The Cinderella Moment Read online

  Just then the boat bumped gently against the dock.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Angel lay awake for ages thinking about Nick.

  She could hardly believe she’d almost kissed him. But she’d let herself get caught up in the dance and the music and drifting down the river with Paris on either side. It had been pretty romantic—okay, incredibly romantic—but she shouldn’t have let it (nearly) happen.

  He was so different from the guys she knew and it wasn't just that he was charming and confident and easy to talk to—Nick was honest. Which made it even harder that he didn’t know who she really was.

  Angel considered what Nick had said about never expecting to feel this way about her. Did he mean he liked the Angel version of Lily (which meant he liked her)? Or was the attraction dependent on her being Lily?

  She gazed up at her favorite painted faun. “The point is, would he still feel this way if he knew I was me?” she asked. It didn’t seem likely, especially once he discovered she’d been lying, but even if it were …

  “He can’t know I’m me until this is over,” Angel told the faun. “Lily’s promised to come to Paris to tell the Comtesse the truth, but by then I’ll be back in New York with no chance of ever seeing him again to explain. And he won’t want to see me once he finds out I’ve been pretending to be Lily!”

  It was a hopeless situation and Angel knew it.

  She rolled over and punched her pillow. Lily was right. It’d be better if she avoided Nick. But she couldn’t seem to avoid thinking about him and the way he’d held her as they danced and how he'd looked at her and the things he'd said. And she especially couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said about liking her.

  At least she’d managed to keep her distance after the boat had docked. Everyone had poured onto the deck to disembark, so there’d been no time to talk, and then they’d all ridden the carousel under the Eiffel Tower before heading home. Angel had managed to avoid sitting with Nick by jumping on a grinning carousel horse and riding solo.

  She’d been worried about the drive home but luckily Sebastian had begged a ride and talked the whole way about tomorrow’s polo match.

  When they got back to the villa, Angel had practically leapt from the car so by the time Nick came round to open her door she was already on the doorstep. She thought he might have tried kissing her goodnight, only Marcel had opened the door before he’d had the chance.

  She wondered what it felt like to be kissed. She was pretty sure she’d like it if Nick kissed her. Dancing with him had felt amazing and she could still feel his arms around her as they waltzed on the deck to “La Mer.”

  Angel lay there humming the tune until she fell asleep.

  ***

  Henri drove Angel to her fitting the next morning. The Comtesse had gone out early, but her instructions had been clear: Henri was to have Mademoiselle Lily at Vidal’s by eleven and the Polo Club by one.

  Angel’s heart thumped as she got out of the car.

  “About half an hour then, Mademoiselle Lily,” said Henri.

  “Can we make it longer? Please, Henri,” Angel begged. “I’m expecting to visit one of the workrooms while I’m here.” Not a complete lie, she thought, clutching her bag and feeling her design folder inside.

  “Bien sûr,” agreed Henri, “but we must leave by noon. Madame la Comtesse will not like it if we are late for the polo.”

  Angel nodded. It was only an hour but it should be enough time to carry out her plan. “Okay, Henri, I’ll be back here right at twelve.”

  The salon was cool and quiet as Angel followed the receptionist. As they passed the workrooms she could see the seamstresses, tailors, cutters and designers working on the designs that ensured Antoine Vidal’s reputation as one of the world’s greatest couturiers.

  She longed to stay and watch, but there was no time.

  The receptionist led her into a small room where a woman wearing the signature grey suit of the House of Vidal was waiting.

  “Good morning, Mademoiselle de Tourney. I am Jeanne, one of your fitters.”

  “Hello Jeanne,” Angel replied, with her heart kicking against her ribs. Get a grip! she chided herself. This is the easy bit, so enjoy it. Afterwards you can think about getting into the Teen Couture room.

  Another woman entered with Angel’s ball gown in her arms. “Bonjour, I am Claudine, the head fitter.”

  “Bonjour Claudine,” replied Angel, her eyes on the black and crimson gown. She could hardly believe that in a few minutes she’d be wearing it.

  “If Mademoiselle could please remove her outer garments and also the brassiere,” asked Jeanne.

  Her English was slow and heavily accented, and for a moment Angel was tempted to answer her in French. She opened her mouth—and closed it. So far everyone assumed she knew no French. Maybe it was better that way.

  Feeling a little shy, Angel stripped down to her briefs and stepped up onto the wooden platform in the center of the room. The fitters lifted the heavy satin skirt over her head, eased her into the clinging black bodice and tied the sash.

  Angel breathed deeply and tried to take in the fact that she was wearing a real Antoine Vidal gown!

  She closed her eyes and felt the cool weight of the satin against her thighs and heard the soft swish of the skirt as it moved. Opening her eyes, she drank in the deep crimson of the skirt and caught the faint fragrance of satin, fine wool crepe and something else—a tantalizing scent that smelled to Angel like the perfume of pure artistry.

  Oblivious, the fitters bustled about her, smoothing, measuring, pinning and tacking the fabric with precise, purposeful stitches and all the while talking rapidly to each other in French.

  Angel stood still, content to watch them work. It was fascinating to see how subtly the gown altered its shape as the material yielded to the fitters’ pins. She thought of her own ball gown and the weeks she’d spent slaving to achieve her vision. And she’d almost done it—a few more hours and she would have created a gown that—

  “And will the Teen Couture go ahead as planned?” Jeanne’s question jerked Angel back to the present.

  “Yes,” replied Claudine, unaware that Angel could understand every word she said. “Celeste says it is only the cull that has been delayed.”

  “Is Bertrand very ill?” asked Jeanne.

  “Sick enough that his workroom lies empty and the Teen Couture designs remain unopened. And he will not be back before Friday.”

  Jeanne looked shocked. “But the cull must be finished on Friday.”

  Claudine turned up the next piece of crimson hemline and pinned it carefully into place. “Monsieur Vidal has said Monday will do.”

  “Perhaps Celeste will do the cull alone this year?” suggested Jeanne.

  “No need, she and Bertrand have agreed to do it this weekend.”

  “Ah, those two can work.” Jeanne pushed the last pin into place and stood up while Claudine ran a hand over the skirt and said in English, “How does it feel, Mademoiselle?”

  “Wonderful,” breathed Angel.

  “And the length?”

  Angel looked down. “Perfect.”

  “Bon. Then we are finished for now.”

  The fitters lifted the gown over Angel’s head and Jeanne carried it away as Angel dressed.

  “You will come back in two days?” asked Claudine. “On Friday, yes?”

  “Yes,” replied Angel, feeling the tension rise as she realized the fitting was over and it was time to execute her plan.

  As she’d expected, the door to the Teen Couture room was still locked; there was nothing for it but to try and get in from the adjoining workroom.

  To her surprise it was as empty as it had been on that first day, with no sign anyone had been there since.

  Angel bent down beside the rolls of fabric blocking the connecting door and tried to see a way between them. Pulling a flashlight from her bag, she aimed its beam through the bolts of cloth. If she could only make a tunnel betwee
n them she could reach the door without anyone ever knowing she’d been there.

  She set to work. It was hard going but she managed to make a narrow pathway beneath the rolls.

  She grabbed her bag, crawled carefully between the bolts to the door and pulled down the handle.

  Nothing.

  The door was locked.

  Angel scrabbled in her bag for her penknife and applied it to the metal slit in the middle of the door handle.

  It turned and her heart leapt.

  She was about to open the door when she heard footsteps.

  She instantly shrank back against a large bolt of denim and tried not to breathe.

  “Did Bertrand say where he’d left it?” a woman’s voice asked crisply in French.

  A man answered, “In the filing cabinet.” The footsteps moved past and Angel heard a drawer open and the clatter of files.

  “Here it is.”

  “Thank heaven. It’s after twelve and Monsieur Vidal wanted it by noon.”

  The drawer banged shut, Angel heard footsteps, the door close and then the only sound was of her heart pounding in her chest.

  Already after twelve! Henri would be waiting. What if he came into Vidal’s looking for her?

  There was no time to swap the designs now. She’d have to try again on Friday.

  Grabbing her bag, she crawled from beneath the fabric bolts and ran to the door. Opening it carefully, she peered out into the corridor. With a sigh of relief, she pulled the door shut and hurried back towards reception. She was almost running when she rounded a corner and collided with someone coming the other way.

  “I’m so sorry,” gasped Angel. “I didn’t see you.”

  “Lily!” exclaimed Kitty, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” She gazed at her, “You okay?”

  “Fine,” said Angel. “You?”

  “Good, especially now I’ve found you,” Kitty hesitated. “Are you sure you’re okay, Lily?” she asked gently. “‘Cause you don’t look so good.”

  “Honestly, I’m fine, but I was meant to meet Henri at twelve and I’m late. I’m sorry, Kitty, maybe we can meet up tomorrow?” Angel began moving away.

  Kitty caught her arm. “Wait, Lily. I don’t think you’re going to want to go anywhere looking like that.”

  “The Comtesse said these pants were fine for the polo.”

  “You’d better come with me.” Kitty led her into the bathroom and over to the mirror.

  Angel gasped in horror. Her hair looked like she’d been through a bramble bush; her face was covered in a fine layer of dust and a large grey smudge ran from her right ear to her nose. Her once clean, sleeveless blue blouse was dotted with dust, her trousers were creased and there was a layer of grime across both knees.

  Angel looked at Kitty in dismay. “I can’t go to the polo looking like this.”

  “You got that right.”

  “But what about Henri—if I don’t turn up in the next thirty seconds he’s going to come looking for me,” said Angel desperately.

  “You leave Henri to me,” said Kitty. “Fact is, my dad asked your grandma if I could catch a ride with you to the polo. You stay here and tidy yourself up and I’ll go and sort out Henri.”

  By the time Kitty came back Angel had managed to tidy her hair and wash her face and hands, but no amount of brushing or rubbing had restored her clothes to anything close to clean.

  “Do you think the Comtesse will notice?” she asked Kitty, trying to smooth out the creases in her pants.

  “Are you kidding?” replied Kitty. “With her fashion radar, your grandma’ll know you don’t look right before you’re even out of the car.”

  “It’s true,” moaned Angel. “What am I going to do?”

  “Wear these,” replied Kitty, holding out a short-sleeved white shirt with a mandarin collar and a pair of tan-colored linen trousers.

  “Where did you get them?” said Angel, undoing her blouse.

  “Wardrobe,” replied Kitty. “It’s one of the advantages of having practically grown up here.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” said Angel, buttoning the shirt with feverish fingers and pulling on the pants.

  “Well, you could tell me how you got so dirty,” said Kitty, grinning. “I’m no expert when it comes to fittings, but I never saw anyone come away from one looking like that.”

  Angel looked nervously at her new friend. “I’d love to tell you, but I can’t. It’s nothing bad. It’s just something I … ” How could she make Kitty understand without revealing her secret? She looked at her miserably.

  “I won’t tell anyone,” said Kitty.

  “I know, it’s only … ” Angel tried to find a way to explain. “If you could trust me … ”

  Kitty hesitated. “You promise it’s nothing bad? You’re not like a spy for Dior or something?”

  “No! It’s … it’s something personal—something I have to fix. I can’t explain right now, but it’s nothing to do with anyone in Paris. I know it sounds weird, but if you could trust me, that’d be awesome.”

  Kitty looked at her intently. “Okay,” she said eventually. “I’ll trust you, but only if you promise that when you’ve done whatever it is you’re doing, you’ll tell me everything.”

  “If it can wait until I get back to New York, then I promise,” said Angel.

  Kitty’s brow furrowed, then she nodded slowly and took Angel’s hand. “Come on then, Lily, let’s get to the polo. You don’t want to miss the first chukka, do you?”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Henri got them to the Polo Club by ten past one. As they drove up the long driveway Angel could see stables on one side and a long stretch of immaculately kept grass on the other. A group of riders in brightly colored shirts cantered across the grass then disappeared behind the clubhouse.

  It was a beautiful day. Warm, with a clear blue sky and a light breeze to rustle the leaves. Henri parked the Bentley between a bright red Ferrari and a silver Maserati Spyder.

  Angel eyed the cars nervously. “You’re Lily, remember, Lily de Tourney,” she muttered as she followed Kitty through the clubhouse and down the steps.

  There were people everywhere. Beneath the elegant white canopies lining the edge of the polo field, black-coated waiters flitted among them offering hors d’oeuvres and champagne. Angel had never seen so many designer clothes in one spot.

  “There’s Giles,” cried Kitty, grabbing Angel’s hand and guiding her through the crowd. He and the rest of the gang were sitting with the Comtesse who looked cool and relaxed in a suit of tamarind silk with a matching broad-brimmed hat and a triple strand of milky pearls around her neck.

  “Ah, Lily, here you are.” The Comtesse glanced at her watch. “Later than I wished, but perhaps that is Henri’s fault?”

  “No, no, Mada—Grandmama,” said Angel quickly. “It was my fault. I lost track of time. I’m sorry.”

  “You have changed your clothes,” said the Comtesse, frowning. “Did you dislike what we selected this morning?”

  Angel blushed. “Oh, no, it was great. But I … I … ” She struggled to think of a plausible reason.

  Kitty came to her rescue. “Lily had a slight accident, Madame de Tourney. It was my fault, I spilled my orange juice.”

  “Orange juice?” demanded the Comtesse. “At Vidal’s? Surely you know better, Kitty?”

  “Oh. Yes. I do … ” Kitty glanced at Giles, who was regarding her curiously. She colored and added, “I’m sorry, Madame. I thought … I meant … ” Kitty wilted beneath the steely gaze.

  “It was my fault, Grandmama,” Angel interrupted. She saw Kitty open her mouth and rushed on. “Kitty’s taking the blame so you won’t be angry with me, but the truth is that I brought the orange juice into Vidal’s. I didn’t know—and I was rushing to be on time to meet Henri and I spilled the juice down my clothes. Please don’t be angry with Kitty—if it wasn’t for her finding me something to wear—”

  “I expect they would have barr
ed you from the clubhouse,” said the Comtesse, her frown fading. “I’m sorry, Kitty. Thank you for helping Lily. I confess I did not realize you were so enterprising.”

  Kitty blushed. Giles smiled at her and she shot Angel a grateful look.

  “I trust you will not bring drinks into Vidal’s again, Lily?” said the Comtesse.

  “Not ever!” declared Angel.

  “Bon, then we may now enjoy the polo.” The Comtesse’s eyes twinkled. “Your late arrival means that you have missed the Club president’s speech, but I don’t suppose you will mind.”

  “Not at all,” said Angel, grinning.

  “Not even a little bit,” said Kitty.

  “And the match is about to begin.” The Comtesse nodded towards the field.

  Angel turned and saw a group of horses and riders cantering across the grass. There were eight of them, each wearing close-fitting white trousers and brown knee-high boots. Four of the riders wore red polo shirts and four wore yellow, the team’s shirts numbered from one to four. As they drew nearer, Angel saw that each rider carried a whip in his left hand and a long wooden mallet in his right.

  They cantered across the field to where two men in black-and-white striped shirts sat astride their horses.

  “There are the referees,” said Kitty, looking sideways at Giles.

  “Would you like to watch from the sidelines with me?” he asked, pronouncing each word carefully.

  “Sure,” said Kitty, looking pleased.

  People were moving towards the barrier and Kitty beckoned for Angel to follow. She looked at the Comtesse, who nodded and said, “Go along, Lily, you will see better from there. Nicky is number two for the red team and I’m sure you will want to cheer him on.”

  Trying not to blush, Angel hurried after Kitty and Giles.

  From the moment the ball hit the ground Angel was mesmerized. It wasn’t just the beauty of the polo ponies as they galloped about the field, alive to every touch of their rider's hand, or the riders’ skill at hitting the ball while moving at such speed. What entranced her was the incredible sense of danger.