The Cinderella Moment (15 page)

The Comtesse coughed delicately. “As you see, Antoine, my granddaughter is in need of something to wear.”

“Ah.” Vidal eyed Angel appraisingly, walked slowly around her, then stepped back and put his hand on his chin.

Angel resisted the urge to pinch herself. Was she dreaming or was Antoine Vidal actually thinking about clothes for
her
? Suddenly, Angel didn’t care that she was an imposter. Antoine Vidal was thinking about her!
Antoine Vidal!
Her hero, her inspiration, her idol! She wanted to scream with excitement. Instead, she bit her lip and waited.

Vidal looked at the Comtesse, “You are here for the showing,
n’est-ce pas
?”

She nodded.

“Then we shall see what Mademoiselle Lily likes from the collection before we decide.”

The Comtesse looked at him doubtfully and Angel felt sure she was about to explain the imprudence of allowing someone who had worn last night’s dress to choose her own wardrobe. But all she said was, “As you wish, Antoine.”

They followed Vidal into a large showroom with a catwalk down the center. Around it, rows of chairs were rapidly filling with guests. Among the crowd Angel saw the boys and girls from last night’s dinner. They sat in groups, laughing, talking and so at ease that Angel felt a pang of envy. She was wondering where to sit when the Comtesse touched her arm.

“You will like to sit with the other young people.” She regarded Angel thoughtfully. “Afterwards we will see if your apparent resemblance to me extends to your taste in clothes.” She took Vidal’s arm and moved towards a front-row seat.

Angel dreaded the thought of having to approach the girls from last night’s dinner. What if they were all like the spiteful redhead? She could see her in the middle of a group—gorgeously attired in a vivid cherry-red jacket and trousers that Angel instantly recognized as Atelier Versace.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Nick wave and indicate the empty chair beside him.

Sitting next to Nick was
not
a good idea. He thought she was Lily, the Comtesse’s granddaughter, his childhood friend—someone rich and well-connected—consequently Nick was the person most likely to ask difficult questions or trip her up in the lie. Angel pretended not to see. Lily was right—she needed to avoid him. She walked quickly towards the empty chairs in the back row and sat down.

She felt a mixture of disappointment and relief when moments later the lights dimmed. It would’ve been fun to watch her first real Paris fashion parade with a friend—someone she could talk to afterwards about the clothes. Of course, she’d love every minute of the show, but it would be nice to share it with someone.

The lights came up on the catwalk and Angel leaned forward eagerly just as a girl appeared in the aisle.

“Excuse me,” she whispered. “Can I sit there?” She indicated the empty chair beside Angel.

“Sure.” Angel leaned back to let her go by.

“Thanks a bunch,” said the girl and Angel caught the twang of an American accent. She had time to take in a cloud of curly black hair and a plump, curvaceous figure, before the lights dimmed and music signalled the start of the show.

For the next two hours Angel sat mesmerized as Vidal’s models paraded up and down the catwalk. Each garment seemed to have been designed with youth and beauty in mind. Nothing was too severe or formal or stiff. Angel could only watch in awe as each new garment outdid the one before.

She’d just decided that nothing could ever exceed the rapture of Vidal’s evening wear, when the ball gowns appeared. Angel sat there, drinking in the details, as one exquisite dress followed another. It was like being filled with an emotion she’d always known existed, but had never experienced until now.

This must be what it feels like to have a dream come true
, she thought, as she watched a Titian-haired model in a heavily embroidered indigo and copper gown turn and slowly walk down the catwalk.

And then, it was ending. The star model paraded the wedding gown that traditionally closed fashion shows and Vidal made his bow to fervent applause. The lights came up and Angel leaned back in her chair with a contented sigh just as the girl beside her groaned.

“What’s the matter?” asked Angel.

Her neighbor raised a pair of mournful brown eyes and held up a notebook. “I made notes to help me remember which dresses to look at after the show, but I was writing in the dark and now I can’t read it!”

She thrust the book at Angel who could just make out the words: “beads, sleeves, lace” and something that looked like “silver” but could easily have been “golden.”

“Can I help?”

“I don’t think so,” replied the girl candidly.

“I’m sorry,” said Angel. “I didn’t mean—”

“That’s okay. I just don't have a talent for this sort of thing. Although you'd think it would run in the family
… ”

“Right,” said Angel, confused.

“Mum was Astride Roget,” explained the girl. “She was Vidal’s favorite house model and this is where my dad first saw her. He says it was like being struck by lightning: Mum came down the catwalk and that was it. We used to live in Paris—until she died. Now we live in Texas, but Dad likes to come back every year and think about her.” She sighed. “Most years it’s great, but this year
…
I don’t know.”

“What’s wrong with this year?” asked Angel.

“Dad and I always come to the fashion shows, but I prefer horses so he never minds that I’m not interested in dresses. But this year he’s set on me going to the Versailles Ball, which means I have to pick out a ball gown.”

“How exciting—” Angel stopped. Her acquaintance looked anything but excited. “Isn’t it?”

The girl shook her head. “It might be if I wasn’t five-foot-three and fat with awful curly hair.”

“You’re not fat,” said Angel. “You’re curvy. And your hair’s gorgeous. With the right dress—”

“There
is
no right dress!” cried the girl. “That’s the whole problem. You saw those models. How could I ever wear one of those gowns?” She looked so much like a sad puppy that Angel almost wanted to pat her.

“Well,” said Angel slowly, “this is Vidal’s. I mean, he’s one of the great designers.”

“Sure, so long as you’re six-foot-five and skinny.”

“No,” replied Angel. “That’s the point. Vidal’s clients come in all shapes and sizes. He can make anyone look good—” She stopped, flustered at how it had sounded. “That is, I didn’t mean
… ”

The girl laughed. “It’s okay. I know what you mean.” She held out her hand, “I’m Kitty.”

“I’m A—” Angel caught herself just in time. “A guest of the Comtesse de Tourney. I’m her
…
her granddaughter, Lily.”

“Oh, wow. I heard you were coming over for the summer season. So you’ll be picking out a dress for the Versailles Ball, too.”

“Maybe.” Angel tried to imagine wearing a Vidal gown; it was beyond her wildest dreams.

“So we could look at them together?” asked Kitty.

“What?”

“We could look at the dresses together, if you wanted, I mean
… ”
Kitty looked at Angel uncertainly.

Angel smiled. “I’d love to.”

“Really?”

“Totally.”

Kitty grabbed her hand. “Come on,” she said, and dragged Angel from the room.

Kitty led her into a long corridor. On either side, through heavy glass doors, Angel could see people working on Vidal’s creations. Here were the workrooms and design studios she’d always longed to see.

She slowed down for a closer look but Kitty was tugging on her hand, pulling her towards a door at the end of the hall.

It opened and a man emerged pulling a rack hung with garment bags, each tied with a large colored label. Behind him a woman carried a pile of colored folders.

Angel and Kitty stood aside to let them pass and watched as the man dragged the rack into one of the studios. The woman followed, shutting the door firmly behind her.

“That’ll be the last of the Teen Couture entries,” said Kitty.

Angel’s heart nearly leapt out of her chest.

“No way!” she gasped. “Can we see?” She ran back to the door and peered through the glass.

“Nuh-uh,” Kitty said beside her. “Only Vidal and his personal assistants are allowed in there. Those two will be getting ready for the cull.”

“What do you mean—the cull?” asked Angel, transfixed.

“The assistants go through the entries and eliminate anything that isn’t good enough or doesn’t meet the rules. Usually about half of what’s entered is culled.”

“Half?” echoed Angel.

“Sometimes more than half.”

“Whoa, that’s tough,” whispered Angel, wondering if her designs would be among those eliminated. Half-fascinated, half-fearful, she asked, “What happens then?”

Kitty shrugged. “They do the cull Thursday and Friday and judging begins on Monday. Monsieur Vidal and his assistants go over each entry with a fine-tooth comb. They examine the cut and stitching, look at the designs and check them against the finished garments. By Wednesday of next week they’ll have notified the six finalists in time for the big announcement at the Versailles Ball.” She tugged Angel’s hand. “Let’s go. Better to get there before the others.”

But Angel was mesmerized. The woman had handed the man a purple folder to check against the matching purple label on the garment bag. He nodded, unzipped the bag and put the folder inside. As he withdrew his hand a flurry of silken fabric billowed from the opening.

Angel gasped.
Green and white silk!
She’d recognize it anywhere—Clarissa’s copy of her dress.

Without thinking, she grasped the door handle and turned it. The woman looked up and frowned, then crossed to the door, locked it and pulled down the blind.

“Come on,” said Kitty.

Reluctantly, Angel turned and followed her down the hall.
 

Chapter Seventeen

Kitty led Angel into a large workroom with racks that held the garments from the show. In the center of the room Vidal and the Comtesse stood talking to the models.

“Ah, Lily. And Kitty.” The Comtesse turned to greet them.

To Angel’s surprise, Kitty ran eagerly across the room and in perfect French said, “Hello Madame,” before turning to Vidal. “Congratulations Monsieur Vidal, the ball gowns were superb.”

He smiled down at her.
“
Merci, tu es très gentille,
Kitty.”
He looked around. “But where is your papa?”

Kitty laughed, looked at Angel, and said in English, “You know Dad never stays after a show. But it’s okay because I found a new friend.”

She pulled Angel beside her. “We watched the show together.”

“And did you see anything you liked?” asked the Comtesse, looking at Angel.

“Everything,” breathed Angel rapturously.

The Comtesse raised her eyebrows. “And did you think that everything would suit you?”

“Oh no, I mean, that is, I thought—” Angel stopped and smiled shyly at Vidal. “It was all wonderful and I’d love to own every bit of it. But,” she considered, “if I
had
to choose, I’d pick nine outfits.”

“Only nine?” The Comtesse looked amused.

Angel flushed and bit her lip. She’d forgotten to be Lily! She’d been so excited at seeing the show and meeting Antoine Vidal that she’d spoken as herself. It seemed amazing they couldn’t see the guilt on her face and it was fortunate they couldn’t read her mind because if they knew about her plan to swap her designs—Angel didn’t even want to think about it.

“And Lily is going to help me choose a dress to wear to the ball,” explained Kitty gleefully.

“Really?” said the Comtesse. There was no mistaking the skepticism in her voice. “And what would you recommend, Lily?”

Angel looked at her uncertainly. The Comtesse was pointing to the long silver rack hung with Vidal’s beautiful ball gowns.

“Oh, no,” she stuttered. “I couldn’t.”

“Why don’t you show us?” the Comtesse insisted.

As if in a dream, Angel moved towards the rack.

About three feet away she stopped and looked doubtfully at the fragile organzas, the delicate laces, the intricately beaded panels, hand-embroidered bodices and exquisite silks, satins and velvets.

“It’s all right,” said Vidal. “You can lift them down by their hangers. Put them here.” He pointed to an empty rack beside him.

Angel considered the dresses. She remembered each one, as if they’d been burned into her brain. Gathering her courage, she walked over to the rack and lifted down an amaranth-red silk dress.

Carrying it over to Kitty she tried to think of the sorts of sophisticated phrases she might use to explain her choice to a world famous couturier, but her mind was blank. She could see the doubtful amusement on Vidal’s and the Comtesse’s faces, while Kitty just smiled expectantly.

Taking courage from Kitty’s smile, Angel held the dress against her new friend and said quickly, “This color suits Kitty’s hair and complexion, the cut draws the eye lengthwise and it’s not too full in the skirt.”