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‘Neither do I, Lucas. But what choice do we have?’

They fell silent, knowing there was no easy solution, but neither wanting to say the words and make it final.

‘I’ll see you at the show, OK? We can talk …’

‘Lucas, I’m not sure what’s left to say …’ Stephanie’s voice was quiet, and she bit back the tears that threatened to fall. ‘Goodbye.’

She heard him swallow, his throat thick with emotion. ‘Please, Stephanie …’ But she didn’t wait to hear the rest.

Isobel was in shock. She had fled from her room, and she’d meant it when she’d told Stuart that she never wanted to see him again. He’d better have packed his things – including that trashy thong – and got the hell out of there by the time she got back, or she wouldn’t be responsible for her actions …

Then again, it sounded as if he’d be glad to be gone, and Isobel had given him an easy way out. He was probably on his way to the airport already, to fly out to his lover …

He’d said he loved this woman, Isobel recalled in disbelief. Valeria Perez, the Goddess from Girona, with Stuart? Isobel let out an incredulous laugh as she walked quickly along the corridors of the palacio, wanting to put as much distance as possible between her and Stuart.

He would want a divorce, obviously, and although Isobel could take him to the cleaners, she didn’t want a penny of his money right now. She was devastated that the future she had planned had been snatched away from her, that the baby she had longed for was now little more than a distant dream.

Tears sprang to her eyes and she blinked them away. She could break down later, but right now she had to be strong. Nothing was going to stop her from going to the Camille Andre show. That had been the whole point of coming to Mallorca, and to the palacio – not that Stuart had known that.

Isobel stepped into the lift and checked her appearance in the mirror. She still looked immaculate, only the merest hint of red around her pupils indicating that she’d been upset. Her thick blonde hair was swept up elegantly, and delicate diamond earrings dangled from her earlobes, following every slight movement of her head. Isobel lifted her chin and smoothed down her jumpsuit as though she was putting on armour.

The lift door opened onto a lobby filled with people, chatter and laughter, as famous faces greeted one another, waving across the space and air-kissing ostentatiously. Isobel looked around for Stephanie but couldn’t see her, so she headed towards the Sunset Room and joined the queue which was beginning to form. It moved quickly, and as Isobel reached the front, she gave her name to the security guard who checked his list. He was wearing dark glasses, so she couldn’t see his eyes, and he had a radio in one hand and a thin wire snaked round his head attached to an earpiece. He found her name and paused.

‘Isobel MacFarlane? This way.’

‘Thank you.’ Isobel gave him a broad smile and fell into step behind him. She was so distracted by thoughts of Stuart that she failed to notice no one else was getting a personal accompaniment to their seat. She’d experienced a pang of sadness as she’d given her name to the security guard, wondering if she should revert back to her maiden name. She’d built up her boutique and was known in the business as MacFarlane, but she no longer wanted to be associated with Stuart …

It was only when the security guard opened the door to a banqueting room, that alarm bells began ringing.

‘Where are we—?’

‘Could you wait in here for a moment, please?’

‘But why? What’s happening?’

‘Someone will be along shortly to explain everything. But I’ve been asked if you’ll wait here for now.’

Isobel frowned, uncertainty flashing through her mind. Surely Camille couldn’t have discovered … Either way, it seemed she had no choice but to comply. The security guard was tall and wide, his shoulders almost the width of her arm span. Isobel wondered what he’d do if she resisted. Slowly, obediently, she sat down on one of the banquet chairs, looking up at him questioningly.

‘Thank you,’ the man said curtly. It was only when he left the room and locked the door that Isobel started to panic.

‘Francesca, darling, thank you so much for coming.’ Camille air-kissed the journalist from Elle España magazine, one of the select few who’d been invited backstage to capture the atmosphere. ‘Now, are we looking after you? René, take Francesca and make sure she has everything she needs. I’ll catch up with you later, darling, it’s nonstop here. Now, has anyone heard from Katerina?’

Backstage was a hive of activity, as everyone raced around frantically and Camille did her best to remain cool and calm, like the eye in the centre of the hurricane. She had coordinated dozens of these shows over the years, but they were always challenging, with problems arising that no one could have anticipated and everyone working flat out right up until the last second.

In the main room outside, the invited guests and the press pack were gathering, the hum of conversation and anticipation filtering backstage over the incessant beat of the music. René turned back to her, holding out his phone, pulling a face.

‘Katerina’s sick. She can’t make it.’

‘Why the hell didn’t anyone tell us before?’ Camille fumed, striding over to the rails where Katerina’s opening outfit was still hanging, unclaimed.

‘She was sleeping.’ René rolled his eyes. ‘She’d been up half the night with a bad stomach. Her agent’s furious. They’ve been trying to get hold of her for the last two hours.’

‘Tell them to send a replacement.’

‘There’s no one on the island. Half of their roster seems to be in Ibiza right now, but they wouldn’t get here in time.’

‘Make a note never to use that girl again,’ Camille ordered. ‘I understand that people get sick, but you don’t wait until fifteen minutes before a show to tell someone. Merde,’ she swore. ‘Get me the schedule. Is there anyone spare? Perhaps we can change the running order so the girls get more time and fit in the extra looks? I don’t see how else we can do it …’