The Cinderella Moment Page 13

  “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.

  Now she and the Comtesse had returned to the villa for lunch. The great mahogany table had been reduced to more reasonable proportions and the Comtesse sat at its head eating delicately, with Angel on her right.

  “We must leave straight after lunch, Lily,” said the Comtesse as the main course was cleared. “We are due at Monsieur Martinez’s by two.” She studied Angel’s silk shirt and Altuzarra pants. “You will wish to change. I think perhaps the red vintage Versace dress.”

  From the way the Comtesse said his name, Angel got the impression that Monsieur Martinez was someone she was meant to know about.

  “And your shoes.” The Comtesse looked at Angel’s feet. “The patent leather pumps we bought yesterday will match well. This is an important afternoon, Lily. You will wish to look good. Bon chic, bon genre: that is the rule.”

  Right style, right sort, thought Angel, translating in her head. Well, right style was no problem after all their shopping, but as for being the right sort …

  “I expect your father has told you that before?”

  “What?” Angel was startled. For a moment she thought the Comtesse meant Papa and then she remembered. “Yes, he has.”

  “Good.” The Comtesse said, then added hesitantly, “Philip is well?”

  “Yes.”

  “And busy?”

  “Very busy.”

  “But he makes time for you, I hope?” asked the Comtesse, frowning.

  “Absolutely!” replied Angel, relieved she could speak honestly about Lily’s dad. “Philip, I mean, Dad’s away a lot, but when he’s home we spend heaps of time together. Weekends at the Hamptons, the beach, the country club.” She paused, trying to think. “Oh, and Meadowbrook. I always watch Dad play polo there—we love polo.”

  “I am glad,” said the Comtesse in a stilted voice. “Your father always played polo here, before … ” She fingered the gold chain around her neck. “Do you know, I think I will take a short rest before we leave.”

  Angel looked at her in concern. Was the Comtesse a little pale or was it just her imagination? She thought of Maman and how she’d ignored her pain and ended up needing emergency surgery.

  Angel put her hand gently on the Comtesse’s arm. “Are you all right, Madame?”

  The Comtesse straightened. “Bien sûr—I’m fine. Just not as young as I once was.” She patted Angel’s hand. “A short rest will help.”

  “Yes, Madame.”

  The Comtesse smiled. “And I think it would help if you remembered my request.”

  “Madame?” replied Angel, puzzled. Then she remembered. She hesitated for a moment and then said softly, “Yes, Grandmama.”

  Chapter Twenty

  It was almost two when they arrived at a large house beside Parc Monceau. As they got out of the car the front door opened and a dapper-looking man with glossy black hair and a neat moustache came out to greet them. He wore an exquisitely tailored suit with a silver bow tie and a tiny red rosebud in his buttonhole.

  “Elena.” He spoke with a marked accent. Not French, Angel thought. Perhaps Spanish. “You are just in time,” he smiled.

  The Comtesse made the introductions. “Lily, this is Señor Martinez, the famous Spanish master who will be teaching you. Felix, my granddaughter, Lily.”

  He clapped his hands, “Delightful! Welcome to Casa Fortuna, my home away from home.”

  Angel managed a smile. Being introduced as Lily made her uncomfortable and she was dying to ask what Señor Martinez taught, but before she could speak he had swept them inside and down a wide entry hall lined with sculptures. There was no time to admire the white marble figures before they were ushered into a huge empty room with a polished parquetry floor. A row of high-backed gilt chairs lined one wall and above them an enormous mirror reflected the room’s glittering chandeliers and gold-inlaid panelling with such clarity that Angel was dazzled.

  “We are here!” pronounced Señor Martinez, throwing his hands wide.

  “So shall we begin?” asked the Comtesse.

  “At once,” replied the Spaniard. “Ready?” he asked Angel.

  “Ready?”

  “To dance.” And to Angel’s astonishment, he executed a series of rapid steps, spun a perfect pirouette and stopped with his hands outflung.

  The Comtesse clapped and said, “Felix was five times world champion you know. He is the most sought-after dance teacher in Europe.”

  “Not Europe, Elena,” corrected Señor Martinez, “the world! And now I have the honor of teaching your granddaughter, the charming Mademoiselle Lily.” He clicked his heels together and smiled at Angel, who tried to smile back.

  “Don’t look so worried, my dear,” said the Comtesse. “Felix will give your dancing a polish before the Versailles Ball. A lesson here, a lesson there—you will enjoy them.”

  Angel eyed her doubtfully. She’d known there’d be dancing at the Versailles Ball—it was a ball, after all—but she’d thought she’d get by with the basics. And it wasn’t that she didn’t know how to dance—she knew how to waltz and last year she and Taylor and Katie had done Latin and ballroom as an after-school extra; she just wouldn’t have said she was an expert.

  “I am sure Mademoiselle Lily will learn quickly,” pronounced Señor Martinez. He beckoned to the butler standing discreetly by the door. “Bring a chair for Madame la Comtesse. I will call the others.”

  “The others?” asked Angel.

  But Señor Martinez was already gliding to the far end of the room where he threw open a pair of tall doors artfully concealed in the panelling.

  A burst of warm air billowed into the room and Angel found herself looking into an enormous conservatory. Palm trees rose up to a domed glass ceiling and tropical plants filled the room. People wandered among the greenery and Angel saw Kitty sitting on a rustic seat talking to a handsome blond boy, while beside a large potted fern the redheaded girl stood chatting to Nick.

  Angel’s heart seemed to rise and sink in the same moment as she realized it was the summer season group, and she would not be dancing alone.

  Señor Martinez clapped his hands. “Come along everyone, time to begin.”

  Laughing and talking, they poured into the ballroom. Angel stood aside as they spread out across the parquetry floor. Everyone seemed to know exactly what to do and Angel was trying to figure out where to go when Kitty grabbed her.

  “Lily!” She threw her arms around Angel. “I couldn’t find you yesterday and I wanted to thank you.”

  “Thank me?”

  “For helping me choose a dress. Dad was so excited—he said it reminded him of Mum.”

  “Which one did you choose?” asked Angel, pleased to see Kitty so happy.

  “The ice-blue satin—you said it was the best.”

  “It’s true. You’ll look gorgeous in it.”

  Kitty linked her arm through Angel’s. “And Monsieur Vidal ordered it to be made a shade darker—just like you said.”

  Angel halted. “You’re kidding!”

  “Nuh-uh,” Kitty replied nonchalantly, as if Antoine Vidal regularly listened to suggestions from sixteen-year-olds. “They’ve already begun making it and I’ve got a fitting tomorrow.”

  “Me too,” said Angel dreamily.

  “Awesome! What time? We could meet.”

  Angel groaned inwardly. What was she thinking? She couldn’t meet Kitty a
t Vidal’s tomorrow—she had to get in, swap the designs and get out.

  “If you’d rather not … ” Kitty looked hurt.

  “No, I’d love to meet you. It’s just that … I was thinking about the dancing.” Angel looked at the group who were rapidly forming two large circles with boys on the outside and girls on the inside. “I’m a bit nervous.”

  “So was I, my first time,” said Kitty. “But don’t worry, if anyone can make you light on your feet, it’s Fred.”

  “Who?”

  “Him.” Kitty pointed to Señor Martinez.

  “Isn’t his name Felix?”

  “Yes, but his students have always called him Fred after Fred Astaire.”

  “Oh.”

  “We’d better take our places. You’re over there.” She pointed. “I’ll see you after class.”

  Kitty peeled away, leaving Angel to find her place. All the girls were in position, each with a boy opposite them. It wasn’t until she reached the last remaining space in the girls’ circle that Angel realized she was the only one without a partner.

  Kitty smiled encouragingly, while beside her, Angel saw the redheaded girl lean forward and whisper to the girl on the other side of her. She looked at Angel and muttered a reply. They both laughed.

  Angel lifted her chin. Let them laugh, she thought. She wasn’t going to let some American-hating French diva upset her—even if the girl was wearing the most divine plaid skirt and jacket. It looked like Dior, but Angel wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of appearing to admire it.

  Instead, she smiled, threw back her hair, squared her shoulders and tried to look unfazed by the prospect of dancing solo.

  She’d just managed to convince herself that dancing alone was her preference when a voice behind her said, “You see girls and boys, this is the perfect posture.” Angel was startled to feel Señor Martinez’s hands on her shoulders. “The chin is up, the neck is long, the shoulders are back and yet all is calm as we wait for the music.”

  He stepped forward, took Angel’s right hand and put his other hand on her waist, then nodded to the butler.

  As “The Blue Danube” filled the room, Angel discovered the difference between waltzing with a ninth-grader and waltzing with a world champion. His dancing was sublime and his lead so perfect that Angel thought her feet had grown wings.

  He guided her around the dance floor and then led her back to her place when the music stopped. Angel felt exhilarated. She’d never danced so well.

  Señor Martinez bowed. “Bravo, Mademoiselle Lily,” he said, before moving to face the girl next to her. All the boys moved to the right and Angel found herself opposite a new partner.

  It was the boy she’d seen sitting with Kitty in the conservatory. He looked about eighteen, with shaggy blond hair and a broad smile. He bowed and said in painstaking English, “Hello, I am Giles.”

  “Hello Giles,” replied Angel. A moment later she was in his arms being waltzed around the room.

  The afternoon flew by as Angel passed from one partner to the next. She tried to remember their names: Giles with the delightful grin, handsome Sebastian, Jean with the green eyes, Rémy who had two left feet but was charming, Chris who spoke five languages and Pierre who had been dancing since he was six.

  To her amazement, Angel found it easy to talk to the boys while they danced. She’d thought she’d be too nervous, worrying about her steps and whether they’d be like the boys back home. But it wasn’t like that. These boys seemed keen to talk and to hear about New York and Paris, her gown for the Versailles Ball and her plans after the summer season was over.

  Angel sidestepped the last question, but she told them about New York and how she loved Paris. Then she asked them about their families and what sports they played. The conversation flowed easily back and forth. It was as if the intimacy of the dance pulled down barriers, while the formality of the steps made such close contact feel safe.

  As she moved around the room in each boy’s embrace, Angel found herself relaxing. It didn’t seem to matter if she stumbled or missed a step, or that both Jean and Rémy stood on her toes, or that Pierre tipped her back in the foxtrot and made everyone laugh. This time it seemed to Angel as though the group’s laughter was friendly.

  And Señor Martinez made it so easy. With each new dance he took a new partner and as he danced he called out instructions: “Lift your chin, Monique,” “Giles, raise the arm,” “Slower on the turn, Leon,” and, “Do not crush your partner, Pierre. It is true that you must lead and she must follow, but you are not abducting her.”

  Everyone had laughed at this—even Pierre, who was by far the best dancer in the group. Angel was just thankful that so far their teacher hadn’t singled her out for comment.

  She watched him now, dancing with the redhead, who was—Angel had to admit—a lovely dancer. He’d dance with Angel again next and she was looking forward to it. As the music came to an end she thanked her partner, straightened her back and waited for him to take his place opposite her.

  But it wasn’t Señor Martinez who stepped into the space. It was Nick.

  Before she could speak, he stepped forward and took her in his arms. And as the music began he said, “Terrific! The tango.”

  “But I … I’ve barely learned the tango,” gasped Angel, wondering if it was Nick that made her feel giddy or the dance.

  “Don’t worry, just follow my lead.”

  “But—”

  “Relax, just feel the rhythm and let me take you,” Nick whispered, moving in time to the music.

  And, without thinking, Angel did as he asked.

  Dancing with Nick was amazing—even better than it had been with Fred. Angel knew Nick could not possibly be a better dancer than Fred, but somehow he felt better.

  As they moved round the room, it was as though Angel was melded to Nick’s body. He led her in the tango, quickly, then slowly, then quickly again. Quick, quick, slow: her steps keeping up with the sudden turns and long languorous strides of the tango. The ballroom tango was different from the Argentinian one, but for Angel it was every bit as laden with fire.

  She could feel Nick’s body, warm and hard against her own, and smell his cologne and the faint tang of masculine sweat as he held her close, never allowing more than an inch or two to separate them.

  Angel’s heart drummed in her chest, her skin tingled and her breath came fast and shallow. It’s the dance—the exertion, she told herself, but she knew it was a lie.

  The music reached its crescendo, Nick spun her round one last time and with a flourish of violins, the dance ended.

  Neither of them moved. All around them couples were hurrying back to their places in the circle but Angel and Nick just stood there staring at each other. Nick’s breath was coming in quick pants and Angel couldn’t seem to find her voice.

  Nick stepped back. He looked slightly dazed, like he wasn't sure what had just happened.

  “I think that was the last dance,” he said eventually.

  “Oh,” said Angel, trying to feel relieved.

  “The class has finished,” he added.

  “Yes,” said Angel, trying to take her eyes off his.

  “Maybe we can do it again tonight?”

  “Tonight?” Angel struggled to think beyond the moment.

  “We could dance again tonight. After dinner.”

  “Sure.”

  “Only if you want to?”

  “Yes … if you do … I mean … sure.” Angel took a breath, “We’d better get back to our places.”

  She turned away, heading for the safety of the group. She didn’t know if it would stop the tide of heat rising up inside her, but it was better than staying close to Nick.

  She’d never felt this way. It must have been the dance, she told herself firmly, trying to ignore that moment when Nick had looked into her eyes and she’d felt complete.

  Angel moved faster. She had to find the Comtesse and go. Once she was back at the house she could ring Lily. Hopef
ully she’d know what to do.

  Because the only thing Angel knew was that she had to do something, anything, except fall in love with Nick Halliday.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Lily’s didn’t answer her phone. Angel rang and rang and left a zillion urgent messages begging Lily to call, but by evening she’d still heard nothing.

  She sat at the dressing table and pondered the situation. It was a mess. The truth was she should never have agreed to have dinner with Nick.

  If only she could talk to Lily. Angel tried her again. Nothing.

  Finally she rang her mother, but it was more to hear her voice than anything else. Simone still sounded kind of faint so Angel had told her how awesome summer camp was and then got off the phone.

  She looked at herself in the mirror. It was funny how telling lies didn’t seem to show on your face.

  She frowned. If only she’d told Nick she was ill, or still jetlagged, or something! The last thing she needed was to spend the evening alone with a guy who made her insides turn to mush. Especially when he thought she was somebody else.

  But it was too late now. She’d just have to try to keep things short and simple. Like only having a main meal with no entrée or dessert. And definitely no dancing. She’d be boring and tired. He wouldn’t be interested after that.

  “Focus on the Teen Couture,” Angel told herself firmly. “Don’t get too close or say too much to him.” She poked her tongue out at her reflection. “Shouldn’t be too hard—I’ll just remember he’s probably like one of those jerks from the boys’ school.” But even as she said it, her reflection revealed the truth. She knew that Nick wasn’t like them at all.

  When Marie came up to tell her that he was waiting downstairs, Angel was just putting on her new silver shoes. She stared at herself in the mirror; she was actually wearing Oscar de la Renta! It was a gorgeous dress: pure silk, just short of knee-length and a perfect cornflower blue with silver clasps at the shoulders and a narrow silver belt. Angel felt utterly Parisian in it and she couldn’t help doing a twirl just to see how beautifully the skirt billowed around her.