The Cinderella Moment (25 page)

She leaned forward and caught hold of Angel’s restless hands. There was a catch in her voice as she said quietly, “Your mother cannot come, but your grandmama, who loves you and will take care of you, is here.”

“Grandmama?” queried Angel, trying to grope her way through the fog in her brain. “
My
grandmama?”

“Yes,
your
grandmama. And now I want you to sleep and not talk anymore.”

“Okay.” Angel closed her eyes. Thirty seconds later she was asleep.

***

When she awoke, the room was in darkness save for a small light glowing dimly on the mantelpiece.

For a moment Angel couldn’t think where she was. She stared at the light, trying to place it. She gazed upwards, saw her faun grinning down at her from the ceiling, and remembered.

She’d been ill, horribly ill and she’d had all sorts of weird dreams in which she’d been talking to someone—was it Kitty? Or Marie? Or the Comtesse? Angel put her hand to her head, trying to think.

She could recall pushing Clarissa’s pictures into her bag and her fitting and the charity lunch at
Les Invalides
, but after that things got kind of blurry. She knew she’d been violently sick and incredibly hot. She must’ve had a fever, and someone had put her to bed and given her a drink. She had a vague idea that she’d tried to tell them something—something important—something about the Teen Couture.

Angel froze. Had she said anything or had she imagined it? She racked her brain. An image of the Comtesse sitting by the bed swam into Angel’s mind; she remembered the touch of her hand and the sound of her voice: soft and kind and anxious. And she heard her own voice trying to explain things and
…
Angel groaned. What exactly
had
she said?

She was still trying to remember when the door opened and the Comtesse came in carrying a tray. “Good, you are awake.” She crossed to the bed, put down the tray, and put her hand on Angel’s forehead. “Much better. Your fever broke in the night and your temperature has been coming down ever since.”

“What time is it?” asked Angel, covertly studying the Comtesse’s face for any sign that she’d given herself away.

But there was nothing on the Comtesse’s face to indicate anger or outrage. In fact, she looked utterly tranquil as she poured the tea. “It’s a little after six in the morning. You have slept better these past two hours.” She helped Angel to sit up before handing her an elegant cup and saucer full of clear, greenish liquid.

“Peppermint tea,” said the Comtesse, sitting down in the armchair beside the bed, “is ideal after an upset stomach.”

Angel nodded but her eyes were on the Comtesse’s face and her hair, wound into a hasty knot on top of her head. She’d never seen the Comtesse without make-up or her hair anything but perfectly coifed and—Angel blinked—was the Comtesse wearing a
dressing-gown
over her clothes?

It was such a shock to see her looking almost dishevelled that Angel couldn’t help asking, “Are you all right, Grandmama?”

The Comtesse smoothed her hand over her dressing-gown. “It grew cool during the night, but I did not want to leave you so I had Marie bring me my robe.” She smiled ruefully. “If you will promise not to tell anyone that you saw your grandmama looking a veritable fright, I think my reputation will survive.”

Angel gazed at her in wonder. “Did you truly spend the night here?”

“I did. Much of it in this chair,” replied the Comtesse. “Don’t look like that, child. I was perfectly comfortable. I even managed some sleep. And it is a relief to see you looking so much better. There was an hour or two during the night when I almost telephoned your father to tell him to take the next available flight to Paris.”

Angel nearly dropped her cup. “You didn’t call him?”

“No, Lily, I did not. When I thought of ringing him you were too sick to leave and once the worst was over it seemed foolish to worry him unnecessarily.” She frowned. “But now that your fever has broken, I do think I ought to let Philip know. He may wish to see for himself that you are all right.”

“No!” cried Angel.

“I did not mean to distress you,” said the Comtesse. “Naturally, you do not want your father worried unnecessarily, but I think he would like to know you’ve been ill.”

Angel tried to think. She had to stop the Comtesse from ringing Philip.

She sat up. “I’m feeling much better, Grandmama,” she said. “That medicine the doctor gave me must’ve worked because I don’t feel sick or anything. I even think I could go out. Aren’t we all going to the Louvre today? I’d hate to miss that—I’ve always wanted to go to the Louvre—and if I’m well enough for that, then there’s no point making Philip fly to Paris, is there?” The words tumbled over each other.

The Comtesse pressed her gently back against the pillows.

“Shhh, Lily. It’s all right. If you would prefer me not to call your father, then I won’t.” She sat silently for a moment and then murmured, “It
would
be a pity if my first telephone call to my son in eleven years was to tell him you’d been ill.”

“Eleven years,” echoed Angel.

The Comtesse nodded and there was an expression in her eyes that made Angel feel as though she’d intruded on something private and very sad.

The blood rushed to her cheeks. “I
…
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just that
…
it’s a long time.”

“Yes.” There was something in the Comtesse’s voice that forbade further conversation. After a moment she patted Angel’s hand and said, “Now, there’s to be no argument. You will spend today in bed.”

“But—”

“No buts,” said the Comtesse. “I know it is hard to stay in bed while the others are seeing Paris but I promise that you will see the Louvre—just not today.” She touched Angel’s cheek. “Dr. Girard assures me you only need to rest and that you will soon be well again. So please rest, Lily, because I cannot cope with another night like the last.”

Angel’s protest died on her lips. How could she refuse after the Comtesse’s night-long vigil? She relaxed. It did feel good lying there and a day in bed would do her no harm.

“Do you think you could sleep?” asked the Comtesse, yawning. “I confess to feeling a little
fatiguée
myself.”

Angel felt guilt-stricken. “Oh, please go back to bed. I’m sure I’ll sleep till teatime.”

“If you’re certain?” The Comtesse rose from her chair.

“Absolutely! Please, Grandmama, I’ll be fine, I promise.”

“Very well, I will look in on you after lunch.” She bent down and gently kissed Angel’s cheek. “Sleep well,
ma chérie
, Lily.”

She pulled the door behind her.
 

Chapter Twenty-Seven

As soon as the Comtesse had gone, Angel grabbed her bag and emptied it onto the bed.

Her phone was dead. She plugged in her charger, gathered Clarissa’s forgeries into a neat pile and considered where best to hide them. After a moment’s thought she picked up her design folder, carefully slid her designs into their plastic sleeves and pushed Clarissa’s copies in behind them.

Then she lay down and thought about phoning her mother. It’d be after midnight in Florida, so she’d have to wait several hours. And it was still too early to call Lily. At least the Comtesse hadn’t called Philip.
That
would’ve been a disaster—for Lily and Angel, anyway—though it might’ve been good for the Comtesse to talk to her son after so many years.

What had the Comtesse done, Angel wondered drowsily, to make Philip so angry that he’d cut his mother out of his life? And Lily’s life, too.

Angel couldn’t imagine.

***

The room was in semi-darkness when she awoke again and it took her a moment to realize her phone was ringing.

She opened it. “Hello?”

“Angel, it’s me.”

“Lily.” Angel was instantly awake. “What time is it?”

“About eight, so it must be nine in Paris.”

“In the morning?”

“At night.”

“No way! I can’t have slept the whole day.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve been sick. But I’m fine now.” And she was, thought Angel. That long sleep must’ve done the trick, because she felt great.

“Are you okay? Did you swap the designs? Tell me everything.”

Angel sighed. “It’s kind of complicated.”

“What happened?”

“I took Clarissa’s drawings but couldn’t leave my designs because hers had a Vidal label on them and mine didn't. Then I got sick and the doctor came and the Comtesse was amazing—she stayed with me all night and then this morning she said—” Angel stopped. Should she tell Lily that her grandmother had almost called Philip?

“What? What did she say?”

“She was going to ring your dad—to tell him I was sick.”

“No!” cried Lily, horrified. “She mustn’t! She’ll ruin everything. Please tell me you stopped her.” The words shot down the phone. “Angel? Tell me what happened—
please
.”

“Okay.” Angel lay down again and told Lily as much as she could remember of the previous day’s events.

Lily’s response was a total surprise. “But you did it, Angel! You sabotaged Clarissa! Without her drawings she can't win!”

Angel hadn’t thought of that. “Do you really think so?”

“Definitely! You’ve done it, Angel. You’ve beaten her.”

“But I couldn’t swap my drawings.”

“Okay, that’s not ideal, but at least you took Clarissa’s forgeries so she can’t win the Teen Couture with your designs.”

“But I can’t win either,” said Angel.

“Don’t worry, I’ll think of something. Maybe after I’ve confessed to Grandmama, I can go and see Monsieur Vidal,” said Lily.

“Maybe,” said Angel doubtfully.

“The vital thing is that you’ve stopped Clarissa,” declared Lily. “So now all you have to do is enjoy Paris.”

“I guess
… ”

“Listen, Angel, in a week you’ll be back in New York, so you might as well make the most of Paris while you’re there.”

“I suppose,” said Angel, wishing she had Lily’s carefree attitude. “But what do I do about Nick?”

“That depends,” said Lily.

“On?”

“On how much he likes you.”

“Enough to play like a total nutter at the polo,” said Angel. “Though I guess he could’ve changed his mind since then.”

“Not likely.”

“Really?” asked Angel.

“Sure. I bet Nick thinks you’re great.”

“Trouble is, he also thinks my name’s Lily de Tourney.”

“So swear him to secrecy and tell him the truth.”

“No way, he’d hate me!”

“Nah, I don’t think he would, not if he really likes you,” said Lily. “A
really
nice guy would forgive a little deception if he
truly
cared about you.”

“It’s not a
little
deception—”Angel stopped. Why did Lily suddenly sound so guilty? She sat up. “Exactly which
really
nice guy are we talking about?”

“Nick, of course.”

Angel could practically hear Lily squirming.

“Who is he, Lily?”

“No one!”

“Tell me his name.”

“It’s no one.”

“Lily!”

“Okay, okay. His name’s Brett Eastman. We’re in the play together.” Lily sounded slightly breathless. “He plays George Gibb, the boy my character’s in love with. He’s amazing, Angel—he’s got this incredible stage presence and a voice that makes you—”

“You told him about us, didn’t you?” interrupted Angel.

“Yes, but he’s totally trustworthy.”

“How do you know?” demanded Angel.

“Because he’s saved me twice when Margot’s rung from New York to check up on me. The second time I was in the middle of rehearsal so I told her I was having a fitting. Brett took the phone and pretended to be one of Vidal’s designers. He’s awesome with accents and Margot totally fell for it!”

“Okay, so Brett’s cool with our masquerade but that doesn’t mean Nick will be. I mean he hardly knows me. You’ve spent every day with Brett while I’ve only spent a few hours with Nick in total!”

“Well, maybe that’s what you need to do,” said Lily.

“What?”

“Spend every day with Nick for the next week and get to know him.”

“So first you tell me to avoid him and now you tell me to spend the week with him.”

“How else will you get to know him?”

“I can’t!”

“Why not?”

“Because he thinks I’m you.”

“Would you get over that? Just because he calls you Lily doesn’t mean it’s
me
he likes. He hasn’t seen me since I was five so clearly he’s fallen for you, not me.”

“Maybe,” said Angel. Somehow Lily made it all seem so simple. And it
was
tempting to think of spending every day with Nick. “But what if it goes wrong?”

“It won’t,” said Lily firmly. “But if it does, I’ll be right there to fix it. I
promise
.”

“Really?”