Page 3 of Meet Me at Sunset

‘I can’t marry you. It’s impossible. Please, Nicolas, for Christ’s sake, get up.’

Nicolas stood slowly, confusion and hurt written across his handsome face. He closed the box and placed it on the table beside their empty plates. Now his shock had hardened into something else.

‘This is the last time I’m going to ask you, Camille. I mean it. If you say no, then it’s over between us.’

‘Don’t make me do this …’ Camille was angry, the fight-or-flight instinct kicking in as she jumped to her feet, longing to run out of his apartment and never look back. She felt as though Nicolas had backed her into a corner. Too much had happened between them over the years for her to hide her feelings from him. Nicolas deserved the truth. ‘Why can’t things just stay as they are?’

‘Because I can’t live like this!’ he roared, dragging his hands through his hair in despair. ‘I love you. I want to be with you. Please, Camille.’ His tone had changed now, and there was an undertone of anguish in his voice. ‘Marry me.’

Camille shook her head, angry tears coursing down her cheeks, agonized that it had come to this, but furious with Nicolas for ruining the relationship they’d enjoyed for the past three decades. ‘I’m sorry, Nicolas, but I can’t marry you …’

‘We’re beginning our descent into Palma, where the temperature is a very pleasant 26 degrees, and the captain has now switched on the seatbelt sign …’

The announcement cut into Camille’s thoughts, jolting her back to the present. She realized she was clutching the strap of her handbag so tightly that her knuckles had turned white, as though her life depended on not letting go. Perhaps her life did depend on it. This bag, and everything it represented – her business, her achievements, her life’s work – needed to be her priority right now. Whatever else was going on in her life, Camille could always come back to her designs. It was her true passion, the one thing – aside from her son – that gave her unbridled joy, and it was where she needed to direct her focus.

She’d done the right thing by saying no to Nicolas, Camille reassured herself. Yes, she might be hurt and in pain now, uncertain of what the future would bring, but the sadness would pass, and Camille knew it. She’d been through misery and grief and come out the other side – battle-scarred but stronger than ever.

She had been alone before, Camille reminded herself, as the plane touched down on the runway at Palma de Mallorca Airport. She had survived, and she would do it again.

Chapter 2

Mallorca, June 2001

The journey from Palma Airport to Cala de la Belleza, in the north-west of the island, took less than forty-five minutes. Isobel and Stuart MacFarlane were travelling in style, in a luxurious black Mercedes provided by their hotel, the Palacio del Sol Radiante.

‘Makes a change from back home, doesn’t it, darling?’ Stuart said, in his rich Scottish burr, reaching across to place a hand on Isobel’s knee.

‘It’s beautiful.’ She gazed out of the window as the two of them were transported through the spectacular scenery, with rugged, sun-bleached mountains soaring around them and warm, golden light slicing through the Aleppo pine trees. It had been drizzling when they had left Edinburgh Airport that morning, and although Isobel loved Scotland, the weather sometimes left a lot to be desired.

‘You’re beautiful,’ Stuart replied, and Isobel couldn’t help but smile at her husband’s sweet words. At forty-two, Stuart was a decade older than her, but as far as Isobel was concerned, he was in his prime. His sandy-coloured hair had yet to see its first strands of grey, and the fine lines around his eyes merely served to give him character. Regular gym workouts ensured he stayed in buff shape.

Isobel turned back to the view as the winding road continued through idyllic villages, with green-shuttered, honey-coloured houses swathed in a profusion of bright pink bougainvillea, church bells chiming midday. The air was delicately scented with a heady mix of the herbs and plants that flourished on the rocky slopes: rosemary, lavender, thyme and sweet genista.

Isobel could feel her shoulders beginning to drop, her whole body starting to relax. She and Stuart led busy lives back in Edinburgh. He was an extremely well-regarded and successful plastic surgeon, who owned thriving practices in both London and Edinburgh. He regularly travelled between the two, though his consulting work took him all over the world.

‘And I love your dress,’ Stuart continued. ‘Is it one of your own?’

‘Yes, it is one of my designs,’ Isobel smiled, pleased with the compliment. The dress was bias-cut and clung to her figure, with fluted sleeves and a sweetheart neckline. The buttercup yellow colour complemented her fair complexion, and she’d left her long, thick, honey-blonde hair loose, to tumble in soft waves down her back.

‘You’re so talented, darling. I’ve always said it.’

‘Thank you,’ Isobel replied quietly. She knew that Stuart had nothing but the best of intentions with his praise, but his words touched a nerve. She, too, considered herself a talented designer, but her career had never taken off in the way that she would have liked.

At least he was being less insensitive than he had been the previous evening. He’d arrived home late, quickly taking a shower, while she’d been making sure they were packed and ready for travel the next day. In the bespoke, Shaker-style kitchen, the fridge was almost empty ahead of their holiday, but Isobel had nipped to M&S that morning, and quickly rustled up the grilled salmon and a fresh green salad she’d bought. Mindful of her last-minute holiday diet, she served herself a small plate with no dressing, and she was pouring two perfectly chilled glasses of Chablis when Stuart walked in. His hair was still damp, and he looked relaxed in chinos and a polo shirt.

‘Thank you, darling, this is perfect,’ he smiled, helping her to carry the plates through to their elegant dining room. ‘Only a small portion for you?’ he added, raising an eyebrow.

‘A last-minute attempt to shift a few pounds,’ Isobel said ruefully.

‘Oh, you don’t need to do that. I mean, I know all those models look great, but it’s not what men really want. Anyway, I like you with a bit more meat on your bones,’ Stuart laughed, as he squeezed the soft flesh above her hips.

Isobel had wriggled out of his reach, irritated by his flippant comments. ‘Well, it’s not up to you,’ she told him, as she sat down and defiantly speared a forkful of lettuce. ‘It’s about how I feel. And if I want to lose weight, I’ll do it for myself.’

‘Of course, darling,’ he said, as he reached over and patted her hand. ‘Whatever you want.’

Isobel’s irritation simmered to the surface again, though Stuart always seemed oblivious. Drop it, Isobel, she told herself, not wanting anything to ruin their holiday.

Despite training at the prestigious Central St Martins in London, followed by internships with high fashion brands in Milan, Madrid and Paris, Isobel’s career had faltered. She’d had to cut short her time in France and return to Edinburgh, to take care of her mother, Sheena, when her father died unexpectedly. Despite Sheena’s insistence that she would be OK alone, Isobel hadn’t wanted to leave her, imagining that she could pick up her career at a later stage. One year off turned into two, and by the time Isobel met Stuart in the hospitality lounge at Murrayfield, her ambitions had taken a back seat. Marriage and a settled life in Edinburgh had been the final nail in the coffin of her dreams of a high-flying, high-profile career in international fashion, and Stuart had been quite happy to have a wife with more modest aspirations.