Page 4 of Meet Me at Sunset

She was lucky that they enjoyed a great lifestyle – a beautiful home, enough money not to have to worry about bills, able to enjoy luxury holidays and top-of-the-range cars. But if Isobel was being honest with herself, she knew that it was largely provided by Stuart.

After their wedding, Isobel had soon grown restless, finding herself sketching and designing once again, dusting off her sewing machine to bring her creations to life. Seeing how happy it made her, Stuart had suggested she should source a manufacturer, and offered to invest in his wife’s fledgling business, allowing her to rent a small boutique on George Street, in an affluent area of Edinburgh, and produce her first collection.

To supplement her own designs, Isobel sold pieces from other independent labels, and one of her favourite parts of the job was discovering and nurturing new, undiscovered talent. She adored owning the boutique – she’d built a wonderful team, and the women were like family to her. Business was thriving, though at times Isobel had the nagging feeling that it was a long way from the ambition she’d had as a child of building a fashion empire like Coco Chanel or Diane von Furstenberg. And there was another unfulfilled dream that had been on her mind a lot recently …

‘I’ve been thinking …’ she said quietly, as the landscape flitted past them. ‘While we’re away, it might be the perfect time to …’ Isobel hesitated, suddenly feeling nervous, then pressed on, ‘Start trying for a baby.’

Panic passed fleetingly across Stuart’s face, and Isobel felt a stab of annoyance and disappointment. Why was he always so resistant? She’d thought they were on the same page about having children, but whenever she raised the subject, he insisted it wasn’t the right time.

‘Maybe …’ he said slowly.

‘But our lives couldn’t be more perfect – we’re financially secure, we have established careers and a beautiful home … We have so much to offer a child.’

Stuart stared out of the window, but didn’t say anything.

‘Just imagine,’ Isobel continued, leaning across and taking his hand. ‘A little girl, a daughter who’s as pretty as a picture and adores her daddy. Or perhaps a son, a little boy who looks just like you. You can teach him to play rugby. Maybe one day he’ll play for Scotland, and you can—’

‘Oh look, here we are already,’ Stuart interrupted, as they drove beneath a whitewashed stone archway that read Palacio del Sol Radiante – Palace of the Radiant Sun – and bumped down a long, stony driveway surrounded by glorious gardens.

The palacio was a five-star boutique hotel, a converted finca built from traditional stone, but now completely modernized and catering to an upmarket, jet-setting clientele. From the hotel’s location high on the clifftop, it was a short, steep walk down rugged steps carved into the headland to reach the most perfect sandy cove with a sweeping crescent of soft golden sand. From there, guests could dive from rocky outcrops into the dazzling turquoise of the Mediterranean, where white yachts dazzled on the water, dropping anchor a short distance from the shore.

Alternatively, there was a coastal path flanked by palm trees that led directly from the hotel into the small town of Cala de la Belleza, a bustling hub of beachfront bars and restaurants serving delicious food and refreshing cocktails. It was the perfect place to watch the array of water sports taking place out in the gentle waves, whilst locals and holidaymakers relaxed on loungers beneath colourful beach umbrellas.

It was idyllic, Isobel thought with a sigh, leaning forwards to stare out of the window, drinking it all in. She would put the conversation with Stuart out of her mind for now. They had two weeks here together – that was plenty of time to bring him round to the idea of a baby. If everything went according to Isobel’s plan, it would be an unforgettable holiday.

‘Señora Fontaine, we are so pleased to welcome you back to the palacio. It’s been too long.’ Roberto Garcia Pérez, the general manager of the Palacio del Sol Radiante, came out to greet Camille as she arrived at the hotel with René. Roberto was in his fifties, a similar age to Camille, with tanned skin and sparkling dark eyes and greying hair which he wore swept back to give him a distinguished air. Despite the heat, he wore dark trousers and a crisp white shirt, with a matching waistcoat and jacket.

‘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 façade, 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.

‘Ça 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?’