The Cinderella Moment Page 11

  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.”

  Vidal and the Comtesse exchanged glances.

  “Go on,” said the Comtesse.

  Ignoring her over-rapid pulse, Angel hung up the dress, returned to the main rack and took down a beaded silver gown. Returning to Kitty she tried to speak more slowly.

  “This is a great style and color for Kitty, but there’s a little too much beading for her height and the skirt is stiffer than I’d like for her.”

  Angel hung the dress and walked slowly along the main rack until she reached an ice-blue satin gown. She lifted it down and held it against Kitty.

  “This is what I’d choose for you. It’s the perfect cut for your figure and the fabric moves beautifully. The cinched-in waist will be flattering and the color is gorgeous. Although,” Angel hesitated. “Perhaps a shade darker?”

  Vidal stared at her, but before anyone could speak, the door burst open and the summer season group poured into the room.

  In a moment Angel found herself on the edge of a cluster of girls all vying for Vidal’s and the Comtesse’s attention. And the boys were just as vocal, pointing out the dresses they admired and arguing about which gown was best.

  Kitty called several girls over to show them the three dresses Angel had selected, before joining the group around the Comtesse. Angel stood back as the girls drew the Comtesse across to the rack of ball gowns and plied her with questions.

  Vidal had been commandeered by the redhead and her cronies and Angel watched them pointing to the dresses and talking eagerly to him in French.

  She considered the noisy, swirling mass of people for a moment and then slipped quietly away.

  Walking quickly down the hall she reached the Teen Couture room. She tried the door but it was locked. There had to be a way in. Angel peered into the room next door. It was a large, empty workroom. She went in and closed the door behind her.

  Angel thought of the films where the hero gets from room to room by crawling through the ceiling ducts. She looked up. There were vents, just like in the movies, and in the corner was one of those hatch things. Angel had a sudden vision of herself dressed in black, her face darkened, slithering commando-style through the ducts.

  It was a ridiculous picture.

  She picked her way between the workbenches to the wall separating her from the Teen Couture room. Numerous rolls of cloth had been placed against the wall and, incredibly, half-hidden behind them was a door.

  Angel ran over and was moving the first roll when she heard voices in the hall. Quickly, she darted across the room and pressed herself into the space behind the door. To her relief, the voices grew softer, a door closed and there was silence.

  Perspiration trickled down her back. What was she going to do? She didn’t have a proper plan. Opening the door, she peeked out. No one was in sight. She stepped into the hall, ran back to the Teen Couture room and tried the door handle just in case. It was still locked.

  Angel pressed her forehead against the glass and sighed. This wasn’t going to be easy.

  Someone tapped her on the shoulder and Angel shrieked. She spun round. Nick Halliday smiled down at her.

  “Looking for something?”

  Angel tried to breathe. “You gave me such a fright!”

  “There speaks a guilty conscience.” He nodded at the locked room. “Trying to work out the winner? You could always ask me.”

  She gazed at him doubtfully. “Do you know?”

  “That depends.” He leaned closer.

  Angel found herself at eye level with the point where Nick’s shirt opened to reveal a triangle of chest. She could see his skin, smooth and tanned, and smell the tantalizing scent of his aftershave. Her heart drummed and she was aware that it was no longer fright that made it beat so fast.

  She tried to focus. “Depends on what?” she asked carelessly.

  “On whether you’ll let me be your escort.”

  “My escort?” she asked, bewildered.

  “For the summer season. It’s your first. Who better than me to help you through it?”

  “What about Yvette?”

  “Who?”

  Typical, thought Angel. Why do guys always pretend they’ve forgotten all about their girlfriend?

  “Yvette Saint-Gilbert,” said Angel silkily. “You know, at the airport, your girlfriend.”

  “Oh, she’s not my girlfriend,” replied Nick easily. “She’s a friend. We’re in the same class at school and she’s dating one of my chums.” His eyes twinkled. “I don’t have a girlfriend at the moment, but it’s nice to know you’re interested.”

  “I’m not!” Angel glared at him and pushed away the vision of sitting beside Nick at a fashion show or walking hand in hand with him along the Seine. He thinks you’re Lily, she reminded herself firmly—granddaughter of a comtesse—someone from his own world. Angel was an imposter and she couldn’t let Nick escort an imposter around Paris. It wouldn’t be fair. She stepped away. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll be fine on my own.”

  Nick looked at her in mock horror. “Paris on your own—that’s practically blasphemy. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if there were a law against it.�
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  Angel couldn’t help smiling.

  Nick took her hand. “Let me show you the city of light. I know places in Paris the tourists never go.”

  She gently withdrew her hand. “Thanks, but I’d rather fly solo.”

  “Think of the fun we’d have,” he said. “It’d be like old times, only without the tiara.”

  Angel shook her head. She was turning him down for his sake as well as her own. She couldn’t risk getting close to Nick Halliday.

  “There you are, Lily,” the Comtesse’s voice floated down the corridor. “You disappeared and we need to … Ah, Nicky.”

  She stopped in front of him and held out her hand. He took it and bowed. The old-fashioned gesture brought an affectionate twinkle to her eye.

  Nick straightened and the Comtesse shook a reproving finger at him, “I trust you are not leading my granddaughter into mischief, Nicky?”

  “Darling Godmother, how can you think such a thing?” He glanced at Angel. “I’m merely trying to convince Lily to let me be her escort for the summer season. Please tell her I’d be the ideal partner, Godmother. I know you can persuade her.”

  The Comtesse looked at him and then Angel, who was astonished to see her mouth lift into a wicked little smile.

  “An excellent idea, Nicky,” said the Comtesse, holding up her hand to silence Angel’s protests. “My dear, you will enjoy seeing Paris with Nicky. He knows the city well and he will, how do you say it in America? Guarantee your inclusion in the group.”

  Angel gazed at her. It was an impossible situation but only she knew that. The fact was that she needed them to think she was Lily and, so far, they did. She looked from the Comtesse to Nick and made a decision. For good or ill, for the next two weeks, she’d be Lily—only she’d be the Angel version of Lily. She’d play out the masquerade just as she’d promised, but she wouldn’t try to be Lily anymore, she’d just be herself and if Nick wanted to reminisce about the past, she’d just have to find a way to distract him …

  “All right,” she said.

  “Bon,” said the Comtesse. “That is settled. Nicky will be your escort, Lily. He will show you Paris and guide you through the summer season.”