The Cinderella Moment Read online

  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.”

  “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 c
offee 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.”