Page 51 of Meet Me at Sunset

‘I know.’

‘Which makes me want to figure out what the problem is with Camille Andre …’ Andre trailed off and stared pointedly at his wife.

‘Me?’ Camille asked incredulously.

‘Not you. Your designs. I know they’re elegant and tasteful, blah blah blah, but they’re plain. Unadventurous. Look at Diane – she designed one incredible dress that every woman fell in love with and now she’s a multi-millionaire. Vivienne’s doing punk – it’s fresh, it’s innovative, it’s sexy. No man wants to be with a woman in a Camille Andre dress.’

Camille was too stunned to reply, her mouth falling open. When she recovered, she said, ‘I’m not doing punk,’ she pronounced the word disdainfully, ‘because we agreed our aesthetic right at the beginning – French, chic, classic. Neutral colours, clean lines. And if I were to think about the problem with Camille Andre, I’d say it’s not the designs – it’s that they’re not reaching the buyers. And that’s your job, darling,’ Camille said sweetly, a dangerous edge to her voice. ‘You’re supposed to be overseeing the marketing, making contacts, schmoozing the journalists. You’re out every night spending a small fortune on networking. Most of our profit goes on dinners and drinks that you deem necessary, and for what? Something’s not adding up, Andre.’

‘None of that’s going to work if the designs aren’t good enough! How can I do my job with one hand tied behind my back?’

Camille was stung, but she wasn’t backing down from this fight. ‘Did you ever consider that you’re the problem?’

‘Me?’ Andre laughed dismissively.

‘Yes, you. You have this bullish attitude which alienates people. You’re so convinced that you’re right about everything, but you’re patronizing and arrogant. And the truth is that you’re not talented enough to design, and you don’t have the business acumen of …’ Camille trailed off. A pulse twitched in Andre’s jaw, and she knew that he was furious.

‘Of Nicolas? Is that what you were going to say?’ Andre turned to her, eyes blazing.

Camille stood her ground. ‘Yes, actually. We should never have let him go. Look at all the incredible things he’s achieved at American Athletics. They have a presence in every country in Europe, with flagship stores in all the major cities. They’re one of the biggest names in the world, they’ve just signed Farrah Fawcett as the face of their new campaign, and they had the highest opening share price of any fashion retailer when they floated on the stock exchange last year.’

Andre gave a slow, sarcastic handclap. ‘Bravo, Nicolas. He did all this single-handedly, did he?’

‘You know damn well what I mean. He’s been instrumental in their success, whilst all you ever do is criticize other people to hide the fact you’re not good enough.’

The tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife. Outside the windows, the motorway flashed past at speed, and the driver kept his eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead. Camille doubted he spoke much French, but it didn’t take a linguist to work out that they’d just had an epic fight.

Camille was livid, but relieved to have got some home truths off her chest. Everything she’d said was true. In just a few short years, American Athletics had become one of the most recognizable brands in the world, specializing in high-end leisurewear. Nicolas had pioneered the use of ethical labour, and favoured short supply chains that were better for the environment. His views were revolutionary. Whilst he’d been painted as a crank by his detractors, the tide of opinion was now moving in his direction, and American Athletics were leading the way.

Nicolas had been rewarded with all the trappings of success. He had a stunning penthouse flat in New York, a chauffeured limousine at his disposal and access to a private jet – everything that his rivals aspired to. Yet although Nicolas enjoyed the perks that came with his position, he remained resolutely unimpressed by them all. His response was always to put his head down and work harder, always looking for the next deal, the next innovation. And he had never remarried after the disastrous, short-lived union with Lisa, despite regularly appearing on Page Six of the New York Post with an ever-rotating carousel of models on his arm.

Camille found herself wondering – more often than she would have liked – about what her life would have been like if she’d stayed with Nicolas. She could be wealthy and successful, instead of exhausting herself by trying to build up a business and constantly fighting with Andre. And she would feel loved and secure, instead of belittled and neglected.

‘Well,’ said Andre, as though he could read her thoughts, ‘perhaps you should have turned me down all those years ago. Stuck with Mr Dull.’

Camille didn’t reply. He was being sarcastic, but perhaps Andre was right. Maybe she had made the wrong choice.

Chapter 23

Paris, October 1992

The new Camille Andre headquarters on Avenue Marceau were enormous. Situated on the third floor, the offices ran the length of three buildings, and were decorated in neutral, muted tones to ensure the backdrop didn’t influence the design work. The ever-growing team worked busily, sketching and sewing, earnestly debating new ideas and trends, and there was a constant buzz in the air. Working for Camille Andre felt exciting, inspiring and creative.

Over the last decade, the brand had continued to grow steadily but surely, finding a loyal customer base amongst an elegant, upmarket clientele who wanted to ensure they looked stylish and polished, with a classic French twist. Camille Andre remained somewhat niche, a label for those in the know rather than a household name. That suited Andre, who didn’t see the appeal of mass market; in his opinion, having every other person on the high street wearing a design cheapened its value. But Camille – spurred on by Nicolas’s advice – recognized the opportunities it could bring. Whilst only the wealthiest fashionistas could splurge on Chanel couture, almost everyone could afford a lipstick, or perfume, or pair of sunglasses, and in recent years these had provided the big fashion houses with a valuable additional revenue stream.

Andre and Camille continued to hotly debate the future of their business, but there was no doubt that they were well established on the French fashion landscape and were making strong progress across Europe and the US.

‘Could you run out and get me a coffee?’ Andre said, as he passed by the desk of the newest intern. He glanced at her briefly but found he couldn’t remember her name. She was pretty – they inevitably were if they wanted to work in fashion, and were always well-groomed and sophisticated if they’d applied to Camille Andre. This girl had thick, dark blonde hair, and her frame was larger than the stick-thin French fashionista silhouette, but Andre didn’t mind a little meat on a woman’s bones. His eyes ran unashamedly over her curves.

‘Of course,’ she stammered, her French laced with an accent Andre couldn’t identify, Irish or Scottish. ‘You prefer a café serré, yes?’ she continued, naming the extra-strong shot of coffee.

Andre nodded, pleased that she’d remembered. Then his gaze fell on the sketch she’d been drawing. ‘What’s this?’

The young woman flushed. ‘Oh, nothing. Just something I was working on.’ Embarrassed, she attempted to hide it, but Andre persisted. ‘Let me see.’

Reluctantly, she handed it over and he examined it with a practised eye. ‘It’s good. Very good.’

‘Thank you.’