The Cinderella Moment (23 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five

Thankfully Friday came around all too soon.

Angel’s first thought when she woke that morning was of her mother, her second was of the door leading to the Teen Couture room, and her third was of Nick.

Angel had rung Maman three times since the polo match. It had actually been a relief to be interrogated about summer camp because it was wonderful to hear her mother sounding so much better.

Her thoughts of Nick were not so easily resolved.

Yesterday, the summer season group had visited a homeless shelter and it was there that she’d overheard the redhead say that he was still in the hospital. It’d been a shock because only that morning the Comtesse had told her Nick had gone home.

Ignoring the redhead’s blatant hostility, Angel had plucked up her courage and asked, “Is Nick in the hospital? I thought he’d gone home. Do you know how he is?”

But before the redhead could answer, her wide-eyed brunette friend had said haughtily, “Of course Marianne knows—she knows all about Nick. She visited him this morning.”

“Thank you, Esmé, I can speak for myself.” Marianne regarded Angel with cool disdain. “What are you trying to say?”

Ignoring an uncharitable urge to sock Marianne on the nose, Angel said, “The Comtesse told me he’d left the hospital, but you said he’s still there.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” demanded Marianne.

“No,” retorted Angel. “I simply want to know if he’s okay. Surely that’s not too much to ask?”

“It’s lucky for you one of us speaks French
and
English fluently,” said Marianne. “Nick’s fine.”

“So why is he still in the hospital?”

“Because his parents want him to stay there until they arrive from Dubai.”

“His parents?” Angel hadn’t thought of Nick’s parents. Not since he’d told her how they’d announced their divorce and dumped him in boarding school when he was eight.

“Did you think he had none?” scoffed Marianne. “Lord and Lady Langham flew in this afternoon.”

“They did?” Angel tried to digest it all. What did Marianne mean,
Lord
and
Lady
Langham? Were Nick’s parents part of the British aristocracy? Angel supposed it made sense. After all, Lily’s grandmother was a Comtesse, so she probably knew loads of people with titles and families stretching back generations.

But when Angel thought of Nick—of his curly dark hair and the way his eyes sparkled when he teased her and how his mouth looked when he smiled—he didn’t look like royalty, he looked like a boy who’d wanted to kiss her.

“Nick wouldn’t discuss his family with you,” said Marianne loftily.

“He told me his parents were divorced.”

“But he didn’t tell you they’d remarried.”

Angel was silent.

“Not as close to Nick as you’d thought, otherwise he’d have told you about Charles and Georgiana,” sneered Marianne. “They’re his parents, in case you were wondering.”

***

It was after breakfast on Friday that the Comtesse also mentioned them. “I have invited Nick’s parents to the ballet tonight. It’s
La Bayadère
, one of Georgiana’s favorites.”

“Great,” said Angel, trying to sound sincere.

“Do you know
La Bayadère
, Lily?”

“No.”

“You are in for a treat then.” The Comtesse sighed. “My dear friend Rudolf Nureyev’s last production, you know. He died not long after its Paris premiere—such a beautiful ballet.”

“It sounds amazing.”

“You have a busy day today, Lily, but I think you will not be too tired for the ballet.”

“Sure.”

“After your fitting, we have the charity lunch at
Les Invalides
.” The Comtesse glanced at Angel’s new sea-green dress and said, “From there we go straight to St. Thérèse’s so you will need to bring a change of clothes; jeans and a T-shirt will be best.”

“I thought St. Thérèse’s was a church?” said Angel, surprised.

“St. Thérèse’s is a women's refuge and today is our monthly working bee. I doubt you will wish to wear Vivienne Westwood while weeding the garden or repainting the dining room.”

“True.”

“When you have finished at St. Thérèse’s, Henri will bring you home. I have a board meeting but I will be back in time for the ballet,” the Comtesse said. “It is a gala evening, so you must wear something special: the rose-pink Dior dress will be perfect and I have just the necklace to go with it.” She smiled at Angel. “Come to my room after dinner and I will give it to you.”

Her words brought a lump to Angel's throat and on an impulse, she threw her arms around the Comtesse and hugged her. “You are so kind to me,” she whispered.

“Nonsense, child,” replied the Comtesse briskly, but Angel felt herself being hugged back before she let go.

There was something about the Comtesse’s embrace that filled Angel with an unfamiliar emotion. A longing for something out of reach
…

She found herself wishing that it was she and not Lily who was the granddaughter of this kind, generous, clever woman whose passions matched Angel’s own.

“And now that Nicky is well—”

Angel came back to the present. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“Now that Nicky is recovered, he will also be at the ballet tonight. Georgiana rang to say how much she and Charles are looking forward to meeting you again—they have not seen you since you were a little girl.”

“Can’t wait.” Angel forced a smile.

The Comtesse nodded. “I knew you would be pleased. We will meet them at the theatre. I have reserved a box.”

“Wow,” said Angel, struggling to sound enthusiastic. The thought of spending the evening with Nick sent her heart into overdrive. But even worse was the thought of meeting his parents. They were probably thrilled that Nick was interested in Lily, the daughter of their old friend Philip de Tourney and the Comtesse’s granddaughter.

Angel almost groaned aloud.

The Comtesse glanced at her watch.

“What time is your fitting, Lily?”

Angel pushed all thoughts of Nick, his parents and the ballet from her mind. She
had
to focus on her plan. “Ten-thirty, Grandmama.”

“That is earlier than last time, is it not?”

“Yes, but they’re very busy—what with Bertrand away sick and all.”

The Comtesse raised her eyebrows. “You seem very well-informed.”

Angel colored. “Not really, the fitters were talking and I happened to be there because
…
well, they were fitting my gown and
… ”
her voice trailed away.

“ … and naturally you listened.” The Comtesse eyed her appraisingly. “Do you know, Lily, sometimes I think there is rather more to you than meets the eye.”

Angel shifted uncomfortably, but said nothing.

“Run up and get your things, then. Henri will bring the car around.” The Comtesse thought for a moment. “Perhaps I will come with you. I have an appointment in Montmartre at eleven, but I should like to see you in your ball gown.”

“No!” cried Angel. She’d never be able swap her designs if the Comtesse came with her. “Please don’t, I’d much rather you didn’t
… ”
Angel faltered at the hurt look on the Comtesse’s face. “I
…
I want my dress to be a surprise! I know you’ve already seen it, but you haven’t seen it on
me
! And when you do, I want it to be perfect—not stuck with pins or sewn all over with tacking thread.”

The Comtesse’s face cleared. “I see.”

“It’s my first Versailles Ball,” added Angel. “I don’t want anyone to see me in my gown till then.”

The Comtesse nodded. “So you have your heart set on a grand entrance. Your very own Cinderella moment. All right, I shall wait until the Versailles Ball to see you in your gown.”

***

Vidal’s was busier than Angel had ever seen it and the receptionist seemed unusually flustered. The telephone rang endlessly and a steady stream of people ran in and out giving instructions or demanding information. Angel waited until she heard someone call the receptionist by name, before she approached the desk.

“
Bonjour Hélène
,” Angel said brightly. “It is busy this morning,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“Oh, yes, mademoiselle,” the receptionist replied with a sigh.

“Well, I won’t bother you,” said Angel. “I have a fitting at eleven, but I can find my own way.”

“Oh no, Monsieur Vidal would not like it if I did not escort you.”

“Nonsense,” said Angel, hoping she sounded a little like the Comtesse. “I’m sure Monsieur Vidal won’t mind, not when you’re so busy.” She looked pointedly at the ringing telephone.

“I’m not sure
… ”

“It’ll be fine,” Angel reassured. “I know my way.”

“Perhaps it’s all right
… ”
The receptionist eyed the delivery man coming through the door, laden with boxes. “It is true we are very busy. Monsieur Vidal has made several last-minute changes to the collection.”

“I understand,” Angel interrupted. “It’s a lot of extra work.”

“
Oui
, but fortunately, Bertrand—our head designer—returns today.”

“I heard he’s been ill.”

Hélène nodded. “It is a great relief he returns, for many things await his attention.”

Without thinking, Angel said, “So he’ll begin the cull today?”

“I do not know,” Hélène answered, suspicion on her face. “You are interested in the Teen Couture?”

“Not especially,” replied Angel, kicking herself mentally. “Only, my
grandmère
—the Comtesse de Tourney—was talking about it, and she said the winner would be announced at the Versailles Ball. That’s next Saturday and I was thinking maybe the Teen Couture wouldn’t be judged in time.”

The receptionist’s face cleared. “Ah, but
naturellement
, The Comtesse would be concerned. But you may tell her there will be no delay, for Bertrand and Celeste will begin the cull at noon today.”

“I’m sure she’ll be relieved to hear it,” Angel said as she turned away.

It took all of her self-control not to break into a run. She had to swap the designs
now
because once the cull began it’d be too late. She hurried down the hall towards the empty studio. As she approached the door, Angel held her breath. Would it be empty as before?

She passed the Teen Couture room and opened the studio door.

It was empty.

Quick as lightning, Angel was across the room to where the rolls of fabric still stood exactly as she’d left them. Flinging off her dress, she dragged jeans and a T-shirt from her bag and pulled them on.

Grabbing her flashlight and penknife, she pulled her bag onto her shoulder, dropped to her knees and crawled into the space beneath the bolts. Reaching the door, Angel wedged her foot against the roll of blue denim and tried the handle. She gave the door a gentle push and, with one hand bracing the fabric roll, slid through and pulled the door behind her.

Finally, she was in.

In the center of the room stood a dozen large clothing racks, each hung with ten or twelve garment bags.

Angel felt the panic rise. She had less than fifteen minutes to find the right bag, swap the entries and get back in time for her fitting.

What
color
label had been on Clarissa’s?

She hurried over to the nearest rack and examined the tags. They were all pastel colors: pale pink, lemon, lilac and ice green. Nothing rang any bells. The labels on the next rack were all different shades of blue and beside it the labels ranged from orange to a deep blood-red.

Angel tried to think. Closing her eyes, she let her mind go back to when she’d seen her day dress spilling from the suit bag. She could see the woman checking the label and
…

Purple. Clarissa’s entry was tagged with a purple label.

Angel scanned the racks. There it was—three racks over between a violet and a brown tag.

Pushing her way between the racks she stopped in front of the bulging garment bag. The name CLARISSA KANE was written on the label in large black letters.

Angel’s heart skipped a beat.

Clarissa Kane. In the past few days she and Margot seemed to have faded into the background. Angel had been so busy being Lily that she’d almost forgotten them. But seeing Clarissa’s name was a powerful reminder of why she’d come to Paris.

She remembered how Margot had looked that night in the back of the Rolls—like a hideous, gloating snake. And how triumphantly Clarissa had told Lily that her Teen Couture entry had gone to Paris.

Her
Teen Couture entry! Not for long. Not now that Angel was here, just inches away from swapping Clarissa’s forgeries for her own designs.

She reached up and pulled down the zip. Free of its confines, the green-and-white silk day dress fluttered from the opening. Pushing past it, Angel groped for the purple folder she’d seen that first afternoon at Vidal’s.

With trembling fingers she pulled it out and flipped it open. There was the entry form and the sheaf of designs that showed in all their detail her five Teen Couture garments.

As she’d expected, every single forgery had been signed with Clarissa’s name. Resisting the urge to tear them into pieces, Angel laid the drawings on the floor and took her design folder from her bag. Easing the pages from their sleeves, she laid them beside Clarissa’s copies and stared at the picture on top of each pile.

They were each a sketch of her red cocktail sheath but, other than the signatures, it was almost impossible to tell them apart. If she looked closely, Angel could see variations in the pencil strokes and she thought her coloring was slightly richer, but to anyone else either drawing could have been judged original.

She quickly leafed through the pile of designs, but they were all the same: Clarissa’s copies were perfect. Only when she came to the sketch of her midnight-blue velvet ball gown did Angel see any difference.

“Because Clarissa never saw my final drawing,” whispered Angel.

She shoved Clarissa’s entry form into her bag, and picked up the pile of forgeries. She was about to push them into her bag when her fingers brushed something on the back of the bottom sketch. It felt stiff and unfamiliar. Angel turned the drawing over with a sense of foreboding.