful statement piece that blends artistry with innovation, and will be the most sought-after piece in your autumn/winter wardrobe …” Etc., etc. Add the rest as you see fit. Call the picture agency and have them send over the best shot. I need it done asap, OK?’

Camille watched him as he worked, hanging up and dialling another number.

Emotions raced through her – excitement, vindication, relief.

The French critics had not been kind to her last show.

They’d called it confused, a mess, and in one particularly vicious case ‘a garish jumble of clashing ideas that shows the once-elegant label is having a midlife identity crisis’.

The words had stung, undoubtedly, but Camille had stuck to her guns.

The coverage in the US and UK had been kinder; they’d appreciated the new direction, the fresh and innovative style.

And now it seemed that Naomi Campbell agreed …

‘We’ll start with five thousand,’ Andre was saying. ‘Well, I don’t care if you can’t fulfil it – do it, or I’ll terminate your contract and find someone else who can. Don’t skimp on quality either. There’ll be a bonus if you deliver on time. Employ extra staff if you need to, but just get it done!’

Andre hung up the phone, looking exhilarated. ‘I’ve placed an order for five thousand bags with the Spanish factory. They’re going to struggle to fulfil it, so I’ll look at other options – there’s that place in Italy we’ve used. I can fly down tomorrow with the patterns and brief them.’

‘Five thousand,’ Camille breathed. ‘Andre, that’s—’

‘It’s happening,’ he told her firmly, fixing her with his penetrating gaze. ‘The moment we’ve been waiting for is finally here, and we need to seize it.’

Camille looked at him in wonder and excitement. She could feel it too – the anticipation and optimism, as though they were on the edge of a precipice, ready to fly. Andre had always dreamed big, unafraid and unashamed, and now, finally, it seemed that their faith in themselves had been justified.