Page 24 of Meet Me at Sunset

Horrified, Camille felt compelled to continue looking, unable to take her eyes away from the nightmare unfolding in front of her. She realized that there was something inside the bag, something large, with sharp angles. Summoning her courage, Camille snapped open the clasp. She peered inside, trying to work out what she was looking at. And then she realized, gasping as she almost dropped the box. It was a car wing mirror, its surface shattered and mangled, so that when Camille peered into it she saw her own reflection sliced and broken.

Right now, she was aware of nothing except the contents of the box and her own heartbeat, roaring inside her ears, as she pulled out the items nestled in the silk lining beside the mirror. Two photographs: a grainy one of the crash that had claimed Andre’s life, and a second of Camille and Nicolas coming out of the hospital. And beneath them both, a note:

Now it’s time to pay, once and for all

Bile rose in Camille’s throat. The fight-or-flight instinct kicked in and she was suddenly desperate to get away. She hastily closed the bag, slamming the box lid tightly on top of it, her startled eyes searching the room for René. She found him speaking with one of the team and made a beeline for him, the chatter in the room becoming an alarming buzz in her ears. She realized her body was shaking.

‘René,’ she interrupted. ‘I have a sudden headache. I think it may be a migraine. I’m going back to my room to rest.’

Concern was written across his face, beneath his sweep of white-blond hair. ‘Of course. Is there anything you need? Can I get you something?’

‘No, I … I’ll be fine.’ Camille went to leave, then stopped. ‘Actually, there is one thing. Did reception say who delivered the package?’

René shook his head. ‘I can go and ask them …’

‘No,’ Camille replied, more sharply than she’d intended. ‘No, don’t worry. It’s not important. They sent me a vintage bag,’ she said, forcing a smile onto her face as she lied, ‘I just wanted to thank them properly.’

Then Camille turned and raced to her room as fast as she could without causing alarm. To an onlooker, she would have looked like a busy, professional woman on an urgent mission. But when she got back to her suite and slammed the door shut with shaking hands, her legs gave way and she sank down onto the floor, tossing the box as far away from her as she could.

What do they want from me? she thought desperately. And, more importantly, How much do they know about what happened that night?

Camille knew she had been stupid to pay the first time. Remembering the first note she had received months ago, goading her about knowing her ‘secret’. She had paid the amount they’d asked for, desperate to keep a lid on the situation, but now it seemed things were spiralling out of control. What did they want this time, and what would happen next? What about her family, and the business she had spent years building up?

The tone of the notes had changed too, more chilling, more insistent: once and for all …

What the hell did that mean? Camille wished that she could call the police, but that would be impossible without revealing … Well, without telling them everything and confessing all her secrets. And that would ruin her. Her reputation, her money, perhaps even her son – all would be gone in the blink of an eye.

There was one person she could call, she realized, adrenaline propelling her to her feet and across the room. She should never have kept it from him in the first place. It didn’t matter what had happened between them – she needed Nicolas right now; he would know what to do.

Camille checked the time: it would be three p.m. in New York. Snatching up her phone, she called his apartment. It rang half a dozen times, eventually clicking through to his answering machine. Camille hesitated, then left a message. ‘Nicolas, it’s me … Camille. Call me as soon as you get this. I really need to speak to you.’

She hung up and dialled Nicolas’s mobile number, which went straight to voicemail. Either it was switched off, or he had no signal.

Camille left the same message, hearing the fear in her voice as she said the words. She realized now how badly she needed Nicolas, how desperately she wanted to hear his calm tones offering words of reassurance, telling her that everything would be OK. Camille closed her eyes, trying to ward off the sense of panic that threatened to overwhelm her.

Nicolas, where the hell are you? I need you.

Chapter 11

Stephanie sped down to Cala de la Belleza, a delicious warm breeze on her bare skin as she dared herself to drive even faster on the almost-deserted roads.

At Catherine’s suggestion, Stephanie had borrowed a moped. She adored staying with the Douglases – they’d been nothing but gracious hosts, kind and welcoming, opening their home to her.

Stephanie had met Catherine at the party thrown after the last night of her run in The Tempest. Catherine loved the theatre and they’d been introduced by the director and had hit it off immediately. Since then, Catherine had taken her under her wing, and when Stephanie ran into her problems on the Fields of Barley set, it was Catherine to whom she had turned, and who had offered her the chance to get her thoughts together in the privacy of their villa. Stephanie knew that her time here couldn’t last, though. The Douglases were busy people with what seemed like dozens of projects on the go, from movie offers to property deals to business investments, Stephanie knew their time together as a family was precious, and that she was an added complication they didn’t need.

When they did take some time to relax, their enthusiasm for golf was a passion Stephanie didn’t share, so she decided she’d leave them to it. She had mentioned that she was keen to see more of the island, so Catherine had suggested, in her melodic Welsh accent, ‘Why don’t you take one of the mopeds from the garage? It’s the best way to explore.’

But not before she’d gently nudged Stephanie to do what she knew she should.

‘Anthony left me a message this morning. He wants to talk to you, darling – why don’t you give him a call? He wants to give you the time to sort your head out … but …’ Catherine’s eyes were kind, but also questioning.

Anthony Minghella, the director of Fields of Barley. ‘You’re right, I know I need to talk to him.’ Stephanie said, ‘I just need a little more time.’

Catherine patted her hand. ‘Don’t leave it too much longer, my love, will you? Enjoy your whiz around the island!’

Stephanie knew exactly what Catherine meant; films had schedules, budgets, deadlines. She was holding everything up.

I’ll think about it later.