The Cinderella Moment

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction including brands or products such as: Moschino, Christian Dior, Coco Chanel, Waldorf Astoria, Café Un Deux Trois,
Teen Vogue
,
Marie Claire
,
Vanity Fair
,
Elle
,
Vogue
,
Harper’s Bazaar
,
Our Town
, Rolls-Royce, Valentino, Marchesa, Versace, Givenchy, Karl Lagerfeld, Balenciaga, Oscar de la Renta, Air France, Ralph Lauren, Elie Saab,
Mission Impossible
, Vivienne Westwood, Armani, Mercedes, Bentley, L’Espadon, Calvin Klein, Donna Karan, Ritz-Carlton, Hermès, Christine Henry, Yves Saint-Laurent, Jason Wu.

Copyright © 2013 by Jennifer Kloester. U.S. Edition. Originally published in Australia by Penguin Australia.

THE CINDERELLA MOMENT by
Jennifer Kloester

All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by Swoon Romance. Swoon Romance and its related logo are registered trademarks of Georgia McBride Books, LLC.

No part of this eBook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Edited by Mandy Schoen

Cover design by Stephanie Mooney

Cover art copyright ©2013 by Swoon Romance

For Jean Frere,

with love and thanks,

And for River Dianne,

who understands.

THE CINDERELLA MOMENT

Jennifer Kloester

Chapter One

Angel knew the moment she saw it. The colour was exactly as she’d imagined—a deep midnight blue. She ran her fingers over the velvet, catching it between her palms to test its weight. Just as she’d thought: pussycat soft, but heavy and luxuriant enough to hang perfectly.

She lifted the bolt of cloth down from the rack and carried it to the counter. The salesgirl smothered a yawn. “How much?” she asked in a bored tone.

If she only knew what it’s for
, thought Angel. “I’ll need six yards.”

The girl looked at her doubtfully. “That’ll be three hundred and eighty-nine dollars.”

Please let there be enough
, Angel thought, digging into her purse and placing the bills on the counter, her heart beating faster as the roll of cash gave up its twenties, tens and fives, until all that was left was a small wad of one-dollar bills.

She counted slowly: three eighty-two, three eighty-three, three eighty-four
…
She was five dollars short. “Maybe just
under
six yards.”

The girl unrolled the cloth and Angel watched in quiet ecstasy as the fabric flowed in great velvet waves across the counter. It was perfect.

***

The uptown bus seemed to take forever. It was a sultry May evening and Angel’s legs prickled with sweat under the parcel of fabric on her lap. It’d be hot walking home from her stop, but she didn’t care. She’d help her mother with dinner, rush through her homework and get started on the dress. She’d have to go carefully. This dress, more than anything she had ever made, needed to be exactly right, down to the tiniest detail. And when it came time to
cut
the velvet—well, she’d work up to that.

It was nearly seven when she turned onto Fifth Avenue and ran up the front steps of the five-story townhouse. Inside, the marble foyer was brightly lit and she could hear voices upstairs. The hateful Margot by the sound of it, probably berating the cleaner again, unless—had Lily come home early from play rehearsal?

Angel paused for a moment, straining to hear. The first voice reached a new pitch and the answering murmur grew even softer. Definitely Margot and definitely
not
Lily.

It could be Clarissa. Angel hadn’t yet met Margot’s seventeen-year-old daughter, but she’d
heard
her. Last week, after Lily’s dad had left for South America, Lily and Clarissa had fought like cats. Afterward, Lily had come down to the kitchen wing and burst into tears.

Angel and her mother had tried to comfort her, but they’d both known it wasn’t the fight that had upset Lily so much as her dad inviting Margot and Clarissa Kane to stay the whole six weeks he was away.

Lily had done everything to convince her dad not to invite them but she hadn’t succeeded. And it was only after the fight that Angel had realized how much Philip’s decision had upset her best friend. She’d never known Lily to lose her cool like that. Sure, she had a passion for drama, but she could always hold it in when she wanted to. Trouble was, as Lily told Angel later, on that occasion she hadn’t wanted to.

In the week that followed, Lily came downstairs so often to report Clarissa’s latest iniquity that Angel suspected the older girl of deliberately trying to start another fight. So far, Lily had managed to refrain from taking the bait, but Angel doubted she’d last another five weeks without biting back.

Angel listened again. The voices were moving away; she heard footsteps, a door close and silence. She sighed with relief and crossed the foyer. As she passed the hallstand she stopped. Thrown carelessly against the antique Japanese cabinet was Clarissa’s discarded schoolbag. Books, folders, pens, an iPad, headphones and a crumpled cheerleader’s uniform spilled out across the floor beside a black-and-white Moschino jacket.

At least, it looked like one of the latest Moschino designs
…
Angel hesitated, glanced nervously around and, satisfied she was alone, put down her parcel and picked up the jacket.

She cast a judicious eye over the cut and fabric. It was well-made and she noted with approval the even seams and well-fitted lining. The black-and-white look was very much in the Moschino style, but it wasn’t Moschino. Angel checked the label and felt a tiny shock of recognition. A flamboyant black CLARISSA told her at once who had made the jacket.

Ever since Lily had told her that Clarissa designed her own clothes and had a part-time job working for the up-and-coming New York fashion designer, Miki Merua, Angel had felt a guilty fascination for her best friend’s archenemy. Anything to do with fashion was an irresistible lure for Angel and (despite Lily’s regular catalogue of Clarissa’s vices) she found it hard to believe that anyone who brought their own dressmaker’s dummy and sewing machine to the house could possibly be as bad as Lily made out.

Angel held the jacket away from her—the cut was good and the black panels were a cute idea but something—

Upstairs a door slammed. She stiffened as the staccato
tip-tup
sound of high heels on marble came toward her. Angel dropped the jacket, grabbed her precious parcel and fled.

Opening the door to the kitchen wing, she passed through into the safety and familiarity of her own world. There was no gleaming marble here, but over the years Angel had grown to like the bare walls and worn carpet. This part of the house might be austere but it was quiet and these days that was all she wanted.

She walked quickly down the hallway past the long-disused butler’s room and the former housekeeper’s old room. Angel’s bedroom was opposite her mother’s at the end of the hall. They were next to the kitchen, which made things quicker in the morning—especially when Philip had guests and there were breakfasts to be delivered upstairs.

Angel frowned. Usually Philip de Tourney’s houseguests were pleasant and undemanding, not like Margot and Clarissa Kane. It was incredible: they’d only been in the house a week and already they’d created havoc. No wonder Lily kept staying late at school. Unless
…

She crossed the hall and entered the butler’s old room. Here lay a treasure trove of unwanted things gathering dust. In the center of the room, two large wooden wardrobes and a low table formed a makeshift theatre and standing on the table, with her back to the door, was Lily.

“What do I want?” Angel heard her say. “What motivates me?”

“Fame, money, a movie deal—the usual things,” said Angel.

Lily spun round. “I wasn’t talking about me!”

“I know, but maybe it’s what your character wants.”

“No way,” cried Lily, jumping down. “Emily Webb is deeper than that.” She sat down on the coffee table. “Though she’d probably like a new dress if it was offered.”

“Who wouldn't want a new dress?” smiled Angel, holding out her parcel.

Lily's eyes widened. “Don't tell me you finally found it?”

“Look.” Angel sat down and parted the paper.

“OMG, it's exactly how you described it—the same color as—”

“—the dress you were wearing the day we met.” Angel nodded. “I’ve always remembered it. It was the prettiest dress I’d ever seen.”

“You couldn’t have seen many,” objected Lily. “You were only six.”

Angel smiled. “You’re forgetting, I'd seen your mother’s entire wardrobe by the time you came down here.”

“Yes, and you looked so guilty!”

“I
felt
guilty. We’d only been here three weeks and I thought for sure your dad would tell Maman we had to leave.”

“No chance of that. Dad was far more likely to be mad at me for invading Simone’s privacy. He’d made me promise not to come down here bothering her.”

“And we both know you
always
do what your dad tells you.”

Lily gave her a shove. “I do when he’s reasonable. Anyway, he likes us being friends. He knows what a good influence you are on me.”

This time it was Angel’s turn to shove. “Sometimes you make me sound so boring.”

“As if you’re boring! You just think about stuff. Not like me
… ”

“You do jump in sometimes,” conceded Angel.

“Which can be a good thing, right?” asked Lily. “Like coming down here that day and knowing straight away we’d be best friends.”

“Even though I was going through your mother’s things?”

Lily looked surprised. “You weren’t hurting anyone. If my mother had been alive I don’t think she’d have minded. All I wanted was to see the little French girl my dad had brought home with our new housekeeper.”