The Cinderella Moment (26 page)

“Absolutely. And if you do decide to tell Nick the truth at least you’ll know for sure how he feels about you.”

“It sounds terrifying.”

“Spend the week with him and then decide.”

“I guess,” said Angel slowly.

“Do it, Angel!” exclaimed Lily. “Listen, Brett’s here, so I’ve got to go. Ring me on Monday and tell me how it went with Nick, okay? Bye.”

“Bye, Lily.” Angel gazed up at her faun. Maybe Lily was right and she should give Nick a chance. If she got to know him, perhaps she could tell him the truth and he’d still like her. It seemed unlikely, but what did she have to lose? She stared at herself in the mirror. What had Lily said?

“Do it!” whispered Angel.
 

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Cheerful puffs of white cloud chased each other across a bright blue sky as Angel waited by the obelisk in the center of the Place de La Concorde. Nick had called that morning to invite her to spend Sunday sightseeing with him. It was their first conversation since the polo match and Angel had felt a little awkward. At first she'd been tempted to refuse but Nick had been so sincere in apologizing for the accident she hadn't had the heart.

The Comtesse was pleased by the call and had agreed to Angel going out for a couple of hours.

She'd protested that two hours wasn’t nearly long enough, but the Comtesse had been resolute. “You are only recently out of bed, Lily, and it would be foolish to risk a relapse by doing too much, too soon. I am only letting you go because I trust Nicky to take care of you.”

Watching him stride across the square towards her, Angel could understand the Comtesse’s faith in him. Nick looked so assured, so broad-shouldered and capable. She had no doubt he’d manage to look after her for two hours on a beautiful afternoon in Paris.

He didn't seem quite so assured when he stopped in front of her.

“Hey,” said Nick.

“Hey,” replied Angel, wishing she knew what to say.

“Are you okay? Godmother said you’d been ill.”

Angel nodded. “It was a twenty-four-hour thing. I’m fine now.” She examined him for any sign of his polo accident. “What about you? How’s your head?”

“Perfect. Not a scratch on me. My only real injury was to my heart.”

“What?”

Nick assumed a martyred expression. “You see, you didn’t visit me in the hospital,” he said tragically. “But then I heard you’d been ill, so it was okay. Once I knew you’d gone out in sympathy for me—”

“I did not!”

Nick grinned. “Or maybe you were just trying to get my attention.”

“Don’t give yourself airs,” said Angel, punching him playfully.

“Well, you’ve obviously got your strength back, so let’s go look at some art.”

“Where are we going?” asked Angel, as Nick took her hand and led her across the square.

“
L’Orangerie
,” he pointed to a building. “Godmother told me I wasn’t to tire you, so I thought we’d start somewhere small. It’s a pity we can’t do more, given that it’s Sunday.”

“What’s so special about Sunday?”

“Nothing,” replied Nick. “Only, it’s the perfect day for a date.”

She regarded him. “Oh?”

“Lots of Paris monuments are free on Sunday.” Nick looked at her mournfully. “Think of the money I’d save if we could see more than one.”

“What makes you think this is a date?” she demanded.

“Did I say ‘date’? Sorry, I meant a
cheap
date.”

“All right, what makes you think this is a cheap date?”

“Oh, but I don’t.” Nick grinned at the flash of regret on Angel’s face. “At least, it
is
a date—just not a cheap date. Or it won’t be by the time it’s over.”

“What do you mean?” asked Angel, as they entered the gallery.

“This is a week-long date,” said Nick, taking her hand. “We can’t do much today, but tomorrow we can do a bit more and the day after that we can have the whole afternoon and maybe the evening, which means we can go to the
Musée d’Orsay
and the artists’ quarter in Montmartre. On Wednesday I’m taking you to the Ritz for lunch.” He held up his hand. “It’s no use arguing because lunch at
L’Espadon
is compulsory. You haven’t truly experienced Paris until you’ve eaten at the Ritz.”

Angel opened her mouth and closed it. She’d been about to tell him that she couldn’t do any of these things because she didn’t want to eat at the Ritz or see the
Musée d’Orsay
or Montmartre, but it wasn’t true. She wanted to do all of it—especially with Nick.

“We’ll go up the Arc de Triomphe and see the Louvre. On Friday night—well, I’ll ask you about that later.” He ushered her inside. “You can see that by week’s end you’ll be anything but a cheap date.”

“And what about the summer season?” asked Angel.

“Oh sure, we can fit that in. Wednesday morning we’re back at St. Thérèse’s. Then we’re bound to run into everyone at some of the museums and we’ll definitely see them in the sewers.”

“The sewers?” Angel wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly.

“I said I’d take you off the beaten track,” smiled Nick. “You’ll love them, they’re one of the highlights of a trip to Paris. But we won’t do the sewer tour until I’m sure you’re up to it.”

“I’m not that delicate.”

“Godmother made me promise to take care of you
and
get you home on time.” He looked at his watch. “Which means we have less than two hours to absorb the magic of
l’Orangerie
before Henri collects you.”

“I thought you said the gallery was small?”

“It is, but some of the paintings might take a while to see.”

He led her to a doorway then whispered, “Shut your eyes.” Angel closed them obediently and Nick guided her forward. A moment later he said softly, “Open.”

Angel opened her eyes and gasped.

She was staring into a large oval-shaped room with just four paintings on the walls. But what paintings! Each huge, curved canvas was of a different view of a lake or a lily-pond, for these were Claude Monet’s famous waterlilies.

“Incredible, aren’t they?” said Nick.

“Amazing.”

“And there are four more in the next room.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope, I’ve spent hours here, just sitting and looking at them.”

“I can see why.”

Together they slowly circled the room. Angel had never seen anything like Monet’s huge canvasses.

“It’s as if he’s captured the light
inside
the paint,” she told Nick, as they peered at the amazing colors used by the master painter to create his famous
Nymphéas
.

The second room was every bit as breathtaking and Angel spent several minutes going back and forth trying to work out which painting she liked best.

“It’s impossible to choose a favorite,” she finally declared, sitting down next to Nick on the seat in the middle of the room.

“Mmm, I can’t decide either. It’s why I keep coming back.”

“I wish I could come back.”

“Why can’t you?”

“Oh
…
well
…
you see
… ”
Angel faltered beneath Nick’s clear gaze. “This trip’s a bit of a one-off. I’m not sure I can
… ”

He put his hand over hers. “Don’t you want to come back?”

“Yes,” replied Angel, flustered. “It’s just
…
it’s complicated.”

“Because you live in New York and I live in London?”

“I
…
I didn’t know we were talking about
…
us.”

“We weren’t, but maybe we should be,” said Nick. “I’ve been wanting to ask you—”

“
Bonjour Nick!
” The words sliced the air and Angel pulled away as Marianne came towards them, the rest of the summer season gang following. The redhead stopped in front of Nick and put her hand on his shoulder. It was a possessive gesture that made Angel itch to slap her.

The group crowded around them, chattering loudly until an angry “shhh” from the museum guard reminded them of their surroundings. Several of the girls giggled, then Marianne said in French, “I thought you would be at the
Musée d’Orsay
, Nick.” She pouted provocatively. “Instead you are here with the American. Why do you waste your time with her when she knows nothing of art or culture or fashion?” She curled her lip. “She will be happy to see only the Mona Lisa at the Louvre with the other American tourists.”

Esmé giggled, but most of the others looked uncomfortably at Angel.

Nick rose. “May I introduce Marianne to you, Lily,” he said in English.

“We’ve already met,” said Angel.

He smiled. “So you know that Marianne has a thing for Americans.”

“Is that so?” asked Angel, holding out her hand. “Well, it’s a real pleasure to meet you, Marianne,” she said, her American accent suddenly broad and southern. “My, but you have some pretty pictures in here.”

Marianne barely touched Angel’s hand as she said in English, “I’m glad you like them.”

“Like ’em? I
lurve
’em,” cried Angel in a passable imitation of a southern belle.

She watched Marianne’s lip curl into a sneer before saying in perfect, idiomatic French, “You see I’ve always wanted to see the Monet paintings that inspired Antoine Vidal’s legendary collection of impressionist-inspired evening-wear.”

She pointed to the painting behind Marianne. “Now that I’m here I can see how he based his evening gowns on this picture. You’ve probably recognized his use of Monet’s celadon, peridot and emerald—all those greens in his collection that started a worldwide trend.”

She turned to the others, who were staring at her open-mouthed.

“Vidal also used Monet’s blue palette that year. I’m sure you all remember the incredible beaded georgette evening dress he designed for our First Lady.” She waved at the painting. “But, you know, I’d never fully appreciated his use of pink and yellow in that collection, only now I’ve seen the original painting, I
totally
get it, don’t you?”

The group nodded mutely.

Angel turned back to Marianne and said in French, “The New York Met’s collection of Monet is fabulous, but,” she glanced around and whispered conspiratorially, “I think what you Frenchies have here surpasses even that
American
gallery.”

For a moment no one spoke and then the group converged on her, laughing and demanding to know why she hadn’t let on that she spoke French as well as any of them.

But before Angel could answer the museum guard bore down on them with a look in her eye that prompted Nick to whisper urgently, “Let’s go before they kick us out.”

He took her hand in his and led her to the door. As they passed Marianne, Nick said loud enough for them all to hear, “I'm rather fond of Americans, you know.”

Angel couldn't help smiling.
 

Chapter Twenty-Nine

It was at Monday’s dance class that Angel discovered what Nick had been going to ask her at
l'Orangerie
. During the class he kept switching places with the other boys so he could dance every dance with her. And, far from minding, Fred had actually instructed Nick to hold Angel closer on the turns!

She’d agonized over whether she should let herself get close to him, but when he pulled her into his arms for the first dance, Angel gave in. She hated deceiving him and she didn’t want to hurt him, so she decided she’d just have to find the right moment to tell him the truth.

It was during the last waltz that Nick finally asked the question he’d begun asking her that night on the
bateau-mouche
. He’d just spun Angel past Kitty and Giles, when he said, “Will you go out with me on Friday night?”

Angel grinned. “Sure. Is this to the sewers or is there a free gallery open somewhere?”

Nick laughed. “It’s my birthday and my parents are hosting a dinner for me at the Hotel de Crillon. I hoped you’d be my date.”