Page 4 of Meet Me at Sunset

‘Oh, Roberto, how many years have we known one another? It’s Camille, please. And yes, it’s been too long since my last visit. I’m delighted to be back.’

Camille glanced around from behind her oversized tortoiseshell sunglasses, taking in the ivy-covered facade, the shuttered windows and Juliet balconies of the guest rooms, and the wide, worn stone steps leading up to the entrance.

The hotel was stunning, but the island was full of ghosts, and she briefly wondered whether it had been a mistake to hold the show here.

Camille’s mother-in-law, Margarita, was Mallorcan, though she had moved to Paris when she’d met her French husband, Yves, and a few years later they had had Andre.

When Yves died, Margarita had moved back to her childhood home, which she’d inherited from her parents, living full-time in the sprawling villa.

Camille and Andre had spent long, lazy vacations in Mallorca when Lucas was small; he was practically an islander himself, and often came to stay with his grandmother in the school holidays whilst his parents were busy with work.

Lucas loved it so much that he’d made his home here too, establishing a restaurant in Cala de la Belleza, along with his business partner, Paulo, who he’d known since they were children.

Camille adored her only child, but her visits to the island in recent years had been tinged with sadness.

She couldn’t help but think of Andre, of all the wonderful times they’d spent together in Mallorca, and how much she still missed him.

He’d been her partner, in business and in life, for three decades.

They’d had ups and downs – what couple hadn’t?

– but they’d weathered the storms until the terrible accident that had cruelly taken him away from her …

‘Is everything OK, Camille?’ René asked.

‘Yes, of course,’ she brushed him off.

‘Let me take you to your room,’ Roberto offered. ‘Unless you’d like to view the preparations for your handbag launch?’

‘No, I’ll freshen up first.’ Camille had been travelling for almost twenty-four hours, and longed to cleanse the memories of New York from her skin.

‘Very good.’ Roberto inclined his head. ‘We have your regular suite ready for you. We’ve made a few changes, but I’m sure it’s very much as you remember it.’

‘Thank you, Roberto. Oh, and my son will be joining me for lunch at one. We’d like to take it on the terrace.’

‘Of course. I’ll oversee the preparations myself and ensure everything is perfect. Now, if you would please follow me …’

One hour later, Camille had showered and changed into a vibrantly coloured maxi dress, before applying suncream and a slick of lip gloss.

Her shoulder-length, glossy, chocolate-brown hair, hung straight and loose, and she still wore her gold wedding band – she hadn’t taken it off since Andre’s death.

Now Camille was standing in the Sunset Room, a large, west-facing space with floor-to-ceiling glass windows, which was where the launch of the Camille Andre and American Athletics diffusion line would be held.

She was running through a list of tasks with René – ‘Have all the bags cleared Customs? Tell the florist we must have white roses. Ensure the gift bags are prepped. And we’ve had some last-minute guest requests – yes to Sarah Jessica Parker, no to Paris Hilton’ – when she heard a familiar voice say, ‘ Salut, Maman .’

‘Lucas!’ Camille turned round in delight to see her son strolling into the room.

He was tall and muscular, physically imposing, but she knew that his nature was soft and gentle, and he had a heart of gold.

At twenty-seven years old, he’d grown into a handsome young man, with brown, wavy hair, a broad smile, and the same mesmerizing hazel eyes as his mother.

He was dressed in stone-coloured shorts and a white T-shirt, which emphasized his deep tan, and he wore battered espadrilles on his feet.

‘ ?a va , mon chouchou ?’ Camille asked, as she embraced him, and they kissed on both cheeks.

‘I’m well,’ Lucas smiled, and she believed him. He looked healthy and happy. ‘And you?’

‘Oh, you know. Busy as usual,’ Camille said lightly. ‘Making sure everything goes perfectly for the launch.’

‘I know it will,’ Lucas reassured her. ‘You’re a perfectionist.’

‘That’s very sweet of you, darling.’ Camille turned to her assistant. ‘Thank you, René. That will be all for now. I’ll let you know when I need you.’

‘Of course. Enjoy your lunch. Good to see you again Lucas.’ He nodded.

Camille linked her arm through her son’s and steered him towards the terrace.

‘I reserved a table for us,’ she explained, as they left the Sunset Room and meandered through the expansive gardens, crossing a small, cobbled courtyard with a stone fountain, where dragonflies dipped to drink, and large white butterflies fluttered around the dusty lilac hortensia bushes.

They were shown to a pretty stone table, dressed in white linen, beneath a wooden pergola draped with greenery to create welcome shade.

Both declined the wine list and stuck to sparkling water; Lucas was working later, and Camille wanted to stay sharp in case she was needed for further launch preparations that afternoon.

‘So, Maman , how was the flight?’

‘Fine, though I’m feeling rather tired with all the travelling.’

‘Did you come straight from New York?’

‘Yes, I did …’ There was hesitation in Camille’s voice.

‘With Nicolas? How is he?’

‘Oh, he’s … the same old Nicolas, you know.’

‘I’m looking forward to seeing him at the launch.’

Camille sipped her ice-cold drink, glad that she was wearing sunglasses so Lucas couldn’t read her expression. ‘I’m not sure whether he’s coming. He might have to stay in the States for work.’

Lucas frowned, sensing that something wasn’t right. ‘You two haven’t had an argument, have you? Not about business? Nicolas always goes along with whatever you say,’ he laughed.

Camille smiled ruefully. ‘Perhaps a few creative differences,’ she conceded.

‘But nothing for you to worry about.’ She knew how much Lucas liked Nicolas and looked up to him.

After Andre’s death, Nicolas had become a father figure to Lucas, and the two men respected one another enormously.

To her relief, her son had accepted her relationship with Nicolas, mature enough to see the happiness and stability it brought her.

But today, she didn’t want to talk about him … couldn’t talk about him.

‘Let’s change the subject – I want to have a relaxing day today. I plan to spend the afternoon round the pool doing nothing more taxing than reading a Jackie Collins novel. This coming week will be so hectic. Did I tell you I’m meeting Catherine tomorrow to talk about designing a gown for her?’

‘Catherine—?’

‘Zeta-Jones,’ Camille clarified, as Lucas raised his eyebrows, clearly impressed.

‘Her people got in touch with my people – she likes what I do,’ Camille elaborated, with a small shrug, but a look of excitement in her eyes.

‘I’ve wanted to dress her for years – though, of course, she’s so beautiful she could make a garbage bag look incredible.

You know that she and Michael have a villa along the coast? The S’Estaca estate?’

‘Yes, they’re regulars at Il Paradiso whenever they’re on the island,’ Lucas nodded, naming his restaurant.

‘Well, that’s perfect,’ Camille smiled. ‘How is everything going with the business? And are you still dating Elle? I want to know all your news …’

A waitress arrived to take their food order, and mother and son settled down for a leisurely lunch and a long overdue catch-up.

‘Oh, Stuart, this is exactly what I needed,’ Isobel sighed, as the two of them left their hotel room and headed for the main pool.

She’d changed into a pale gold bikini with a coordinating silk kaftan thrown over the top and a Hermès scarf tied around her head to keep off the sun.

With her vintage cat-eye sunglasses, Isobel hoped she was channelling a Grace Kelly vibe.

‘I’m glad you’re happy,’ Stuart smiled, as they headed for two empty loungers and sank down on the thick blue-and-white cushions.

Isobel removed her kaftan and settled back for a spot of people-watching.

The Spanish heat on her bare skin felt delicious, the familiar scent of sun lotion and coconut oil in the air.

The sky above was a perfect shade of blue and completely cloudless, only the occasional aeroplane flying high overhead.

Around the large, rectangular swimming pool, everyone looked so glamorous, the women slender and toned, the men muscled and bronzed, some in European-style tiny trunks that left little to the imagination.

Isobel watched admiringly as one guy pulled himself out of the pool with ease, his muscles flexing, water racing down his broad torso, discreet designer logos peppering his swimwear and sunglasses.

Beside Isobel, Stuart leaned across, his fingertips tracing a line up and down her arm as he softly stroked her skin.

‘Mmm, this is the life, isn’t it? We should do this more often.

I tell you what, why don’t we relax here for a while, have a couple of cocktails, then head back to our room for a siesta? ’ He narrowed his eyes wolfishly.

But Isobel was no longer listening. Her attention had been taken by a woman standing on the other side of the pool. She was wearing a glamorous red swimming costume teamed with an enormous sunhat, its wide brim covering most of her face.

Who needs a parasol? Isobel thought with a smile.

The woman looked wealthy, in that indefinable way – though that was hardly unusual at the Palacio del Sol Radiante.

She was older than Isobel, perhaps in her early fifties, but she was in great shape, with long, lean muscles that came from a dedicated regime of yoga and Pilates.

She had a glowing tan that clearly wasn’t from a bottle, but spoke of holidays in exotic destinations and winters spent on ski slopes at the most exclusive resorts.

Her expensively coloured hair swished out below her straw hat, and her gold jewellery was timeless and elegant.

It seemed that Isobel wasn’t the only one taken by the mysterious stranger; heads swivelled in the woman’s direction, and she was attracting a lot of attention. Then she turned, and as Isobel caught a glimpse of the woman’s face, she gasped.

It’s her!

‘What is it?’ Stuart asked in alarm.

Isobel sat up, her face alight with excitement. ‘You see the woman in red across the pool,’ she nodded discreetly.

Stuart followed her gaze, immediately finding the woman Isobel was referring to. ‘Yes. What about her?’

‘It’s Camille Fontaine!’ Isobel exclaimed gleefully. Seeing Stuart’s blank expression, she explained, ‘You know – the designer. I have all of her “Camille” bags. You bought me the limited-edition red python-skin last Valentine’s Day.’

Stuart frowned. ‘Are you sure? Why would she be here?’

‘Of course I’m sure,’ Isobel replied, annoyed by his question. Then her mood swung back to excitement. ‘Oh, I can’t believe it’s really her.’

‘Well don’t make a fool of yourself,’ Stuart retorted, unhappy with the way Isobel had spoken to him, and by the fact that his wife seemed more interested in some fashion designer than in going for a siesta with him. ‘The woman has a right to privacy. She’s on holiday.’

‘I know that, Stuart,’ Isobel shot back. ‘What do you think I’m going to do? Run over and greet her like a long-lost relative? Don’t be so ridiculous.’

Isobel snatched up her book and lay back on her lounger, pretending to read.

But she was silently seething at her husband’s comments, and didn’t take in a single word of her Jilly Cooper novel.

Instead, she gazed over the top of the pages, watching Camille Fontaine as she sashayed around the pool, greeting admirers and graciously accepting a drink from a waiter.

Isobel would make herself known to Camille, there was no doubt about that. But she would bide her time and do it her way.