The Cinderella Moment (17 page)

The dress was a masterpiece of simplicity in design and stunning in its effect.

Angel held the dress in front of her and stood looking shyly out over the bodice at them.

For a moment there was silence and then Vidal leapt to his feet and cried, “
Mais oui, c’est ça!
You are right,
ma petite
. Your taste is excellent.” He turned to the Comtesse. “Is it not so, Elena? I think perhaps Mademoiselle Lily has her grandmother’s eye for a dress, after all.”

“You may be right, Antoine,” replied the Comtesse. “Certainly she seems able to choose a ball gown.”

Vidal glanced at his watch. “I must leave you to attend another client—the daughter of a Spanish prince.” To Angel’s surprise, he lifted her hand and kissed it. “Sadly, she does not have your taste in gowns,” he said, then turned to the Comtesse. “I have no doubt, Elena, that if you allow her to do so, your granddaughter will successfully choose her own clothes.”

As soon as he’d gone, a
vendeuse
—a saleswoman—had appeared. After the Comtesse had asked Angel about the outfits she’d liked from the collection, the woman had hurried away to get them. When she returned, the Comtesse examined them and ordered them all to be made in Angel’s size.

Then a fitter and a seamstress had carefully measured her, before conferring over whether the hem of her ball gown should be allowed to brush the floor. Angel had never felt so wonderful. She was going to the Versailles Ball.

When they’d finished at Vidal’s the Comtesse had whisked Angel off to a nearby café for a late lunch.

At first, she’d felt shy being alone with Lily’s grandmother and worried that she’d want to hear all about Philip and Lily’s life in New York. But the Comtesse had seemed content to talk mostly about fashion and they’d spent a whole hour discussing the finer details of cut, style and design.

By the time they’d finished eating they’d moved their conversation to designers. Angel had been thrilled to discover that the Comtesse had actually known Alexander McQueen—Angel’s favorite designer after Vidal—and adored his controversial approach to fashion and his love of spectacle. The Comtesse had been to all his shows and clearly admired his clothes.

“His death was one of the great tragedies,” she told Angel. “For he was a true genius and I doubt I shall see his like again.”

After lunch they’d gone shopping at
Galeries Lafayette
(which Angel decided was the French equivalent of Saks Fifth Avenue) and bought what the Comtesse insisted on calling “the basics.”

By the time they returned to the car, Angel had lost track of all the shirts, pants, skirts, lingerie, hats and shoes that Henri had loaded into the trunk. She wondered how he’d managed to fit it all in.

They’d driven home in comfortable silence—Angel too elated to talk and the Comtesse apparently content to gaze out the window.

It was only when they’d been driven through the wrought-iron gates of the villa that the Comtesse spoke. “It has been a long day, but I hope you have enjoyed it.”

“I have!” replied Angel. “It’s a dream come true.” She stopped, suddenly unsure if Lily would react so enthusiastically. Perhaps rich people didn’t get excited about buying a whole new wardrobe. Angel was relieved to see the Comtesse smile.

“I’m glad,” replied the Comtesse. “Tomorrow we will purchase some suitable
prêt-à-porter
. There are several boutiques where I hope we may find some dresses you can wear immediately.” She frowned. “I think you will not mind buying some ‘off-the-rack’ as you say in America.”

“Oh no, Madame,” replied Angel earnestly. “But I don’t need any more clothes. You’ve already bought me too much.”

“Too much?” The Comtesse looked at her in astonishment. “I do not think so. While you are in Paris it is imperative that you dress appropriately. The summer season demands a certain style and naturally you will wish to look good at every event. And tomorrow night Nicky will be escorting you to dinner.”

The thought of dinner with Nick brought a blush to Angel’s cheeks.

The Comtesse smiled. “You will not mind going out to dinner with Nicky if you have something nice to wear, Lily.”

Before Angel could reply, the car had stopped and Henri was helping the Comtesse out.

As they entered the house Marcel hurried forward. “The President’s office called, Madame,” he said. “
Monsieur le Président
apologizes for the late notice but begs the pleasure of your company at the Petit Palais this evening. It seems the Russians have decided to attend after all, so you will understand why he requires your presence.”

The Comtesse sighed and turned to Angel. “Lily, my dear, will you mind dining alone tonight?”

“No, Madame. Actually, I’d be happy to eat in the kitchen.” The look on the Comtesse’s face told her that this was going too far. “Or a tray in my room?”

To her relief, the Comtesse smiled. “Yes, I think a tray in your room would be acceptable. Marcel.”

“
Oui
, Madame?”

“Tell chef to prepare a tray for Mademoiselle Lily. She will eat her dinner in bed.”

“In bed?” exclaimed Angel.

“Why not? I have breakfast in bed, so why should you not have dinner in bed?” asked the Comtesse. “Are you not
fatiguée
?”

Angel nodded. “I am a bit tired.”

“That is not surprising. But a good day, I think?”

“Oh, yes, Madame!” Angel’s voice was filled with enthusiasm. “A magical day! The best day of my life! Meeting Monsieur Vidal, seeing his collection, choosing a ball gown, shopping—I will remember it always.” She met the older woman's gaze and added shyly, “I don’t know how to thank you, Madame.”

“I need no thanks,” replied the Comtesse. “But, if you could call me Grandmama—that would be perfectly acceptable.”
 

Chapter Nineteen

The Comtesse’s request echoed in Angel’s ears all the way up to her bedroom.

“She wants me to call her Grandmama,” she whispered, running up the stairs. “Lily never thought of that.”

That was the trouble with deception—people could imagine how it would be, but the vision never matched reality. It was only when you were inside the lie that you found out just how difficult and complicated it was.

Angel sighed as she passed the portraits of Lily’s ancestors. What had Nick told her about the de Tourney family motto? Fortune Favors the Bold? Well, she wasn’t a de Tourney but she’d been both bold
and
lucky in her lie so far.

She entered her bedroom and found her phone. She’d left it behind in case Lily rang. It would’ve been disastrous to get a call from the person she was meant to be.

So many lies, thought Angel, collapsing onto the bed. And now I have to tell my mother a whole bunch more.

She dialled the number for Sunnydale.

It was a relief to hear Maman’s voice. Simone sounded a little stronger and she assured Angel that she was being treated like royalty. Angel told her how great camp was, assured her she was eating well and promised to call again tomorrow.

She closed her phone, pulled on her new silk pajamas and climbed into bed just as Marie knocked and entered with a large wooden tray. “Your dinner, Mademoiselle Lily.” She put the tray across Angel’s lap.

“
Merci
, Marie.”

Maybe it was because Maman sounded better or maybe it was the novelty, but Angel enjoyed her first-ever meal in bed. The chef had sent up a delicious roast chicken dinner with a chocolate torte and fresh raspberries for dessert.

After Marie had taken the tray away Angel lay back in the great bed, looked up at the painted ceiling, and thought about the day.

“I should be feeling
so
bad and super guilty,” she told a pair of cherubs, “but I don’t. Pretending to be Lily meant I got to go to Vidal’s.” She shut her eyes and remembered that incredible parade of ball gowns, each one as colorful and real as if they were in front of her.

Sure, she was a fraud, but at this moment she found it hard to care. Her mother was getting better and Angel had just had
the
best day of her life! She’d actually
met
Antoine Vidal and talked to him about fashion.

Angel smiled. “And he liked the ball gown I chose,” she announced to a faun looking down at her from his painted corner. “He told me I had better taste than a Spanish princess.” She reached up towards Helios in his chariot. “And Antoine Vidal kissed my hand.”

But it wasn’t just Vidal who had made the day so perfect. For the first time in her life Angel had met someone who felt as passionately about fashion as she did. When it came to clothes the Comtesse was definitely a kindred spirit. At first Angel had felt horribly guilty that Lily's grandmother was buying her so many new clothes, but the Comtesse's obvious pleasure in finding just the right things for her to wear had swamped her protests.

 She could hardly believe she had a whole new wardrobe
and
the most divine dress to wear to the Versailles Ball.

Margot had told Lily it was the most sought-after event on a girl’s social calendar and Angel Moncoeur, housekeeper’s daughter, was going. If Clarissa Kane knew that, she’d be sick with envy.

But Clarissa must never know, thought Angel, sitting up with a jerk.

What was she thinking? This was no fairytale. This was a brief, magical interlude in an otherwise ordinary life. She’d let herself enjoy it because that was what she’d decided yesterday at Vidal’s.

But she
had
to remember that the masquerade would only succeed if she didn’t fall into the trap of thinking of herself as some kind of modern-day Cinderella. At the end of this story there’d be no fairy godmother, no prince, and no happy ending. When the Versailles Ball was over she’d leave her new clothes in the closet, say goodbye to the Comtesse, and go home.

Home to New York and back to her old life where all of this splendor would be nothing more than a beautiful memory.

Angel lay down again. At least she could try to enjoy the time she had now. What had Nick said? The summer season meant parties and other fun stuff. That shouldn’t be too hard to take. She’d already been to Vidal’s—imagine what they might do over the next ten days.

She had a sudden vision of herself at the ball dancing with Nick.

No, not him. Someone else. She was sure to meet some of the other boys during the summer season; maybe one of them would ask her to dance.

She pushed Nick from her mind and thought about the ball. It was where Antoine Vidal would announce the winner of the Teen Couture.

If only Angel’s entry stood a chance.

Clarissa’s
entry, she reminded herself sharply. At least, that’s what it says on the entry form. And if Clarissa makes the finals then she’ll be at the Versailles Ball and so will Margot.

And then I will be in trouble, thought Angel, horrified at the idea of Clarissa at the ball. She could see her now, swirling round the floor in Angel’s midnight-blue velvet ball gown with the silver
…
Her stomach flipped. Whatever happened, Clarissa must not attend the Versailles Ball!

Angel balled her hands into fists. Margot and Clarissa would not win—not if she could help it—and that meant getting hold of Clarissa’s forged entry as soon as possible.

She smoothed the sheet across her chest and tried to think calmly. What had Kitty said? The cull would be finished by Friday and Vidal would begin judging on Monday. Angel had a fitting at Vidal’s on Wednesday. She’d have to get into the Teen Couture room then.

It was a pity Lily hadn’t managed to pack her Teen Couture garments, but it couldn’t be helped. The most important thing was to swap the entry form and designs. She’d need to get into the empty workroom, find a way past the bolts of cloth and open the connecting door. That way she could get into the Teen Couture room without anyone knowing.

“Get in, swap them, and get out,” she told the ceiling. From now on that had to be the sole focus of her stay in Paris.

But not until Wednesday.
I’ve still got one day
, she thought, snuggling down under the covers.
Tomorrow I’m going shopping with the Comtesse, who understands the importance of cut and line when buying clothes.

It must be nice to be rich, she decided, trying not to yawn.

Her eyelids were drooping and she kept seeing herself dressed all in black and dropping from a cable into the Teen Couture room. Just like Tom Cruise in
Mission Impossible
, she thought sleepily.

“Silly,” murmured Angel. “You should never wear all black.”

A moment later she was asleep.

***

The next morning passed like some kind of delicious dream. Angel and the Comtesse left the house just before nine and returned at lunchtime a little weary, but pleased with their shopping.

They’d brought home half a dozen gorgeous dresses; each of them bought off-the-rack, just as the Comtesse had said.
From Oscar de la Renta’s, Vivienne Westwood’s and Elie Saab’s
prêt-à-porter
collections.
The clothes were unspeakably lovely and several times Angel had to pinch herself to make sure she was awake.