Page 37 of Meet Me at Sunset

When Camille’s alarm went off at six a.m., she was instantly awake. She was surprised to find that she’d managed to doze, but the events of the previous night came rushing back. She still felt just as confused and disturbed by everything as she had a few hours ago.

She pulled on her robe and quickly checked her appearance in the mirror. She looked exhausted, with dark bags under her eyes, and felt grateful she had a team of skilled make-up artists on hand for the show. She would ask them to work their magic on her.

Camille went through to the living room where Nicolas was getting up from the sofa, his face as crumpled as his clothes. It lifted her heart to see him there; just his presence reassured her.

‘How are you doing?’ he asked her, his tousled hair and stubble making him look younger, and painfully reminding her of their early lives together.

‘Truthfully, I’m not sure yet. Still trying to take everything in.’

‘Just concentrate on the show – the most important thing is launching the new collection and the show being everything it should be. Clear your mind, focus, and I’ll take care of everything else.’

‘Thank you, Nicolas.’ Camille wanted to throw her arms around him, but neither of them moved.

‘I’d better go back to my room, take a shower. I’ll be back in around an hour, OK? And Camille?’

‘Yes?’ She looked up hopefully.

‘Be careful. There’s someone out there making threats against you, and we don’t know what they’re capable of.’

A chill ran through her as she realized Nicolas was right. ‘I will. But Nicolas … Hurry back.’

After Nicolas had left, Camille took a shower, then dressed in a pair of wide-legged beige slacks and a loose-fit white silk shirt.

She would change before the show, but this morning she needed to be comfortable and casual – by her standards at least. She called room service to order a light breakfast of tea and fruit.

She wasn’t sure whether she’d be able to eat anything – her stomach was churning, and she didn’t know whether it was the usual pre-show nerves, or if Nicolas’s dark warning had affected her more than she’d realized.

Camille had just finished blow-drying her hair when a room service attendant arrived with her order, knocking on the door and entering with a tray.

It was a different staff member to the one who’d brought the note last night, and she was glad.

He left the tray on the coffee table as directed, then wished her a good morning and left.

As Camille poured a cup of green tea, she noticed a small, white piece of paper folded on the tray beside the fruit plate.

A bolt of fear shot through her, her gut clenching as she picked it up and opened it, noticing that her hands were shaking.

One million dollars before the show starts, or I tell the world the truth about Andre’s death.

Beneath were the bank account numbers again. Camille let out a cry of fear, before clamping her hand over her mouth. She couldn’t lose control, not now. She had an incredibly important day ahead of her, and thanks to Nicolas they were so close to exposing the blackmailer.

She pictured Isobel rising early and creeping around the hotel, hanging around in the corridor by Camille’s room, slipping the waiter fifty euros to deliver the note along with the breakfast tray …

Camille’s face hardened. She wouldn’t let her get away with it. Isobel MacFarlane wasn’t going to destroy everything Camille had built and worked for, for almost three decades.

She strode over to the phone and dialled the extension for Nicolas’s room.

‘No more playing nice,’ she told him, her eyes narrowing, her pulse racing. ‘I’m not taking the risk. Let’s call the police. Now.’

It was early afternoon when Isobel returned to her room to get ready for the Camille Andre show.

She’d had a relaxing morning, going for a leisurely swim followed by lunch on the terrace, but it was impossible not to be caught up in the buzz that was sweeping through the hotel.

Many of the celebrities who’d been at the yacht party were staying at the palacio, and Isobel felt a surge of excitement whenever she spotted a famous face – Vanessa Paradis in the lobby, or Thandie Newton by the pool.

There were plenty of comings and goings, with cars arriving and couriers leaving, and the area by the Sunset Room was a hub of activity.

Isobel felt excited to be part of it, thrilled that she would be attending the Camille Andre show as though she were a VIP too.

It felt like justice. If life had worked out the way it should have, she would have been there anyway, Isobel thought bitterly, a tingle of anticipation running through her at the thought of what was to come.

She dressed with care, knowing that today was important, and wanting to look her best. She’d selected a navy-and-white wide-legged jumpsuit from her own collection, accessorized with her tan Camille bag.

There would be press and cameras, and Isobel wanted to ensure that she blended in with the glamorous guests; she didn’t want to stand out and draw attention to herself.

Now, she was sitting in front of the vanity mirror, Gwen Stefani playing on MTV in the background, and a glass of sparkling Asti in her hand as she finished getting ready.

She took a sip of wine as she reflected on the evening she’d spent with Paulo.

Now that had been interesting, and a slow, secret smile played across her lips as she regarded herself in the mirror …

They’d both been a little drunk, and not a little indiscreet.

Paulo had turned out to be a lot more useful than she’d originally given him credit for.

Being a long-time friend of the Fontaines meant he was privy to all kinds of secrets.

Ones which Isobel was sure the family wouldn’t want to be revealed.

Isobel had used every drop of her charm on Paulo, coaxing him to share what he knew.

She could see that he was desperate to reveal all, to brag about his closeness with the family.

They’d traded stories of how Camille and Andre’s marriage wasn’t as perfect as they’d led the public to assume.

Isobel wasn’t shocked by that – when she’d interned for them all those years ago, it was obvious that Andre was a philanderer.

The atelier had been rife with rumours of his cheating, and Isobel had been warned that he had an eye for pretty young interns.

By all accounts, women fell at his feet and he could take his pick, whilst Camille slaved away in the office, working to make the business a success.

No, Andre’s infidelity was hardly a surprise.

What Paulo had found surprising was the rumour that Camille hadn’t been faithful, and it was even possible that …

Oh, it was too delicious! Yes, it seemed that – over the years – Camille had accumulated a significant amount of dirty laundry, and now it was time for it to be aired in public.

Isobel jumped in fright as she heard the door click and realized someone was in the room with her. She leapt to her feet, letting out a cry as she spun around.

‘Stuart!’ she burst out, as she saw her husband standing there. ‘What are you—?’

‘Isobel, I’m back,’ he said, dropping his suitcase by the door, they stared at each other for a moment. Isobel was confused by his sudden appearance, and surprised to find she wasn’t overjoyed to see him – she was getting used to being on her own and had been quite enjoying herself.

He came towards her and kissed her on her cheek, and Isobel felt a flash of anger. He had swanned off with barely an explanation, and now here he was, as cool as anything.

Stuart stood back, his hands on her waist, taking her in. His eyes ran over her. ‘Christ, you look amazing.’

‘Thank you. I’m attending the fashion show this afternoon. Camille Andre – the handbags,’ she added. ‘We dined with Camille the other night – Lucas’s mother.’

‘Oh yes, of course,’ Stuart nodded, and Isobel thought he looked stressed for once.

‘But why are you here? I thought you were in Spain for a few more days?’

‘I … I needed to get back here … to see you.’ Stuart reached out to embrace her.

‘Careful,’ Isobel wriggled in his grasp. ‘I’ve spent ages doing my hair.’

‘It’s so good to see you again,’ he sighed.

‘So … no more work, this holiday?’

Stuart shook his head. ‘No. No more work.’

Isobel felt a wave of relief wash over her as she allowed herself to sink into Stuart’s arms. Perhaps she was glad to have him back.

No more dining alone, no more filling up the time aimlessly.

Sure, she had his credit card, but it wasn’t the same as having him to treat her.

She felt a wave of guilt over the evening with Paulo, memories of the time they’d spent together troubling her conscience …

She would get this show out of the way, then she and Stuart could go back to enjoying their holiday.

‘What time do you have to leave?’ Stuart asked.

‘In about half an hour.’

‘I’ll jump in the shower quickly, then we can talk.’

‘Sure, darling,’ Isobel beamed.

Stuart strode off towards the bathroom. Moments later, she heard the water running.

Isobel had almost finished her make-up and was adding the finishing touches when she noticed Stuart’s suitcase lying where he’d left it.

She tutted inwardly, setting down her bronzer and wheeling the case out of the way.

Then she paused for a moment – Stuart had come back; she’d do something nice for him and unpack, one less job for him to do.

She lifted the case onto the bed, unclipped it and began sorting through, making a pile to send to the hotel laundry.

His clothes were all casual, which seemed strange, but then he hadn’t brought work clothes on holiday, Isobel reasoned.

She picked up his washbag and shaver, and was about to take them through to him in the bathroom, when something caught her eye.

Isobel frowned and hesitated, wondering if her eyes were playing tricks on her.

There was something bright red peeking through the clothes, something caught up in a pair of his boxer shorts.

She knew Stuart didn’t own anything in that colour.

With her thumb and forefinger, she took hold of the corner and pulled.

A lurid red lace thong that she’d never seen before in her life emerged from the depths of Stuart’s case as fury surged through Isobel.

She stormed into the bathroom, which was cloudy with steam, and wrenched open the door to the shower.

‘What the hell is this?’

Stuart jumped in alarm as he turned round. He took in the red thong, which she held out to him, holding it at arm’s length as though it might explode into flames.

One look at Stuart’s face told her everything she needed to know – panic, guilt and terror flitted across it, plainly signalling his transgression.

For a moment, Isobel thought he looked so ridiculous standing there, naked, half covered in soap bubbles, that she almost wanted to laugh hysterically. But then anger, sadness, betrayal welled up inside her, and it was all she could do not to scream.

Stuart stepped towards her, and she jumped backwards.

‘Don’t you dare touch me,’ she hissed. ‘Who was she? One of your wealthy divorcee sluts, who are happy to be underneath you as well as under your knife?’

Stuart swallowed. ‘We need to talk. And you’re not going to like what I have to say.’

‘You bastard,’ she shot back, turning to march out of the room.

Stuart turned off the shower, grabbing a towel and hastily wrapping it round his waist, before following her through to the bedroom.

Isobel threw the underwear in his face. ‘You’re pathetic, disgusting—’

‘Isobel, sit down,’ Stuart said firmly.

‘Don’t you dare tell me what to—’

‘I’ve been having an affair.’

Isobel’s mouth dropped open. She knew things between her and Stuart hadn’t been perfect, but she’d never imagined he’d cheat on her like this.

A one-night stand she could perhaps have forgiven, but an affair …

To her horror, she felt tears welling up.

Then the pieces slid into place. ‘There was no client on the mainland … You were with her.’

Stuart nodded slowly. He sank down onto the chair in front of the vanity table, where moments ago Isobel had been polishing her look.

‘Her name is Valeria Perez – the actress. It’s been going on for months now …’

Isobel couldn’t take it in. Valeria Perez was known as the Goddess from Girona, the bombshell model-turned-actress who had been linked with everyone from Tom Cruise to Antonio Banderas.

What the hell was she doing with Stuart, with his slight paunch and receding hairline?

She felt dizzy, as though the bottom had fallen out of her world; adrenaline was coursing through her system.

‘Is it serious?’ she whispered.

Stuart shrugged. ‘There’s something I need to tell you. The … um … the newspapers have found out about it. They’re going to publish this weekend. I’ve been speaking to my lawyers, trying to get an injunction, but they say there’s nothing they can do in Europe.’

Isobel put her fingertips to her forehead, her eyes wide with disbelief.

So she was going to be humiliated, on top of everything else?

Her private life splashed across the tabloids for all to see.

Everyone would know that her husband had betrayed her, that she was a fool.

‘How the hell did you meet her? Was she one of your clients? Did you throw in a free facelift with every lay? I hope you’re struck off for that,’ she raged.

‘That’s how we met, but I never operated on her. She came to me, asking for work done. She wanted a facelift. I said no, she was too young – only twenty-eight. It was unethical and I wouldn’t do it.’

‘Oh , now you have morals! You wouldn’t operate on her, but you’d happily screw her behind your wife’s back.’

Stuart had the good grace to look ashamed. ‘I never meant to hurt you. It just … happened. She asked me out for a drink after the consultation. I was flattered, I suppose. I never expected …’

‘Never expected what?’ Isobel held his gaze, her eyes like chips of ice.

‘To fall in love with her.’

Isobel gasped. All her dreams lay shattered in front of her – her future, a baby, growing old together. She’d put her needs second, all these years, for Stuart, and this was how he’d repaid her. She couldn’t think straight. All she knew was she wanted to get out of there. She grabbed her bag.

‘I’m going now. Going to the show. I’ll be back in an hour. When I return, I want you gone. Pack up your things, and get out. I never want to see you again.’