The Cinderella Moment Page 19

  He didn't seem quite so assured when he stopped in front of her.

  “Hey,” said Nick.

  “Hey,” replied Angel, wishing she knew what to say.

  “Are you okay? Godmother said you’d been ill.”

  Angel nodded. “It was a twenty-four-hour thing. I’m fine now.” She examined him for any sign of his polo accident. “What about you? How’s your head?”

  “Perfect. Not a scratch on me. My only real injury was to my heart.”

  “What?”

  Nick assumed a martyred expression. “You see, you didn’t visit me in the hospital,” he said tragically. “But then I heard you’d been ill, so it was okay. Once I knew you’d gone out in sympathy for me—”

  “I did not!”

  Nick grinned. “Or maybe you were just trying to get my attention.”

  “Don’t give yourself airs,” said Angel, punching him playfully.

  “Well, you’ve obviously got your strength back, so let’s go look at some art.”

  “Where are we going?” asked Angel, as Nick took her hand and led her across the square.

  “L’Orangerie,” he pointed to a building. “Godmother told me I wasn’t to tire you, so I thought we’d start somewhere small. It’s a pity we can’t do more, given that it’s Sunday.”

  “What’s so special about Sunday?”

  “Nothing,” replied Nick. “Only, it’s the perfect day for a date.”

  She regarded him. “Oh?”

  “Lots of Paris monuments are free on Sunday.” Nick looked at her mournfully. “Think of the money I’d save if we could see more than one.”

  “What makes you think this is a date?” she demanded.

  “Did I say ‘date’? Sorry, I meant a cheap date.”

  “All right, what makes you think this is a cheap date?”

  “Oh, but I don’t.” Nick grinned at the flash of regret on Angel’s face. “At least, it is a date—just not a cheap date. Or it won’t be by the time it’s over.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Angel, as they entered the gallery.

  “This is a week-long date,” said Nick, taking her hand. “We can’t do much today, but tomorrow we can do a bit more and the day after that we can have the whole afternoon and maybe the evening, which means we can go to the Musée d’Orsay and the artists’ quarter in Montmartre. On Wednesday I’m taking you to the Ritz for lunch.” He held up his hand. “It’s no use arguing because lunch at L’Espadon is compulsory. You haven’t truly experienced Paris until you’ve eaten at the Ritz.”

  Angel opened her mouth and closed it. She’d been about to tell him that she couldn’t do any of these things because she didn’t want to eat at the Ritz or see the Musée d’Orsay or Montmartre, but it wasn’t true. She wanted to do all of it—especially with Nick.

  “We’ll go up the Arc de Triomphe and see the Louvre. On Friday night—well, I’ll ask you about that later.” He ushered her inside. “You can see that by week’s end you’ll be anything but a cheap date.”

  “And what about the summer season?” asked Angel.

  “Oh sure, we can fit that in. Wednesday morning we’re back at St. Thérèse’s. Then we’re bound to run into everyone at some of the museums and we’ll definitely see them in the sewers.”

  “The sewers?” Angel wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly.

  “I said I’d take you off the beaten track,” smiled Nick. “You’ll love them, they’re one of the highlights of a trip to Paris. But we won’t do the sewer tour until I’m sure you’re up to it.”

  “I’m not that delicate.”

  “Godmother made me promise to take care of you and get you home on time.” He looked at his watch. “Which means we have less than two hours to absorb the magic of l’Orangerie before Henri collects you.”

  “I thought you said the gallery was small?”

  “It is, but some of the paintings might take a while to see.”

  He led her to a doorway then whispered, “Shut your eyes.” Angel closed them obediently and Nick guided her forward. A moment later he said softly, “Open.”

  Angel opened her eyes and gasped.

  She was staring into a large oval-shaped room with just four paintings on the walls. But what paintings! Each huge, curved canvas was of a different view of a lake or a lily-pond, for these were Claude Monet’s famous waterlilies.

  “Incredible, aren’t they?” said Nick.

  “Amazing.”

  “And there are four more in the next room.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope, I’ve spent hours here, just sitting and looking at them.”

  “I can see why.”

  Together they slowly circled the room. Angel had never seen anything like Monet’s huge canvasses.

  “It’s as if he’s captured the light inside the paint,” she told Nick, as they peered at the amazing colors used by the master painter to create his famous Nymphéas.

  The second room was every bit as breathtaking and Angel spent several minutes going back and forth trying to work out which painting she liked best.

  “It’s impossible to choose a favorite,” she finally declared, sitting down next to Nick on the seat in the middle of the room.

  “Mmm, I can’t decide either. It’s why I keep coming back.”

  “I wish I could come back.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “Oh … well … you see … ” Angel faltered beneath Nick’s clear gaze. “This trip’s a bit of a one-off. I’m not sure I can … ”

  He put his hand over hers. “Don’t you want to come back?”

  “Yes,” replied Angel, flustered. “It’s just … it’s complicated.”

  “Because you live in New York and I live in London?”

  “I … I didn’t know we were talking about … us.”

  “We weren’t, but maybe we should be,” said Nick. “I’ve been wanting to ask you—”

  “Bonjour Nick!” The words sliced the air and Angel pulled away as Marianne came towards them, the rest of the summer season gang following. The redhead stopped in front of Nick and put her hand on his shoulder. It was a possessive gesture that made Angel itch to slap her.

  The group crowded around them, chattering loudly until an angry “shhh” from the museum guard reminded them of their surroundings. Several of the girls giggled, then Marianne said in French, “I thought you would be at the Musée d’Orsay, Nick.” She pouted provocatively. “Instead you are here with the American. Why do you waste your time with her when she knows nothing of art or culture or fashion?” She curled her lip. “She will be happy to see only the Mona Lisa at the Louvre with the other American tourists.”

  Esmé giggled, but most of the others looked uncomfortably at Angel.

  Nick rose. “May I introduce Marianne to you, Lily,” he said in English.

  “We’ve already met,” said Angel.

  He smiled. “So you know that Marianne has a thing for Americans.”

  “Is that so?” asked Angel, holding out her hand. “Well, it’s a real pleasure to meet you, Marianne,” she said, her American accent suddenly broad and southern. “My, but you have some pretty pictures in here.”

  Marianne barely touched Angel’s hand as she said in English, “I’m glad you like them.”

  “Like ’em? I lurve ’em,” cried Angel in a passable imitation of a southern belle.

  She watched Marianne’s lip curl into a sneer before saying in perfect, idiomatic French, “You see I’ve always wanted to see the Monet paintings that inspired Antoine Vidal’s legendary collection of impressionist-inspired evening-wear.”

  She pointed to the painting behind Marianne. “Now that I’m here I can see how he based his evening gowns on this picture. You’ve probably recognized his use of Monet’s celadon, peridot and emerald—all those greens in his collection that started a worldwide trend.”

  She turned to the others, who were staring at her open-mouthed.

  “Vidal also u
sed Monet’s blue palette that year. I’m sure you all remember the incredible beaded georgette evening dress he designed for our First Lady.” She waved at the painting. “But, you know, I’d never fully appreciated his use of pink and yellow in that collection, only now I’ve seen the original painting, I totally get it, don’t you?”

  The group nodded mutely.

  Angel turned back to Marianne and said in French, “The New York Met’s collection of Monet is fabulous, but,” she glanced around and whispered conspiratorially, “I think what you Frenchies have here surpasses even that American gallery.”

  For a moment no one spoke and then the group converged on her, laughing and demanding to know why she hadn’t let on that she spoke French as well as any of them.

  But before Angel could answer the museum guard bore down on them with a look in her eye that prompted Nick to whisper urgently, “Let’s go before they kick us out.”

  He took her hand in his and led her to the door. As they passed Marianne, Nick said loud enough for them all to hear, “I'm rather fond of Americans, you know.”

  Angel couldn't help smiling.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  It was at Monday’s dance class that Angel discovered what Nick had been going to ask her at l'Orangerie. During the class he kept switching places with the other boys so he could dance every dance with her. And, far from minding, Fred had actually instructed Nick to hold Angel closer on the turns!

  She’d agonized over whether she should let herself get close to him, but when he pulled her into his arms for the first dance, Angel gave in. She hated deceiving him and she didn’t want to hurt him, so she decided she’d just have to find the right moment to tell him the truth.

  It was during the last waltz that Nick finally asked the question he’d begun asking her that night on the bateau-mouche. He’d just spun Angel past Kitty and Giles, when he said, “Will you go out with me on Friday night?”

  Angel grinned. “Sure. Is this to the sewers or is there a free gallery open somewhere?”

  Nick laughed. “It’s my birthday and my parents are hosting a dinner for me at the Hotel de Crillon. I hoped you’d be my date.”

  “Oh,” said Angel, uncertainly. Somehow it seemed okay to go out with Nick to galleries and museums or on a sewer tour, but attending an important party as his date felt altogether different.

  “My parents are dying to see you. They were awfully disappointed when you couldn’t come to the ballet.”

  Nick’s parents—that was something else bothering Angel—something she’d been meaning to ask him …

  “You mean Lord and Lady Langham?”

  “Sure.”

  “British royalty?”

  “Not royalty, Lily,” said Nick, amused.

  “Okay, English aristocracy then—they’re Lord and Lady Langham?”

  “Since my father inherited the title,” Nick looked puzzled. “But it’s no big deal—I mean, your dad’s a comte.”

  “He is?” squeaked Angel, before she could stop herself. “I mean, of course, he is.”

  Nick looked even more puzzled. “You must know your dad inherited his title when his father died—your dad is the Comte de Tourney and your grandmother is the dowager Comtesse.”

  It seemed astonishing to Angel that Lily had never told her this fascinating bit of family history. On the rare occasions she mentioned her grandmother, Lily had mostly referred to her as “the Comtesse,” but Angel had never thought about what it meant.

  She was puzzling over it when Nick laughed.

  “Stop playing games with me, Lily,” he said, pulling her closer, “and tell me you’ll be my date at the Crillon next Friday night.”

  She looked up at him. “Are you sure you want me?”

  “Definitely!”

  Angel hesitated. How could she say no? It was his birthday and he wanted her to share it with him.

  “Okay,” she said.

  On Tuesday, Angel spent the morning with the Comtesse at a Christian Dior fashion show and the afternoon with Nick exploring the artists’ quarter in Montmartre.

  They caught the Metro to Anvers and, after Angel had convinced him she was well enough, began climbing the three hundred steps up the Rue Foyatier to the great church of Sacré Coeur.

  Every now and then one of the funicular rail cars would glide past them carrying tourists up the steep slope.

  About halfway up, Angel stopped, sighed heavily, and looked longingly at a passing rail car.

  Nick halted beside her. “I knew it was too much for you,” he said. “We should’ve taken the funicular. I can carry you the rest of the way if you’re tired,” he offered.

  “Could you?” asked Angel, trying to keep a straight face.

  “If you need—” Nick broke off as Angel burst out laughing.

  “I’m sorry,” she gurgled, “but the look on your face when the funicular went by!”

  Nick grinned. “Very funny,” he said as they began climbing again.

  “Would you really have carried me?”

  “Sure. That’s how I got to the top on my first visit to Montmartre—my dad carried me on his back the whole way up.”

  “How old were you?”

  “About four.”

  “And you still remember it?”

  Nick looked at her, his face serious. “It was one of the happiest holidays of my life. Before my parents started fighting.”

  They climbed in silence for a while.

  Then Angel said, “Marianne told me your parents had remarried.”

  Nick nodded. “Two years ago.”

  “Was it okay? I—I mean—how did you feel?”

  Nick smiled reassuringly. “It’s all right. I’m kind of glad you asked. I know I left you with the impression that they’d messed up my whole childhood.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Well, they did sort of mess it up—for several years, anyway. Before they grew up enough to realize that they were better together than apart.” He stopped and Angel paused beside him, glad to catch her breath. They were almost at the top.

  Nick looked out across the city. “How did I feel about it? Angry they’d put me through it, relieved they’d stopped all the stupid point-scoring, and incredibly happy that they’d finally figured out how much they loved each other.”

  “I like that last bit,” said Angel.

  “Me too,” said Nick. “But probably the best thing was learning that even after they’d totally messed up, they still found a way to fix things.”

  “That’s encouraging,” said Angel, trying not to think about her own messed-up situation.

  “I’m not even sure how they managed it. I’m just glad they did.”

  They reached the last step and above them the white façade of Sacré Coeur gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. Nick held out his hand. “Come on, let’s get an ice-cream before we hit the tourist trail.”

  ***

  The rest of the week flew by.

  On Wednesday Nick took Angel to lunch at L’Espadon. Angel felt like she was in seventh heaven dining in the Ritz’s most beautiful restaurant. Afterwards they joined the rest of the gang on the famous sewer tour before Nick stole her away to show her the Musée d’Orsay and the view of Paris from the top of the Eiffel Tower.

  Every night Angel stayed up a little later and every morning she woke at ten when Marie opened the curtains and put her breakfast tray on the bed. And each afternoon she found an opportunity to slip away and phone her mother.

  It was wonderful to hear Simone sounding stronger and more energetic; the only drawback was that as her health improved so did her interest in Angel’s daily life.

  Angel longed to tell her about Paris and Nick and the summer season, but she knew that even the faintest hint that she was anywhere but Camp Wilderness would see her mother on the next plane to France—the last thing Simone needed when she was still recovering.

  Angel made a silent promise to tell her everything the minute they were together again. By then her
mother would be well enough to withstand the shock.

  She couldn’t imagine what Maman would say, but she knew she’d have to tell her the truth. The longer she was in Paris, the more Angel wished she could tell someone her secret. Several times she almost confided in Kitty or the Comtesse or Nick but each time she opened her mouth to confess she faltered, too afraid of how they might react.

  Instead, she followed Lily’s advice and spent the days with Nick. The trouble was, the more she knew him, the closer they became and the harder it was to keep letting him believe she was Lily.

  ***

  On Thursday Nick kept his promise and took Angel to the Louvre.

  It was unbelievably beautiful and Angel hardly knew whether to look at the artwork or the architecture. There was so much here to inspire her and she'd thought of half a dozen new dress designs before she'd even left the first room. After only an hour she’d run out of words to tell Nick what she thought of the wonders of the Louvre.

  They walked from room to room, holding hands and arguing light-heartedly over which paintings they liked until Nick said, “We’re almost there.” He pointed to a wide doorway ahead of them. “That’s the Salle d’Etats—home of the Mona Lisa.”

  Angel ran forward and stopped.

  It was obvious which wall held the world’s most famous painting because a crowd of people obscured the portrait from view. Angel and Nick waited patiently until several of them drifted away and Nick gently thrust Angel forward. “Go on, I’ve seen it lots of times.”

  She edged into the space and stared at Leonardo da Vinci’s celebrated painting of La Joconde. It was smaller than she’d expected and far more beautiful than any print or copy she’d seen. The original had a richness and a depth she couldn’t have anticipated and the colors were amazing. Angel wished she could acquire a bolt of the fabric used to make Mona Lisa’s gown: what she might do with such cloth.

  She stood there absorbing the portrait until Nick touched her arm.

  “Want to leave the tourists to wrestle each other for photos? I’d like to show you my favorite da Vinci painting.”