The Cinderella Moment (24 page)

She stared down at the back of the sketch and her heart sank. In the bottom right-hand corner was a heavy white sticker with a House of Vidal logo stamped on it and underneath, handwritten in flowing script, was a name.

Just two words, but they struck Angel through the heart like a knife.

CLARISSA KANE.

She feverishly turned over the next drawing and the next, but they were all the same. Every one of the forgeries was labelled with Clarissa’s name.

Angel gazed at her sketches and knew she was beaten: she could never duplicate the logo or the handwriting that identified Clarissa Kane as the designer. But even worse was the realization that the labels indicated a system—that even before the judging had begun, somewhere on a database or in a file Clarissa had been recorded as the creator of Angel’s designs.

It was in that moment that Angel realized what she should have known all along. Her plan had been flawed from the beginning because the House of Vidal wasn’t some two-bit store; it was a sophisticated business that would ensure all Teen Couture competitors could be matched to their designs.

Angel felt the tears gather. She reached out and caressed the silken day dress. Coming to Paris had been a terrible mistake. She should have found some other way to beat Clarissa.

And now it was too late, because everyone thought she was Lily and if she explained who she really was, they’d all hate her—especially Nick and the Comtesse.

As she sat there, staring down at her sketches in her right hand and at Clarissa’s copies in her left, it seemed to Angel that she’d never known such despair. All her efforts had been for nothing. Clarissa had won.

A tear ran down her cheek, just missing Clarissa’s sketches. For a moment Angel was tempted to rip them to shreds and throw the pieces into the garment bag.

But what was the point? Her Teen Couture dream was over and she might as well accept it. For Lily’s sake she’d get through the next week as best she could, then go home to New York and try to get on with her life.

She pushed her designs into their folder and was about to put Clarissa’s forgeries back into the suit bag when something made her stop. Angel hesitated for a split second then shoved the whole lot of them into her bag. She flung the empty folder into the garment bag, pulled up the zip and fled.
 

Chapter Twenty-Six

Angel never knew how she got through her fitting. She stood on the platform in a daze while Jeanne and Claudine talked endlessly in French about Bertrand and the cull until Angel thought she might scream.

She didn’t want to think about the Teen Couture or the countless hours spent creating her designs or the fact that Clarissa had stolen them without a qualm. Every time she thought of Clarissa, Angel felt ill and shaky—and when she thought of Clarissa’s forgeries stuffed into her bag the nausea threatened to overwhelm her.

Why had she taken them?

The question pounded in her brain.

It wasn’t as if she’d thought about it. It had been a split-second decision because she’d stupidly imagined that by taking the designs she might somehow still be able to show Clarissa Kane up for the ruthless cheat she was. Instead, all she’d done was alert Bertrand, Celeste and, ultimately, Vidal, to the fact that an entrant’s designs were missing.

And when they looked up their database, the designer’s name wouldn’t read Angel Moncoeur, but Clarissa Kane, who’d never spent a single second designing the Teen Couture entry which bore her name.

Angel felt sick at the thought.

She continued to feel ill right through the charity lunch at
Les Invalides
. She tried to think of other things, to chat and laugh and listen to the speeches, but it was no use. She hardly ate, instead drinking glass after glass of water to try and cool her heated skin and ease the throbbing in her head, but nothing helped.

She watched the other girls eating and talking and laughing together and wondered what they’d say if they knew that a few hours earlier she’d broken into a workroom at the House of Vidal and taken the designs from one of the Teen Couture entries.

They’d say she was a thief. And she couldn’t say she wasn’t without revealing that she was an imposter. A thief or an imposter: that’s how they’d see her.

And what about the Comtesse? Angel practically flinched every time Lily’s grandmother smiled at her and when she came over to speak to her after the speeches, Angel wanted to burst into tears.

“Are you all right, Lily?” asked the Comtesse, touching Angel’s cheek. “You look a little flushed.”

The kind words were like a knife to Angel’s heart and the caress like a red-hot brand, but she managed to smile and say, “I’m fine, Grandmama, only not very hungry.”

“Too much excitement, I expect,” replied the Comtesse. “Was the gown as you’d hoped?”

“Yes, it’s beautiful.”

“I cannot wait to see you in it.” She smiled at Angel and then at Kitty sitting beside her. “And I look forward to seeing your gown, too, Kitty. Is it as you had imagined?”

“Oh, no, Madame, it’s better,” exclaimed Kitty. “It’s so beautiful you can hardly believe it’s real.” She touched Angel’s hand. “And it’s all thanks to Lily. I wasn’t looking forward to the Versailles Ball until she helped me to choose my ball gown and now I can’t wait.”

The Comtesse nodded. “I’m glad. I want this year’s ball to be very special.” She patted Angel’s shoulder. “For it is at this year’s Versailles Ball that my granddaughter will make her Paris debut.”

***

As the afternoon wore away, Angel felt worse and worse. When they got to St. Thérèse’s she threw herself into the work, but no amount of weeding or painting walls could take her mind off those moments in the Teen Couture room when she’d taken Clarissa’s forgeries.

She tried to tell herself not to get so worked up about it. After all, she’d come to Paris for the express purpose of swapping Clarissa’s drawings. So why, when she’d done it, did she feel so terrible? She hadn’t felt sick pretending to be Lily and surely deceiving the Comtesse and Monsieur Vidal and Nick and Kitty and the others was far,
far
worse than trying to stop a cheat like Clarissa Kane?

But Angel couldn’t seem to stop the tide of nausea that rose up inside her or the hot and cold sensations that made her feel sick and giddy. She couldn’t understand her response—it was illogical and stupid, but no amount of reasoning made her feel any better.

By four o’clock, she was aching all over. Her stomach hurt, her head was pounding and she was shaky and weak. Bending down to pick up her paintbrush, she almost fell over.

Kitty looked down from her ladder. “You okay?” she asked, climbing down and dropping her paintbrush into the pot.

“Just a headache.” Angel leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.

“Too much sun,” pronounced Kitty. “You should’ve been wearing a hat outside. Do you have anything you could take?”

Angel nodded. “There should be some Aspirin in my bag,” she whispered gratefully.

“Sit down while I get it.” Kitty crossed to the table where the gang had piled their bags.

“It’s this one, isn’t it?” Kitty held up Angel’s bag.

Angel opened her eyes just in time to see her pulling on the zip.

“No!” she cried. Whatever happened, Kitty mustn’t see the designs. Ignoring her trembling legs, she forced herself upright, ran shakily across the room and grabbed the bag from Kitty.

“Sorry, but I remembered I left the tablets in my room.” She groaned. “I feel so awful, I guess I’m not thinking straight.”

“That’s because you’re not well,” said Kitty, with an odd look. “Let me call the Comtesse.”

“No!” Angel caught her arm. “No, don’t do that,” she said, trying to speak calmly. “She’s in a meeting and I don’t want to disturb her. Henri can take me home when the working bee’s over.”

“I think you should go now.”

“But we haven’t finished.” Angel held up her paintbrush.

“You have,” said Kitty, taking the brush and putting her hand under Angel’s arm. “Don’t argue. Anyone can see that you’re ill. Come on, I’ll help you to the car.”

By the time Henri pulled up at the villa, Angel almost felt too ill to move and when Marcel opened the front door he immediately called Marie. Within minutes, Angel was upstairs being helped into bed, her protests ignored.

“You must rest, Mademoiselle Lily,” said the maid. “That is the best thing. Madame will soon be here; don’t worry.”

But that was the whole problem, wasn’t it? Angel thought grimly, putting her hand to her mouth as another wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm her. She’d done nothing but worry from the moment she’d realized that Clarissa had won.

Suddenly she remembered her bag. What if Marie or the Comtesse opened it? Ignoring the red-hot hammers pounding in her head, Angel sat up. “My bag,” she said, looking wildly about the room. “I need it.”

“It is here, Mademoiselle Lily.” Marie put the bag beside her and Angel sank back onto her pillows. “Try to sleep,” said the maid, tucking in the sheet. “I am sure Madame would say it was the best thing.”

“Indeed I would,” said a voice from the doorway.

Angel’s eyes flew open. The Comtesse was coming towards her with a look of such concern on her face that Angel closed her eyes again. A moment later she felt a cool hand on her forehead and a voice said, “I have telephoned the doctor. He is on his way.”

Angel opened her eyes and said feebly, “I don’t need a doctor. I’m not sick, just tired.”

The Comtesse put Angel’s bag on the floor, sat down on the bed and gently smoothed the hair from Angel’s face. It was soothing, and Angel couldn’t help feeling glad she was there. If only she could tell her the truth, perhaps she could stop worrying and the surging nausea would go away.

“I have to tell you something,” whispered Angel.

“Shhh, try not to talk. Everything is all right. I am here now, Lily.”

Lily. She'd forgotten. She mustn't be Angel, she had to be Lily.

A tear rolled down Angel’s cheek, followed by another and another. Unable to stop, she wept quietly, all the while aware of the Comtesse’s hands tenderly wiping away the tears and her voice, crooning, comforting, telling her not to worry, she’d soon be well.

But Angel wasn’t well and when the doctor came and examined her he diagnosed a viral gastroenteritis.

“It is only the twenty-four-hour variety,” he told the Comtesse, “but it is everywhere. All over Paris. Many of my patients have caught it.”

As if to prove his words, Angel scrambled out of bed and bolted for the bathroom.

When she emerged, she felt washed out and exhausted. The room seemed to dip and sway and she barely registered the fact that the Comtesse had sent Marie away and it was she who helped Angel into a fresh nightgown and tucked her into bed.

The next thing Angel knew was that she was being helped to sit up and a glass of water was being held to her lips.

“Just a sip,” said the Comtesse. “And then another with the medicine Dr. Girard has left for you.”

Angel swallowed obediently and lay back against her pillows. Her stomach didn’t hurt so much, but she felt strange and terribly hot. She looked at the Comtesse sitting in an armchair beside the bed and again felt that overwhelming urge to tell her everything.

She wanted to say how much she hated deceiving her and how much better a granddaughter Lily would be once she’d finished at the London Academy and could come to Paris. She wanted to tell her about the Teen Couture and how much Papa had believed in her
…
He’d been so frail
…

Angel plucked fretfully at the sheet. She needed to explain about Margot and how Clarissa had stolen her dream and how she and Lily had worked out a plan.

And then it seemed as if Lily was by the bed, only Angel couldn’t understand what she was saying.

The images swirled in her brain like a weird kaleidoscope. People’s faces came and went, their voices jangling in her head in a cacophony of unfinished sentences. Angel tried to speak but the words kept flying out of reach and she wished she had a butterfly net so she could catch them and make the Comtesse understand. She moved restlessly in the bed. If she could just get the words to stay still, then she could tell the Comtesse about her mother.

That was what she wanted most. To tell the Comtesse about Maman and how hard she worked and how sad and lonely she was since Papa had died. If she could just explain about Maman being ill and how Margot had promised to take care of her so long as Angel gave up her dream of entering the Teen Couture. And Angel had agreed because she loved her mother so much
…

“Maman,” she whispered, and a tear dropped onto the pillow.

“It’s all right, Lily,” said a voice. “I’m here.” Only it wasn’t her mother’s voice, it was the voice of someone in pain, someone Angel had never heard sound like that before.

She opened her eyes to see who the hurt person was and found the Comtesse still sitting in the chair beside the bed.