Page 35 of Meet Me at Sunset

For the next couple of days after she had received the letter, Camille had tried to bury herself in her work, but it had felt like there was a black cloud hanging over her.

Every time there was knock at her hotel room door, or someone was walking behind her in the corridor; every time she caught someone’s eyes at dinner, or passed someone in the lobby, she wondered, is it you ?

Camille felt like she was cracking into a million tiny pieces.

Then Nicolas came to her with news late at night.

‘I think I know who is sending the letters,’ he told her, over a drink in her suite. ‘Amongst other leads, I’ve been able to gain access to the guest list.’

‘How?’

‘By telling them a partial truth – that you’d had a threat, and we needed to look at the list for security purposes. I’ve had my team run a few checks on the guests, and we’ve turned up a person from your past.’

‘Please, Nicolas,’ Camille begged. ‘Just tell me.’

Nicolas paused, his face serious as he looked at her, a furrow forming between his eyebrows. ‘We believe her name is Isobel MacFarlane – or at least it is now. She was Isobel Murdoch when she interned for Camille Andre about a decade ago.’

It took Camille a moment to place the name, but then her jaw dropped. ‘Isobel? But I …’

‘She’s staying here, at the hotel, this week. She befriended you, yes? She was at the yacht party, and her name is on the VIP list for the show.’

‘How do you know all of this?’ Camille stared at him with shock and wonder and open admiration.

‘I have my sources, mainly a big company legal department who are good at digging.’

Camille was in a state of shock. It felt incredibly sinister that this woman knew who she was and had targeted her deliberately when Camille had been nothing but welcoming this week.

She’d even invited Isobel to dine with them at Il Paradiso, not to mention extending invitations to the yacht party and the fashion show.

What was Isobel’s reason for sending those threats?

Had she taken a dislike to her for some reason, all those years ago?

But why pursue this vendetta a decade later?

Perhaps it related to Andre in some way – oh God, she hoped her late husband hadn’t slept with this young intern, promised her the world, maybe even got her pregnant … Camille’s mind was racing.

‘Do we know anything about her? About her motives? I just don’t understand why …’

Nicolas shook his head. ‘It seems too much of a coincidence that she’s here this week. Right now. The week of our big show.’

‘She’s never mentioned that she used to intern for us. She runs her own boutique now, she said. Oh, I even told her the other day that she has a real eye for fashion.’

‘Perhaps it’s professional jealousy?’ Nicolas wondered, but they both knew the suggestion was too weak to warrant the extreme lengths that Isobel appeared to have gone to.

Camille stood up, her almond eyes blazing. ‘Let’s go and confront her. I don’t care what time it is, I want answers. I’m going to hammer on her door and ask her what the hell she’s doing.’

She moved to go, but Nicolas caught her wrist lightly. A flame flickered through her at his touch, and the two of them locked eyes.

‘We can’t,’ he said softly. ‘This is not the way to handle this. We’re not vigilantes.

We have to be one hundred per cent certain.

Look,’ he continued, as Camille acquiesced and sat back down.

‘The investigators said she was there in late 1992. Can you think of anything significant that happened around then? Can you remember her at all?’

Camille’s forehead creased in concentration.

Her mind was jumping all over the place; this was a lot to take in.

‘It was the year before we went big.’ She tried hard to cast her mind back, thinking of the interns she had in the office, and then her mind alighted on the young Irish or Scottish girl.

‘It’s hard to recall … There was so much going on.

Unless …’ A thought struck her, and her blood ran cold.

‘What is it?’ Nicolas was looking at her intently.

Camille felt sick as the memory came flooding back.

She took a fortifying sip of brandy and noticed her hands were shaking.

‘The “Camille” handbag. Our most famous product, and the one that launched the company into a different league. The design was sketched by an intern, the one Andre thought was very talented. It changed significantly from the original version, but …’

‘Camille …’ Michel winced, letting out a groan.

‘The interns weren’t there to design,’ Camille protested.

‘Their role was to run errands and make coffee and learn about the industry and pick up skills. It was a complete fluke that Andre picked up that sketch that day. Once we’d decided to make a sample and use it in the show, I wanted to speak to her, to give her credit.

But she’d left abruptly – I can’t remember the reasons.

’ Camille screwed up her face, trying to remember, but it was so long ago now and she’d paid little attention at the time.

‘And then events overtook us. If I’m being honest, I’d completely forgotten how the bag started life.

Like I said, I’d made countless changes, chosen the leather, selected the hardware and the lining …

As far as I was concerned – am concerned – it was and is my bag.

She worked for us; any designs done inhouse were our intellectual property. ’

‘But perhaps not as far as Isobel was concerned,’ Nicolas said sagely.

Camille sighed, imagining how Isobel must have felt as a young woman, seeing the bag she’d had a hand in creating take off worldwide.

It had gained international press coverage, universal praise from some of the most influential people in the industry, and it had catapulted Camille Andre to becoming a household name.

‘I should go and speak to her. Explain.’

‘Please, Camille. It’s late, and whether your theory is correct or not, she’s been threatening you. Blackmailing you. A criminal. We have to proceed carefully.’

Camille nodded ruefully. ‘You’re right, as always.

’ They sat quietly, finishing their drinks, unsure what to do next.

Despite the late hour, Camille felt energized by the adrenaline racing through her body.

She knew she should tell Nicolas to leave so that they could both get some sleep before the show tomorrow, but she didn’t want him to go.

Besides, something was niggling at her. She glanced across at Nicolas, who was swirling the last drops of brandy in his glass, deep in thought.

‘There’s just one thing that doesn’t make sense,’ he said slowly. ‘All the notes refer to the crash. She’s not blackmailing you about the origins of the bag. How could she know about Andre’s accident?’

‘It was in the newspapers. It’s public knowledge.’

Nicolas looked uncomfortable. ‘I mean, how could she know that there was … more to it? This latest note refers to the “truth” about the accident and Andre. She couldn’t know …’ He trailed off.

Camille shifted in her seat before standing and walking to the balcony.

She opened the sliding doors and stepped out into the night, breathing in the air, with its fragrant notes of sea salt and jasmine.

Camille put her fingers to her temples, thinking for a moment; she knew she was missing something, a piece of the puzzle.

The silence briefly enveloped her, before a flash of realization: ‘Of course! She’s Stuart MacFarlane’s wife.

He was one of the consultants for Lucas’s facial reconstruction. ’

‘After the accident?’ Nicolas was by her side.

‘Not immediately, but he’ll have had Lucas’s medical records, and all the details of what happened. What if Isobel somehow got hold of them?’

‘Perhaps …’ Nicolas looked unconvinced. Camille could almost see his sharp mind working, examining all the angles, dissecting all the arguments.

‘We have to go and speak to her,’ Camille insisted once again.

‘No, we don’t. Not without proof. You invited her to the show tomorrow, haven’t you? If she has the audacity to attend, then we’ll keep a close eye on her. If we need to, we’ll call the police.’

‘All right,’ Camille agreed. She felt exhausted and had to put on the show of her life tomorrow.

She must get up in four hours’ time, and desperately needed to sleep, but she wasn’t sure if she could.

She had a terrible feeling that she’d simply lie awake all night, tossing and turning until the sun rose.

‘Nicolas,’ she asked in a quiet voice. ‘Will you stay with me? I don’t want to be alone tonight.’

Nicolas hesitated. ‘I’ll take the sofa.’

‘No, I meant … I want you,’ she said simply.

A look Camille couldn’t interpret crossed his face, then he closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘I think the sofa would be best. You need to get some sleep, Camille. I’ll see you in the morning.’

‘Goodnight, Nicolas,’ Camille said softly, and leaned her head into his chest for a moment. He brushed the top of her head with his lips, before she straightened and turned to cross the suite to the bedroom.

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A few miles away, across the island, Lucas was also still awake.

He was in his apartment in the town, part of an exclusive complex with its own pool and gym facilities, a concierge and a maid service.

It was within striking distance of Il Paradiso, and right now the restaurant dominated his thoughts.