Page 23 of Meet Me at Sunset

Lucas glanced up to see Paulo watching him, leaning languidly against the worktop whilst crunching on the crudités. ‘Leave some for the customers, hmm?’ he snapped.

Paulo’s sardonic expression didn’t change as he slowly shook his head. ‘Lucas, Lucas. Never satisfied, are you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Ever since you were a boy you’ve been the same. You were given everything – but you never appreciated it. As soon as you got something, it lost its value.’

‘Since when did you become such a philosopher?’ Lucas replied sarcastically.

‘Just sharing my observations …’ Paulo shrugged, taking a wrap of plastic from the pocket of his shorts and twisting it open.

He tapped out a line of white powder on the shiny steel surface of the countertop, using one of Lucas’s best chopping knives to marshal it into a line. Then he bent over, snorting it ostentatiously. Wiping the residue with his forefinger, he rubbed it into his gums.

Now it was Lucas’s turn to shake his head. He angrily snatched up the knife, washing it thoroughly before wiping down the counter with a troubled expression. ‘You shouldn’t do that here.’

‘Don’t start lecturing me.’

‘Well maybe it’s your turn to hear a few home truths. You’re doing too much of that shit. It’s not good for you, or for the restaurant.’

‘Hey, give me a break. We can’t all have rich mummies to help us out.’ Paulo grinned to imply it was a joke, but Lucas wasn’t blind to the deliberate barb. He fell silent as he went back to his prep, slicing deftly and precisely.

‘Why are you spending so much time in Palma? You’re hardly ever here.’

‘I thought you had everything under control,’ Paulo replied, a challenge in his tone.

‘I have – when it comes to food. You’re supposed to take charge of the logistics, and it feels like things are slipping.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Paulo said easily, coming up behind him and placing a hand on Lucas’s shoulder. ‘You need to chill, my friend. Here, take this,’ he suggested, offering the rest of his wrap to Lucas.

‘Not my scene. And you need to be careful.’

‘And you need to take the stick out of your ass. Have a good night, man. I’m out of here.’

‘You’re not staying?’ Lucas was frustrated.

‘People to see, things to do,’ Paulo winked, clapping him on the back. ‘Maybe I’ll give Stephanie Moon a call, see if she’s free tonight.’

‘Stephanie?’ Lucas’s head snapped up so sharply he almost sliced his finger.

‘Yeah …’ Paulo looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Hope it’s not a late one for you tonight. Remember, all work and no play makes Lucas a dull boy,’ he finished, as he strode out of the back door of the restaurant with a swagger in his step.

Lucas cut into an onion with relish, carving it in two in a single, smooth motion. He was frustrated with Elle and irritated by Paulo’s hostile jibes. But the thing which annoyed him most of all, he realized, as the glittering blade sliced through the onion’s layers with ease, was the thought of Paulo and Stephanie together.

Late afternoon slid into evening and Camille barely noticed. She was so preoccupied with overseeing her small team, making a hundred last-minute decisions and issuing instructions. She was thrilled with how it was all coming together, but still worried it wouldn’t all be finished before the show.

Endless boxes were arriving by courier, sample pieces from Italy and Spain, beautiful garments from Morocco and India. Camille said a silent prayer of thanks as each one was ticked off the list. But she knew it wasn’t over yet – there’d be alterations to make, and fittings with the models to ensure the clothes hung perfectly as they sashayed down the runway.

Camille checked her slender Cartier Tank watch, debating whether to tell the team to take a break and come back in an hour, or whether to order in food and ask them to work straight through, when René strode over with another parcel.

‘What’s this?’ Camille asked, trying to hide her irritation. Her team dealt with the incoming packages – she had more important things to do.

‘It just arrived,’ René explained quickly, knowing exactly what Camille would be thinking. ‘But there’s only your name on the front – no import stamp or customs papers. Someone dropped it off at reception, so I thought perhaps it was personal.’

Camille stared at it, a sudden surge of dread balling in her stomach. René was right – it was simply a plain, brown package, a little bigger than a shoe box. Camille’s name, and the hotel’s, had been handwritten in stark, black letters on the front, but there were no other identifying marks.

‘Thank you, René,’ Camille said coolly, taking it from him, hoping to conceal how unsettled she felt.

René nodded and moved away, back into the melee. Camille took a deep breath and tore open the package. It contained a box, and inside was a Camille bag – light tan, calfskin leather, gold hardware. She identified it immediately as being from their 1995 autumn/winter collection. But it appeared to be covered in some kind of liquid – something dark and red, with a metallic smell, that had soaked into the leather and stained it …