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‘In a couple of weeks. Perhaps three.’

‘And then it’ll be school again,’ he said glumly.

‘Yes, but in the meantime you’ll have lots of fun with Abuela,’ his grandmother assured him, wrapping her arms around him and cuddling him to her. Andre’s mother Margarita was glamorous and flamboyant, in a brightly coloured kaftan and white-rimmed sunglasses, and she doted on her son and grandson.

‘I guess,’ Lucas replied, not looking convinced.

‘Cheer up, Lucas, we’ll be back before you know it,’ Andre said briskly. ‘And we’ll bring you a fantastic present. What would you like, hmm? A BMX? Sony Walkman? A new Lego set?’

Lucas thought for a moment. ‘All three,’ he said eventually, as Andre roared with laughter.

‘Just like his father,’ he chuckled. ‘Knows what he wants, and he wants it all!’

Camille watched the scene play out, feeling uneasy. Sometimes she thought that Andre spoilt Lucas. He seemed to be creating a boy in his own image at times, often treating him as though he was older than his years and Andre would often give into his son’s urges and Lucas had grown used to having whatever he wanted. Perhaps it was guilt, Camille thought. They both worked long hours, and although they told themselves it was for Lucas’s future too, it was ultimately for selfish reasons – they both wanted to be successful.

All three of them had spent a long weekend together at the villa, but now Camille and Andre would spend the rest of the summer working. It wouldn’t be too much of a hardship; most of Europe took August off, and so instead of formal meetings, there’d be networking on yachts in the Greek islands, long, boozy dinners in the south of France, and raucous parties in Spanish villas. It was no life for a child; they didn’t want to be dragging Lucas round with them, and he’d have been bored out of his mind anyway, so Margarita had helpfully stepped in.

Business was slowly building. The Camille Andre label was now stocked in high-profile outlets all over France, and they had their own boutique on the prestigious Avenue Montaigne. Their designs were a favourite of the sophisticated, monied French women who were their target demographic, and they were beginning to make inroads into the fashion capitals of Europe – London, Milan, Madrid and Stockholm. But like any high-end, high-priced product, it was hard to sell in volume, and Andre insisted on such high quality that their margins were squeezed.

Their next target was America, and that meant leveraging Nicolas’s connections. He and Lisa had married three months after he’d moved to the US. It had been a spontaneous decision – they’d got their licence and married the following day, in the presence of a witness who they’d invited in off the street. Camille had been utterly shocked, and their relationship had come under strain. But when Nicolas filed for divorce less than six months later, they’d gradually started to rebuild their friendship. They were both busy, but there were long, late-night transatlantic calls, where they would pick one another’s brains about business issues, or simply catch up and chat about what was happening in their lives.

There were periods when they spoke almost every day, yet at other times Nicolas pulled back from her, his calls becoming infrequent, and the messages Camille left on his machine going unanswered. At those times, she respected his decision and left him alone, though it would eat her up inside, wondering if he’d met someone new, if it was serious, if he’d marry within weeks like he had with Lisa. Camille knew she had no claim on him, and didn’t have any right to think so possessively about him, but in truth she considered him one of her best friends and missed him terribly when—

‘Lucas!’

A young boy came running up the path towards them, seemingly right at home on her mother-in-law’s property. Camille was astonished when Lucas’s face split into a broad grin and he called back happily, ‘Paulo!’

Paulo came up to the patio with a swagger, beaming at Lucas. He reminded Camille of the Artful Dodger in an old movie she’d once seen; he had jet-black hair and was dressed scruffily, dirty marks across his face like an urchin who’d been left to fend for himself. His expression was full of mischief, his dark eyes alight as he and Lucas conversed in rapid Spanish which Camille struggled to follow.

‘Darling, why don’t you introduce me to your friend?’ she suggested sweetly.

‘Mama, this is Paulo. He lives on the farm over there.’ Lucas waved his hand vaguely in the distance. ‘They have a dog, and chickens, and a pig called Chancho,’ he added excitedly. ‘We played together the last time I came to stay with Abuela.’

‘How nice,’ Camille said, but the sentiment didn’t reach her eyes, as she looked critically at Paulo from behind her dark glasses. She didn’t want to be a snob, but equally, she didn’t want Lucas to come home with lice at the end of the holiday, and this boy looked as though he was infested.

Camille glanced at Margarita, but she was beaming at the two boys, clearly not sharing her daughter-in-law’s misgivings.

‘Would you like something to eat, Paulo?’ she asked, indicating the spread of bread and pastries and fruit on the table.

He took an apricot coca in one hand and a croissant in the other, biting into them ravenously, as Lucas jumped up from the table. ‘Can I go and play now, Mama?’

‘Your father and I will be leaving shortly. Don’t you want to wait and say goodbye?’

‘I can say goodbye now,’ said Lucas, hurling himself into Camille’s arms, then formally shaking hands with Andre. ‘I’ll see you in a few weeks,’ he called, as he ran off down the path with Paulo, the two of them laughing and calling to one another.

‘He’ll come back when he’s hungry,’ Margarita smiled.

‘Will they be safe?’ Camille asked in alarm. Perhaps she should insist to Andre that they needed to stay here, or at least take Lucas with them.

‘This isn’t Paris,’ Margarita said easily. ‘He’ll come to no harm around here; everyone looks out for one another. It’s nice for him to have a friend, and not have to spend all his time with his grandmother.’

‘Hmm,’ Camille said, pursing her lips. Lucas and Paulo were little more than specks in the distance, and she couldn’t hide her concern. She’d bet her last sou that that boy was trouble.

Lucas hadn’t returned before they left, and – as they said goodbye to Margarita – Camille couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling she’d got from his friend. In the taxi, heading for the airport, the relaxed atmosphere of the morning was slowly drifting away, to be replaced by an unmistakeable sense of tension. Camille was powerless to stop her thoughts turning to work, and it seemed as though Andre was feeling the same as he turned to her and said, ‘I don’t want to waste this summer. We have so many opportunities, and we’re on the cusp of something big, I can feel it. I want to push us to the next level.’

Camille bristled. ‘You don’t have to tell me. It’s my business too. I want us to be as successful as you do.’

‘We should be doing better than we are by now. Look at Diane von Furstenberg or Vivienne Westwood. Their labels have exploded over the past few years.’