Page 1 of Meet Me at Sunset

Prologue

When Andre Fontaine had taken the wheel of his car earlier, just as the daylight was fading, full of champagne and post-lunch bonhomie, he’d felt like he had the world at his feet, he was expecting to head back to his chalet in Switzerland to carry on his birthday celebration. It wasn’t every day you turned forty-nine, or had so much to celebrate.

His fashion brand with his wife Camille had been the talk of the catwalk that spring, their most recent collection had been worn by some of the most famous fashion icons around the world. Andre could buy whatever he wanted and go wherever suited him; he had a talented, dynamic wife and a son who was growing into a fine man – a son he adored. Life couldn’t be better.

Perhaps he and Camille argued more these days than they used to when they were first married, when their passionate disagreements were quickly forgotten in the heat of their equally fervent lovemaking. Andre knew he could be difficult, mercurial some said, and maybe not the faithful husband he should be. It was all part of the image, the legend of the Camille Andre fashion brand. Extraordinary people do extraordinary things, he would have said in return – we don’t live by conventional rules.

But Andre could neither speak nor move now. He lay shattered by the side of his treasured Ferrari sports car, and his flickering thoughts were of his only son Lucas, who had been sitting next to him in the car, and who Andre could distantly perceive was still caught in his seat. Trapped. Possibly dead.

If only Andre had listened to Camille. You indulge him too much, Andre …

Andre’s broken body and mind clung to what life was left to him in the silence of the empty mountain road, but he could feel that life slipping away and now Andre was starting to drift far above the scene. He felt detached from his body, as light as air, able to see big things and little things; the snow-covered tops of the Swiss mountains; a swift darting through the pine trees, its black and white wings flickering like quicksilver; the melting teardrops of crystal-clear icicles falling from the branch of a tree.

He could also see the approach of a car, hear a voice he recognized speak to Lucas. Angry voices.

Please don’t let my son die.

If only he’d listened. If only he could tell Camille and Lucas how much he loved them both.

But it was too late for words. It was too late for anything now.

Part 1

Chapter 1

Paris, June 2001

Camille Fontaine sashayed through Charles de Gaulle Airport and heads turned. She wasn’t a movie star, or a model, but she had a timeless French beauty, and she carried herself with an air of confidence that made people pay attention.

Camille was fifty-one years old but looked a decade younger. She was chic and elegant, in wide-leg linen trousers with a cream silk vest, and her make-up was light, her dark hair pulled back in a smooth chignon. Over one arm she carried a ‘Camille’ handbag made from the softest lambskin in a classic shade of olive green. The coveted bag was every wealthy woman’s must-have – but the difference in this case was that Camille Fontaine owned the company and had named the bag after herself.

‘Gate Twenty-Seven, so we’re almost there,’ said René, Camille’s assistant. Exceptionally tall and slim, with angular features and a sweep of blond hair, he hurried along beside her. He was holding a briefcase full of the latest designs she was working on, which were too precious to go in the hold, and a garment bag containing a couture dress from her own label. ‘I don’t know why you didn’t want to fly private – you could have gone direct.’

Camille shook her head. She’d spent the last few days in New York and was now jetting out to the Spanish island of Mallorca to launch her latest collection, making her connecting flight in Paris. ‘I don’t mind. Besides, first class with Air France is hardly slumming it.’

The airport was busy. Around them business travellers and tourists swarmed and hurried, but a path seemed to magically open up for Camille, allowing her to pass through with ease.

‘You must be looking forward to seeing Lucas again,’ René commented.

‘I am,’ Camille agreed, a smile crossing her face at the thought of reuniting with her son. Mallorca was like a second home to Camille – so much so that her son Lucas, a talented chef, had established a restaurant in the beautiful north-west of the island. It had been almost six months since she’d last seen him – he’d spent Christmas with her in Chamonix – and she couldn’t wait to catch up on all his news. Since Andre’s death, mother and son had grown closer than ever, bound by loss and all too aware of the fragility of life, wanting to make the most of the moments they had together.

Camille and René arrived at the gate and were whisked straight through, past the lines of frazzled holidaymakers and fractious toddlers. Moments later, Camille was sitting in her seat next to René, as an attentive stewardess fussed around them.

‘Would you like a glass of champagne, madame?’

‘Thank you,’ Camille accepted graciously. She would have just one glass, then stick to water for the rest of the short flight.

‘And may I just say how much I love your bag.’ The stewardess was staring at it with unconcealed admiration. ‘I’ve never seen a “Camille” in that colour before. It’s so chic.’

‘That’s very sweet of you, thank you.’ Camille was too modest to admit that she was the famous designer behind the brand, but she never grew tired of hearing people say that they loved her products.

A short time later, the captain came over the tannoy to announce their imminent departure, and then they were in the air, bound for sun-drenched Mallorca. Camille gazed out of her window as they flew over the suburbs of Paris, the city where it had all begun for her. It felt like such a long time ago now. Astonishingly, it was over thirty years since she, Andre and Michel had all graduated from their respective schools.

Whilst Camille and Andre had fallen in love and founded their fashion label, Camille Andre, their friend Michel had taken a different route. He’d always been more interested in the manufacturing side of the fashion business, and now headed up American Athletics, a global, high-street label, insisting on ethical suppliers and revolutionizing the supply chain.

For Camille and Andre, it had taken years of hard work, of blood, sweat and tears, to go from unknown designers with dreams of making it big, to their breakout moment which catapulted them to fame and fortune. The ‘Camille’ handbag had captured the world’s attention and become an instant bestseller, pictured on the arm of everyone who was anyone – from Princess Diana to Naomi Campbell to Julia Roberts. Socialites, singers and starlets all wanted their piece of the Camille magic.

Business had exploded, and the brand was soon in demand on every continent, as they opened shops in every major city across the world. But Camille’s life hadn’t magically become perfect overnight as she’d imagined it might. Not even vast wealth and international success could shield her from heartbreak and regret …