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‘Nicolas …’ Camille wanted to tell him that he wasn’t being fair, that he was making her feel bad the night before her wedding. But she didn’t say a word. Ultimately, she was the one who wasn’t being fair, keeping his heart captive when she should have let him go. ‘Are you coming in?’ she asked, wrapping her arms around herself. It had grown cooler now, away from Nicolas’s embrace, and the bare skin on her forearms had puckered into goosebumps.

Nicolas shook his head and turned back towards the sea. ‘No, I … I’ll stay out here a little longer. Clear my head.’

Camille hesitated. She longed to hear him tell her once again how much he loved her. But she was marrying Andre in the morning, and he was the love of her life, she told herself firmly. He was the future, and Nicolas was her past.

Camille turned away and slipped silently into the shadowy gardens. Tomorrow she would become Camille Fontaine, and her new life would begin.

Chapter 19

Paris, November 1973

‘Oh, Camille. No!’

‘What? What is it?’ Camille looked up from her desk in surprise as Andre loomed over her.

‘This,’ he snapped, jabbing his finger towards the tunic that hung on a mannequin behind her. ‘Is this the finished design? But this is not good, Camille, you must see that?’

Camille looked up from the sketch she was drawing, a long-sleeved maxi dress in a printed fabric that reflected the new bohemian style. It was late, and she was tired, but right now Andre was looking at the sample they’d received as though it was something he’d stepped in. It had arrived earlier in the day, and Camille had hung it on the dummy in their small atelier so that she could view it through the day and work on it later.

‘What’s wrong with it?’ she shot back, her voice sharper than she’d intended.

Andre picked up the hem between his thumb and forefinger, as though he didn’t want to be contaminated by touching it. Then he let it go dismissively, letting it drop back down.

‘You don’t see the problem? You have eyes, yes? I thought you were a fashion designer, Camille, but perhaps you still think you’re producing shapeless sacks for old ladies.’

Anger rose in Camille’s chest, stung by Andre’s words. They’d always enjoyed a free and frank exchange of views, but lately all Andre seemed to do was criticize, without offering any ideas of his own.

A chair scraped and they both spun round, surprised by the interruption. It was Mathilde, the intern. She pulled on her jacket and grabbed her bag, looking awkward as their eyes swivelled to her.

‘Goodnight, Camille. Goodnight, Andre,’ she stammered. It was clear that she wanted to get away before the arguing began, to avoid being caught in the crossfire. Camille and Andre’s fights were legendary.

‘Goodnight, Mathilde,’ Camille said calmly. ‘See you tomorrow, and thank you for your work today.’

The young intern scampered out of the door, leaving Camille and Andre alone. It was dark outside – the nights drew in early now – and it was chilly too, with the small, three-bar heater in the corner doing little to raise the temperature. The space was tiny, with half a dozen mismatching desks crammed in at all angles, all littered with sketches and fabric samples, partially constructed garments and rolls of fabric. A sewing machine was set up in one corner, along with half a dozen mannequins. If they’d rented an office in the outskirts of the city, they could have afforded something double, or even triple, the size. But Andre wanted the prestigious address in the seventh arrondissement, so they were crammed into this second-floor space above an antiques shop.

There was a pause after Mathilde left, which could have led to a ceasefire, but then Andre spoke.

‘I need to leave. I’ll see you at home later.’

‘You’re going home?’

‘No, of course not. I have drinks with Carine Roitfeld, and then the Elle magazine event.’

‘But I thought I was coming to Elle with you?’

‘You were. But now you’re going to stay here and fix that heap of shit,’ Andre snapped, with a dismissive glance at the maligned tunic. ‘We need something decent to show the buyers at Samaritaine next week. As it stands, they’ll laugh us out of the building.’

Camille’s mouth tightened into a thin line. ‘Will Héloïse Beauvais be at the Elle party?’ she asked pointedly.

A flicker of something crossed Andre’s face, then he laughed cruelly. ‘Just concentrate on the clothes, Camille. Jealousy doesn’t suit you.’

‘I’m sick of you making a fool of me, Andre. Always running round with other women, not caring who sees you.’

‘I’ve told you before, darling, you’re so petite bourgeoise. No one in our circle bats an eyelid at a little aventure. Don’t wait up,’ he added with a smirk, before shrugging on his smart woollen jacket and walking out of the door.

Camille let out a scream of frustration. She picked up a pair of fabric scissors and hurled them after him with a cry of rage. They hit the door and fell to the floor. It didn’t make her feel any better. Glancing down at the sketch she’d been drawing, Camille immediately saw all its faults, imagining how Andre would react if he’d seen it. She screwed it into a ball, threw it in the bin and slumped down in her chair, overwhelmed by frustration and exhaustion. She let her head drop forwards into her hands as her hair fell around her face, feeling the solid gold of her wedding ring press into her temples.

Life was not working out the way that Camille had imagined. The business was taking an age to build up. She wasn’t naïve – she hadn’t imagined that they’d become Chanel overnight – but it was such a long, hard, thankless slog and it was beginning to wear her down.