The Cinderella Moment (2 page)

“I’m a quarter American,” protested Angel. “Papa grew up in France but he was born here and
… ”
She fiddled with the velvet, “ … he died here.”

Lily looked at her sadly. “I’m sorry, Angel,” she whispered. “I know you miss him.”

Angel managed a tiny smile. “It’s okay. He was sick a long time.”

Lily put her arm around Angel’s shoulders. “I can’t believe it’s been four months,” she said gently. “I wish I’d been here with you when it happened.”

Angel shook her head. “You couldn’t have done anything. That was the weekend your dad came back from China. Your first real chance to see him since New Year’s.”

“True, but I would’ve given up our holiday if you’d told me about your dad.”

“I know.”

“How’s Simone?” asked Lily gently.

Angel hesitated. She still wasn’t entirely sure how her mother was coping with Papa’s death. He’d been ill for so long. It was ten years since they had come to New York for the surgery they’d hoped would cure him. It had taken months and months of waiting and most of their hard-won savings before Simone had finally accepted that, despite the famous surgeon’s best efforts, her husband would never be one of his success stories. It had taken another six months to find a nursing home they could afford for as long as Papa needed care.

In the end they’d had to settle for a place three hours’ train ride away in upstate New York. Not that the distance had stopped Simone—it was a rare Sunday that they did not visit Angel’s dad. But since he’d been gone, it seemed to Angel as though some part of her mother had gone with him.

She sighed. “You know what Maman’s like, she keeps things inside.”

Lily nodded. “Yeah, but I thought she might’ve talked to you.”

“She has, a bit.” Angel chewed her lip. In the week after his death, Simone
had
talked to Angel about Papa—mostly recounting memories of their life in France when Angel was little, before the accident that ended their happiness.

Angel had been too young to remember the day the tractor had run over Papa, crushing his back and leaving him partially paralyzed. Whenever she asked Maman about it, Simone would always change the subject and talk about how good things would be when Papa was well again. She would never speak about the accident or about having to sell the vineyard or the dreadful months they’d endured with Grandpère before coming to New York. Angel soon learned not to ask.

She had hoped that Maman would tell her things—that she would overcome her sadness and talk to her about the past. Instead, Simone built a wall around her grief and locked it away. She was as loving and affectionate as ever, but she would not share her pain.

Sometimes Angel wondered if she was as stubborn as her mother. She hoped not. It seemed like such a barrier to happiness and more than anything Angel wanted her mother to be happy.

She sighed. Simone had such a fierce pride that it made her impossible to move once her mind was made up about something. Angel shifted restlessly. “I sometimes wish
… ”

“What?” asked Lily.

“Nothing,” said Angel abruptly. She stood up and pulled Lily to her feet. “Maman is fine and so am I, but what about you? How’s the play going?”

“Good, I think.”

“I’ll bet it’s awesome,” said Angel. “And you’re going to be amazing in it, like always.”

“I'm not always good, Angel,” said Lily with a smile. “Remember that awful play I wrote when I was ten?”

“The one where you played all the lead roles and I made those terrible costumes?” asked Angel.

“The costumes were the best thing in it.”

“They were horrible!” cried Angel. “I was a total novice.”

“I was worse,” said Lily. “But look how far we’ve come since then.”

“Sure, but look how far we’ve got to go.”

“We can do it, Angel,” declared Lily. “I know we can. I’m going to be a famous stage actress and you’re going to be a top fashion designer. It’ll happen—you’ll see.”

“I like your enthusiasm,” said Angel, “but I think it’ll need more than enthusiasm to get us over the line.”

“Nah, it just needs you to win the Teen Couture and me to convince Dad that acting is a real career.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard,” said Angel with a wry smile.

“It’d be a lot easier if he’d stop listening to Margot. Or just stopped seeing her altogether!”

Angel hesitated and then said tentatively, “You don’t suppose you could try to like her?”

Lily snorted. “Been there, done that, got burned. Anyway, even if I could bring myself to like Margot,
nothing
could ever make me like Clarissa! She’s the most stuck-up, spoiled, self-absorbed, wanna-be-famous-for-all-the-wrong-reasons, queen diva who thinks she’s a lot more talented than she is!”

“She must be pretty talented, or she wouldn’t have got the job with Miki Merua.”

“She got the job because Margot pulled strings, like she always does.” Lily scowled. “People don’t see Margot the way I do. They think she’s marvellous. It’s like she’s got some weird power that makes people practically fall over themselves to please her. She’s even got my dad sucked in.”

“Maybe when he gets back from South America, you can tell him—” Angel broke off as Lily’s cell phone buzzed insistently.

“Oh, shoot!” cried Lily. “That’s Dad now. I’ll have to go, it’s better reception upstairs.”

Angel followed her out the door.

In the kitchen, her mother looked up from cleaning the coffee machine and smiled.

“There you are, Angelique,
ma chérie
.” Ten years in New York hadn’t diluted Simone’s accent and not even her plain housekeeper’s uniform could disguise her indefinable air of French chic.

“Sorry I’m late, Maman.” Angel hugged her. “But I found it.”

Simone stopped cleaning. “Not the velvet?”

“Yes. Wait till you see it.”

“Where was it?”

“That little shop in Soho—I don’t know how long it’s been there but it’s everything I’d hoped for.” She opened the parcel, cradling the velvet in her arms as her mother reached out to touch it.

“It’s beautiful.” Simone looked anxious. “Did you get enough?”

“Just. It took the last of my savings, but it’s okay ’cause I’ve already paid for the international courier. The ball gown is the last thing I need to make and there’s still three weeks before I have to send everything to Paris.” Angel hugged the fabric to her chest. “I’ll have to work on it every spare minute but I know I can get it done—I must!”

Simone hesitated, then said, “You know how much I believe in you,
chérie
. I know you are talented and passionate about fashion design, but
… ”
She twisted a strand of Angel’s tawny hair around her fingers. “Winning the Teen Couture is a big dream,
mon ange
.”

Angel’s blue eyes were earnest as she said, “I know, Maman, but some dreams do come true.”

“Yes, but you’re competing with teenagers from all over the world. Young people trained in fashion design, while you’ve
… ”

“Never even been inside a design studio, I know. But the Teen Couture is my chance to change all that. First prize is $50,000 and a year working in Antoine Vidal’s Paris salon.” Angel’s eyes shone. “Can you imagine? Antoine Vidal—the king of haute couture himself. I mean, he
actually
trained under Christian Dior before setting up his own fashion house and creating the Teen Couture.”

She took her mother’s hand. “And tomorrow night I might get to see him—all because you convinced Jean-Pierre to hire me as a waitress last summer.” Angel hugged the velvet. “Imagine—me in the same room as Antoine Vidal. And maybe, just maybe, I might make the final in the Teen Couture and get to meet him!”

“Yes,
chérie
, I know.” Simone’s soft brown eyes were sombre as she cupped her daughter’s face in her hands. “And I know how much you dream of it all. It’s just that
…
you and your papa were so close and now he is gone. I don’t want you to be hurt by anything more. Some dreams can be dangerous.”

“Not this one.” Angel’s voice rang with confidence. “I know I probably won’t win, but something good will come of it, I’m positive.”

Her mother looked skeptical. “I hope you are right,
mon ange
.”
 

Chapter Two

Angel put down her pencil and looked glumly round her room. It was a cozy space with her pillow-strewn bed in the corner, a sewing table beside the big wooden closet, a tall swing-mirror and the trunk she’d found all those years ago.

She remembered that day so vividly. It was the summer she turned six and they’d just moved from their dreary two-room rental in the Bronx to the de Tourney’s palatial townhouse. Angel loved her new home and her favorite place was the butler’s old room.

She liked to sit amidst the clutter, reading, or drawing in the sketchbook her mother had given her, and imagine what might be in the cupboards and boxes around the walls. Eventually she’d grown adventurous and begun opening the drawers, cupboards and boxes, one by one, exploring the long-forgotten contents. She’d left the big wooden trunk until last.

It had been full of clothes.

Angel had always loved clothes: how they moved and sat and hung. How different fabrics suited different things. She was fascinated by the way an outfit could look good on one person and awful on someone else. She would spend hours drawing in her sketchbook and “fixing” outfits she’d seen in the subway or on the street.

The trunk had been a revelation. She hadn’t known whose it was, only that its owner was a woman of taste. In it was a suit made of material that Angel could only think of as a miracle: coral-colored, it had been gossamer light, but fine and warm and soft. It hung superbly and she loved to examine the tiny stitches that held the perfect seams together. It had a label in the neck that she carefully read and for weeks afterwards she’d whisper  “Chanel” to herself as though it were a magic word.

There were dresses, skirts, shirts, suits and a coat that was so beautiful it made Angel want to cry. And the fabric—that was what began it—the cloth that was like heavenly color in physical form, some of it silken, some stiff, some soft and some crisp.

Angel had never touched fabric like that. Her dresses were all plain and sensible, the material drab and unyielding. They didn’t flow or swirl; they just sat, dull and stodgy with no hope of ever being pretty. She knew it wasn’t Maman’s fault—Simone did her best—but now Angel’s own dresses didn’t matter because she had this miraculous chest full of promise.

Of course, it wasn’t really hers—not then, anyway—not until six months ago when Lily had given it to her and insisted that she use the contents in whatever way she liked.

At first Angel had protested, pointing out that Philip mightn’t approve of her using his dead wife’s things, but Lily had just said defiantly, “Dad won’t care, and if I want to give my best friend some of my mother’s things, I will.”

Angel hadn’t known what to say. It was such a shock to hear Lily sounding angry with her dad. They’d always been so close—even after he’d started dating Margot Kane. But ever since Christmas something had happened to push them apart—only Lily wouldn’t say what.

And that was really weird because Lily never kept secrets from Angel. She’d insisted on giving her the trunk and eventually Angel had given in and set about finding the best use for each precious piece of fabric.

She could see some of the fabric now: tiny pieces of it pinned to some of the dozens of fashion sketches that covered the wall. Four designs stood out.

She gazed at each drawing in turn. The red cocktail sheath had taken her ages to get right, but she’d eventually nailed it. It looked amazing beside the green-and-white silk day dress and the simple navy suit with its pencil-line trousers and short jacket with the white trim. But Angel’s favorite design was the hot pink bikini with the halter top and the flirty ruffled skirt—just looking at it made her think of palm trees, white sand and surf.

Angel stretched out her leg and prodded the closet door open with her big toe. She could see the four designs hanging inside, each one painstakingly cut and sewn by hand as the competition rules demanded. From conception through to design and execution, her Teen Couture entries had taken her months. Now all she had to do was finish her final design, then cut and sew a fabulous ball gown.

“If only it were that simple,” muttered Angel, spinning round in her chair to consider the hundreds of magazine pictures stuck to the walls. They seemed to stare back at her, mocking her lack of inspiration.

Each picture had taught her something about fashion. Some were daring, most caught the eye, several made her mouth water, but all of them had line, perfect cut and, most importantly, originality. Angel sighed. That was what her design needed.

She gazed at the sketch in front of her. It was of a midnight-blue velvet ball gown, lovely—maybe even beautiful—but still lacking that certain something. She bit her lip. The answer was there, somewhere inside the velvet, just waiting for her to let it out.