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‘I’m sure he’d be so proud of you, continuing his legacy like this,’ Stephanie murmured. She could see that Camille still carried a lot of pain, but imagined that she’d had no choice but to carry on. It was something that Stephanie understood well; she’d endured struggles in her own life too … but things had changed now. You can still lose it all, Stephanie, she heard a little voice in her ear say. She ignored it and tried to focus on Camille.

‘I hope so. My son, Lucas, lives on the island now.’ She smiled gently. ‘He owns a restaurant, Il Paradiso.’

Stephanie tilted her head to one side, the name stirring a memory. ‘I’m sure Catherine said that’s where we were going for dinner tonight.’

‘Of course! I invited her and Michael for dinner, and she asked to bring another guest, so that’s perfect! They are both so welcoming, you can see how much friends and family mean to them. I can’t wait for you to meet Lucas.’

‘I’d love to.’

Camille sat back in her seat and beamed at Stephanie. ‘I can see that you’re a wonderful person. So talented and charming. You deserve all the success that’s coming your way—’

‘Camille, darling!’

Camille broke off as a throaty Welsh voice called her name, and she turned to see the beauty that was Catherine Zeta-Jones walking across the room towards them. She was wearing golf attire, but still looked utterly stunning in pristine white trousers and a pink polo shirt, her raven hair pulled up in a topknot with a white visor perched on her head, as she surveyed them with her mesmerizing feline eyes.

‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she purred. ‘Michael and I completely lost track of time.’

‘Don’t worry at all,’ Camille reassured her, standing up as the two women air-kissed. ‘Stephanie and I have been having a lovely chat.’

‘Isn’t she a doll?’ Catherine beamed, turning to Stephanie who couldn’t help but smile back. ‘She’s going to be the biggest star.’

‘I can tell,’ Camille agreed. ‘I look forward to seeing you at Il Paradiso, Stephanie. It was so nice to meet you.’

‘And you. See you later,’ Stephanie smiled, as Catherine and Camille left the room, already talking about their ideas for Catherine’s gown. Stephanie felt awestruck – she’d met the legendary Camille Fontaine! Stephanie had hugely enjoyed speaking to Camille, full of admiration for everything she’d achieved. Camille had clearly been through a lot, but she was a fighter, and Stephanie could relate to that. And now Camille had offered to dress her for her film premiere! She could almost explode with excitement.

A couple of years ago, she wouldn’t have dreamed of seeing a Camille dress in real life, but she’d been forced to up her game recently, poring over glossy magazines and becoming familiar with the most on-trend designers. Her agent had even put her in touch with a stylist who’d taken her shopping on Bond Street, to ensure she looked every inch the sophisticated, upcoming starlet. Her agent … Stephanie let out a small groan, thinking of Victoria’s call and imagining her steely, no-nonsense agent tapping her perfectly manicured nails on her desk and weighing up her next move.

‘You can’t avoid her for ever,’ Catherine had told Stephanie, and she was right, she couldn’t, but she hoped she could avoid her for a bit longer. For now, the Mallorcan sun was shining, and it was time for a refreshing dip in the Douglases’ amazing pool. Fame would have to wait.

Chapter 4

Lucas Fontaine was in the kitchen of Il Paradiso, prepping food for that evening’s service. His fingers were flying, the sharp blade so fast it was almost a blur as he made light work of a whole bag of fat, juicy tomatoes which he would use for his famous gazpacho. Of course, he had a sous-chef for work like this, but today Lucas wanted to get an early start. The restaurant was fully booked, and one of the diners would be his mother, along with her VIP guests. Besides, he liked doing the work himself; its repetitive nature lulled him into an almost trance-like state as he sliced and diced, and the end result was immensely satisfying.

Il Paradiso was Lucas’s baby. It had been established almost two years ago, and his ambitions for its future were sky-high. Lucas wanted a Michelin star, no less. The food was elevated Catalan, with specialities including duck breast braised with pear, meatballs with cuttlefish, and his renowned lobster with chocolate sauce. Lucas liked the fact that he’d discovered his talent, and no one could take his achievements away from him. Finding success in a field completely unrelated to his parents meant that no one could accuse him of nepotism – he’d been successful through his skills alone.

It was true that his mother, Camille, had invested in his business, allowing him to buy the restaurant, but she was a silent partner. Everything that he’d accomplished since then had been down to him. Lucas dipped a teaspoon in the sofregit he was making, the traditional sauce made from tomatoes and onions, and tasted it thoughtfully. Almost there. It just needed a little more time to caramelize and then it would be perfect.

‘Hey man, you’re here early!’

Lucas looked up to see his best friend and business partner, Paulo Torres, stroll into the restaurant. Paulo was mid-height and stocky, with dark hair and a deep tan that spoke of a life spent on the island. He wore cargo shorts and a short-sleeved shirt that was open low enough to show a considerable amount of chest hair. The two had known each other since they were children, when Lucas used to stay with his grandparents in their villa. Paulo had grown up on a farm down the road, and was always delighted when the holidays rolled around and Lucas came to visit. The two boys were only a year apart, with Paulo being the elder, and they’d get up to all kinds of mischief whilst roaming the island on those long, hot summer days. They’d disappear from dawn until dusk, cycling deserted trails, and taking rowing boats out to sea, where they’d cast lines for fish and discover hidden coves. As they grew older, their interests shifted, and they spent their days hanging around the sandy beaches where they practised their rudimentary flirting skills on the local girls.

Their friendship had spanned almost two decades, and Paulo had been there for Lucas when his father had died, supporting him through that nightmarish time when Lucas had almost lost his life as well. Prior to the accident, Lucas had led a spoiled, playboy lifestyle, rolling from continent to continent, party to party, woman to woman. A more sombre, sober Lucas emerged from the aftermath, one who was ready to put down roots and work for a living, instead of having his every whim indulged by his parents. And whilst Paulo’s parents were no longer farmers – with the increase in tourism to the island, they now ran a successful boat hire company – their son was always eager to make his fortune. It was a natural fit that the two men would go into business together, and so Lucas ran the kitchen whilst Paulo – a born hustler – handled everything else.

‘So are you,’ Lucas shot back with a grin, high-fiving Paulo as he entered the kitchen, before opening the fridge and helping himself to a botifarra sausage. ‘Hey, they’re for later,’ Lucas protested.

‘I’m doing quality checks,’ Paulo countered, demolishing it in two bites. ‘And they’ve passed with flying colours.’

‘Naturally,’ Lucas laughed. ‘So why are you here?’

‘Same as you. It’s a big night tonight, right? I wanted to check that everything was flawless, and that front of house looks spectacular …’ Paulo turned around, his practised gaze sweeping over everything. The space was open plan, with the kitchen visible from the main restaurant so that the diners could watch the chefs at work and inhale the delicious smells as the food was cooked.

The restaurant itself was smart and modern, airy and light, with clean lines and cream walls accentuated by touches of red and yellow to evoke the Catalan flag. It was decorated in a simple, homely style. Lucas wanted his dishes to be the focus, not the décor, and for diners to feel comfortable, not intimidated.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Paulo continued. ‘Of the best way we can leverage tonight. I’ve got a photographer friend, Carlos Garcia – you know him, right? He usually does the clubs in Palma. I’ll ask him to swing by. We’ll get a great shot of Catherine and Michael, along with you, the chef extraordinaire – and me, of course.’

Lucas pulled a face. ‘Carlos? I’m not so sure …’ Catherine Zeta-Jones and Michael Douglas were to be guests of his mother, and she wanted the occasion to be extra special. Lucas was thrilled with their patronage, and he didn’t want to take advantage of what should have been a private occasion by selling photos to the world’s press.

‘That’s why you deal with the food, and I deal with the PR,’ Paulo quipped. ‘You’ve got to capitalize on every opportunity. Do you want that Michelin star or not?’