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‘He’s right,’ said Édith. ‘I can see the baby’s head. So when I tell you to, you’re going to push down as hard as you can. OK?’

Camille looked up at Nicolas, fear and pain etched on her face. Nicolas didn’t let go of her hands. ‘You can do this, Camille. You can do anything.’

Then Camille’s expression changed as the next contraction began to build and all she could do was follow her instincts, her body urging her to push, knowing that she was just moments away from meeting her baby.

The taxi pulled up outside Saint Joseph’s hospital and Andre threw some money at the driver then leapt out.

‘Bonne chance!’ the driver called after him, but Andre was already sprinting across the pavement and through the front door. He looked around him, wild-eyed, trying to make sense of all the signs directing him to different departments, before yelling at a passing doctor, ‘Maternity ward?’

The doctor indicated a corridor to his left, and Andre was off again. He was furious with himself for travelling to Italy; Camille had told him not to go, but he hadn’t listened. If he was being honest, perhaps he’d been in denial. He didn’t want to think about how a baby would change their lives, or how he might have to step up with the responsibility of being a father. He’d blithely carried on as though everything would remain the same.

When Mathilde’s call had been put through to him at the hotel, he’d been in the middle of a steamy liaison with an eighteen-year-old aspiring model, whose youthful flexibility allowed her to contort herself in ways that took Andre’s breath away. He’d ignored the telephone at first, but it had been insistent and off-putting, and he snatched it up irritably. On the other end was a breathless Mathilde, and he had been given the news that his wife was in labour with his first child. Andre figured he was already late, so he might as well finish what he’d started – a final fling before fatherhood.

Andre had kicked the girl out straight afterwards, showered quickly, then raced to Linate Airport and paid a small fortune for a seat on the next flight back. When he finally landed at Charles de Gaulle, he hailed a taxi straight to the hospital, cursing the Parisian traffic. The long queues gave him time to think, his conscience gnawing at him as he thought of his wife, alone without him. Even in this day and age, he knew childbirth could be risky; he’d heard stories of emergency c-sections, of blood transfusions, of being rushed into surgery for unexpected complications … If anything had happened to Camille or the baby, he’d never forgive himself.

Andre burst through the doors onto the maternity ward and ran up to the young woman on the front desk. ‘My wife is having a baby! Camille Fontaine. Where is she?’

A frown crossed the woman’s face. ‘You’re her husband?’ She looked him up and down, as though trying to make her mind up about something. ‘Follow me.’

She led him along the corridor, stopping outside one of the many identical doors and knocking on it gently. Andre heard Camille’s voice say, ‘Come in.’

Without needing to be told twice, Andre rushed inside. It took a moment for him to take in everything he was seeing. Camille was sitting up on the hospital bed, looking exhausted but elated. In her arms, she was holding a tiny baby, swaddled and apparently sleeping soundly. Perched on the bed beside her, gazing at the newborn, was Nicolas. The tableau took Andre aback; they looked for all the world like an idyllic family, as though the three of them were a unit and he was the interloper.

Nicolas looked up as he heard the door; was that guilt flashing across his face, or did Andre imagine it?

Andre’s gaze slid from Nicolas to Camille, and then to the perfect baby she was holding in her arms. Tentatively, he took a step forwards. Nicolas leapt to his feet, relinquishing his place beside Camille, but Andre was focused on the baby.

‘Are you …?’ He began. ‘Is it …?’

Camille beamed, and the smile lit up her face. She looked tired but radiant. ‘It’s a boy. Darling, we have a son.’

Chapter 21

Paris, April 1975

Warm spring sunlight spilled in through the tall French windows, casting pools of gold on the parquet flooring. Baby Lucas, now almost ten months old, played happily on the rug with a wooden shaker. He was a bundle of energy and had already mastered crawling, so now he was trying to pull himself up on the furniture, determined to learn to walk as soon as possible. Camille had had to move all of her ornaments and breakables to higher shelves, as Lucas’s curiosity was insatiable, and she couldn’t turn her back for a moment.

Andre came through with a steaming cup of coffee and handed it to Camille, who was sitting in an armchair watching Lucas play.

‘Thank you,’ she said, looking up at her husband. He looked especially attractive today in a fitted shirt and flared trousers that emphasized his great body. The whole scene was idyllic, and Camille felt a burst of happiness at the sight of her little family. It was constant hard work, but once Lucas had started sleeping through the night and she’d emerged from the fog of those early weeks, Camille found motherhood to be a creatively inspirational time. The new designs she was sketching were better than ever, and she was sure that this latest collection was going to be their best yet. She felt very positive about the future.

‘Should we take a stroll to the park this morning?’ she suggested, as she sipped her coffee. The weather was bright after a week of grey skies and rain, and it was shaping up to be a perfect Saturday morning. They had moved from the one-bedroom apartment they had rented in central Paris out to the sixteenth arrondissement, where they could get a larger property with space for a nursery. Whilst they didn’t have a garden, they were close to the Bois de Boulogne, which was ideal for pushing Lucas in his pram.

Their new place was further from the office, but Camille didn’t mind the longer commute. Besides, she often stayed at home designing now and only went into the atelier once or twice a week. They’d employed a nanny to look after Lucas whilst she shut herself away to sketch, but she could see him whenever she took a break. Camille, somewhat to her surprise, thoroughly enjoyed being a mother. She had bonded quickly with Lucas and loved discovering the world through his eyes. He was always excited to see her, and the adoration was mutual; to her, he was perfect.

‘Sure,’ Andre agreed, planting a kiss on the top of her head. ‘Sounds great. I’ll run down to the bakery, get us all some breakfast.’

‘Thanks, darling.’

Andre grabbed his wallet from the sideboard when the doorbell rang. They looked at one another in confusion.

‘Expecting anyone?’

Camille shook her head.

Andre spoke into the entry phone, and Camille heard Nicolas’s voice crackle over the intercom. Camille felt something shift in her stomach. She saw him less often now that she was no longer in the office every day, and she wasn’t entirely sure what her feelings were towards him. He’d been present for the most momentous events in her life, and she was grateful he’d been with her when Lucas was born, but her mind often drifted back to that night in the atelier. She’d been feeling low, and frustrated with Andre, and Nicolas had been there for her. Not that he’d taken advantage – if anything, he’d been the one asking if she was sure, and she was the one who’d pushed ahead. Camille felt a guilty twist of desire at the memory, Nicolas’s lovemaking had matured in their time apart, and he’d seemed to understand all those secret parts of her instinctively.

Andre strode down the corridor, as Camille stayed with Lucas. He was sitting up, bright and alert, trying to work out where Andre had gone. Lucas’s hazel eyes, which were so like hers, lit up at the sound of voices. He was a sociable baby and loved it when they had visitors.