The Cinderella Moment Read online

  She took her mother’s hand. “And tomorrow night I might get to see him—all because you convinced Jean-Pierre to hire me as a waitress last summer.” Angel hugged the velvet. “Imagine—me in the same room as Antoine Vidal. And maybe, just maybe, I might make the final in the Teen Couture and get to meet him!”

  “Yes, chérie, I know.” Simone’s soft brown eyes were sombre as she cupped her daughter’s face in her hands. “And I know how much you dream of it all. It’s just that … you and your papa were so close and now he is gone. I don’t want you to be hurt by anything more. Some dreams can be dangerous.”

  “Not this one.” Angel’s voice rang with confidence. “I know I probably won’t win, but something good will come of it, I’m positive.”

  Her mother looked skeptical. “I hope you are right, mon ange.”

  Chapter Two

  Angel put down her pencil and looked glumly round her room. It was a cozy space with her pillow-strewn bed in the corner, a sewing table beside the big wooden closet, a tall swing-mirror and the trunk she’d found all those years ago.

  She remembered that day so vividly. It was the summer she turned six and they’d just moved from their dreary two-room rental in the Bronx to the de Tourney’s palatial townhouse. Angel loved her new home and her favorite place was the butler’s old room.

  She liked to sit amidst the clutter, reading, or drawing in the sketchbook her mother had given her, and imagine what might be in the cupboards and boxes around the walls. Eventually she’d grown adventurous and begun opening the drawers, cupboards and boxes, one by one, exploring the long-forgotten contents. She’d left the big wooden trunk until last.

  It had been full of clothes.

  Angel had always loved clothes: how they moved and sat and hung. How different fabrics suited different things. She was fascinated by the way an outfit could look good on one person and awful on someone else. She would spend hours drawing in her sketchbook and “fixing” outfits she’d seen in the subway or on the street.

  The trunk had been a revelation. She hadn’t known whose it was, only that its owner was a woman of taste. In it was a suit made of material that Angel could only think of as a miracle: coral-colored, it had been gossamer light, but fine and warm and soft. It hung superbly and she loved to examine the tiny stitches that held the perfect seams together. It had a label in the neck that she carefully read and for weeks afterwards she’d whisper “Chanel” to herself as though it were a magic word.

  There were dresses, skirts, shirts, suits and a coat that was so beautiful it made Angel want to cry. And the fabric—that was what began it—the cloth that was like heavenly color in physical form, some of it silken, some stiff, some soft and some crisp.

  Angel had never touched fabric like that. Her dresses were all plain and sensible, the material drab and unyielding. They didn’t flow or swirl; they just sat, dull and stodgy with no hope of ever being pretty. She knew it wasn’t Maman’s fault—Simone did her best—but now Angel’s own dresses didn’t matter because she had this miraculous chest full of promise.

  Of course, it wasn’t really hers—not then, anyway—not until six months ago when Lily had given it to her and insisted that she use the contents in whatever way she liked.

  At first Angel had protested, pointing out that Philip mightn’t approve of her using his dead wife’s things, but Lily had just said defiantly, “Dad won’t care, and if I want to give my best friend some of my mother’s things, I will.”

  Angel hadn’t known what to say. It was such a shock to hear Lily sounding angry with her dad. They’d always been so close—even after he’d started dating Margot Kane. But ever since Christmas something had happened to push them apart—only Lily wouldn’t say what.

  And that was really weird because Lily never kept secrets from Angel. She’d insisted on giving her the trunk and eventually Angel had given in and set about finding the best use for each precious piece of fabric.

  She could see some of the fabric now: tiny pieces of it pinned to some of the dozens of fashion sketches that covered the wall. Four designs stood out.

  She gazed at each drawing in turn. The red cocktail sheath had taken her ages to get right, but she’d eventually nailed it. It looked amazing beside the green-and-white silk day dress and the simple navy suit with its pencil-line trousers and short jacket with the white trim. But Angel’s favorite design was the hot pink bikini with the halter top and the flirty ruffled skirt—just looking at it made her think of palm trees, white sand and surf.

  Angel stretched out her leg and prodded the closet door open with her big toe. She could see the four designs hanging inside, each one painstakingly cut and sewn by hand as the competition rules demanded. From conception through to design and execution, her Teen Couture entries had taken her months. Now all she had to do was finish her final design, then cut and sew a fabulous ball gown.

  “If only it were that simple,” muttered Angel, spinning round in her chair to consider the hundreds of magazine pictures stuck to the walls. They seemed to stare back at her, mocking her lack of inspiration.

  Each picture had taught her something about fashion. Some were daring, most caught the eye, several made her mouth water, but all of them had line, perfect cut and, most importantly, originality. Angel sighed. That was what her design needed.

  She gazed at the sketch in front of her. It was of a midnight-blue velvet ball gown, lovely—maybe even beautiful—but still lacking that certain something. She bit her lip. The answer was there, somewhere inside the velvet, just waiting for her to let it out.

  “The way a great sculpture is inside a block of marble,” she said aloud. “Trouble is I’m not Michelangelo.”

  “Why would you want to be some old dead Italian guy?”

  “Lily!” Angel spun round and immediately saw that her best friend was upset. “You okay? I thought you were talking to your dad.”

  “I was—for about five minutes—until the connection failed.”

  “That sucks.”

  “It does, but that’s not why I’m mad.”

  Angel’s eyebrows lifted. “Uh-oh, what’s Clarissa done now?”

  “Apart from filling the bathroom with a million cosmetics, three hairdryers, a foot spa and a gallon of fake tan? She’s told Margot that half the mothers at school are taking their daughters to the Fundraising Gala at the Waldorf tomorrow night so now the she-witch has managed to get tickets and is insisting that I go with her and her detestable daughter.” Lily threw herself onto Angel’s bed and pulled a pillow over her face.

  “But that’s awesome!” Angel couldn’t conceal her excitement. “Antoine Vidal is showing his fall collection at the Gala. He’s guest of honour and you’ll be right there … ”

  Lily sat up. “That’s great if you care about that stuff, but you know I don’t. It should be you watching it, not me. If I thought we’d get away with it, I’d happily swap places with you.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. I’m waitressing, remember? While you’re eating your thousand-dollar-a-head dinner I’ll be stuck out the back waiting to clear away mountains of dirty plates. I probably won’t even see Antoine Vidal—never mind his collection.”

  Lily looked rueful. “I’m sorry, Angel. I know I’m being ungrateful but it’s unbearable to watch Margot schmoozing her way into what she thinks are the best social circles or listen to Clarissa sucking up to anyone connected with the fashion industry because she thinks she’s the next Coco Chanel.”

  Angel grimaced. Lily had told her about Clarissa’s burning ambition to own her own fashion design studio and how Margot had spent a fortune at several emerging designers before Miki Merua had offered Clarissa a part-time job. It was hard not to feel a little envious—it must be amazing to have a mother who was rich enough to open doors like that.

  “And Margot keeps nagging me about being friends with Elizabeth Montague because she wants to be friends with her mother, Jacqueline. It wouldn’t be so bad if Margot wasn’t so good at it,”
groaned Lily. “But she is—look at how she’s got my dad wrapped round her finger.”

  “No way—you’re the only person who’s ever managed that.”

  “I wish, but Margot seems to have him well-fooled.”

  “But your dad’s so … ” Angel tried to find the right word. “So true and … impossible to fool.”

  Lily gave Angel’s teddy bear a fierce hug. “Apparently not, given that he seems to have fallen for her hook, line and sinker.”

  “You don’t think Philip likes her that much, do you?”

  “What do you think?” retorted Lily. “He asked her to move in while he’s away, didn’t he?”

  “That’s because he cares about you, not Margot.”

  “Oh yeah, then how come he rings her almost as much as he rings me?” Lily held out her cell phone, her face flushed. “She says she’s had three calls from him already.”

  “Oh.”

  “And there’s no point feeling glad that he can’t ring her much from South America because he’s in remote places, because he can’t ring me either.” Lily bit her lip. “Dad’s left Margot in charge—given her free rein to run the house and order me about.” She pushed the teddy bear away. “Every other time he’s gone away he’s always let Simone look after us.” She scowled. “So why not this time?”

  “I don’t know,” admitted Angel. “Did you ask him?”

  A shadow fell across Lily’s face. “What’s the point? He won’t listen to me. Look at how he reacted when I tried to tell him about the London Drama Academy.”

  “But that’s theatre school and your dad doesn’t think of acting as a real career.”

  Lily flopped back on the bed. “Tell me about it. I’ve wanted to go to theatre school in London since I was ten, and now that I might actually get the chance, do you think he’ll listen?” She sat up. “But I’ll tell you one thing, Angel: if I do get a place at the Academy this summer I’m going to England and nothing and nobody will stop me.”

  Angel sat down on the bed next to her. “And I’ll help you—but right now let’s keep Margot happy and decide what you’re going to wear to the Waldorf tomorrow night.”

  Lily smiled and held out her pinky finger. “Friends?”

  Angel crooked her pinky round Lily’s. “Forever,” she replied.

  After Lily had gone, Angel sat on her bed and worked on her sketch. She drew until midnight, but no matter how many times she reworked the velvet gown, she couldn’t seem to get it right.

  Maybe if I sleep on it, thought Angel. She lay back against her pillow and flipped drowsily through her designs.

  “Tomorrow.” She closed her sketchbook.

  ***

  Angel woke. She’d been dreaming. Lily had been there, and Philip and her mother. Rolling over, she hugged her pillow and groped for the vision. There had been something about a dress. Wisps of the dream floated through her mind and she caught one before it vanished with the rest. Yes. There it was: midnight-blue velvet and … something else. Silver, it was silver.

  Angel flicked on the light and grabbed her sketchbook and pencil. She bent over the page, her face intent and her strokes certain as she drew.

  It was nearly two when she finally laid down her pencil. Discarded drawings littered the floor, but in her hand Angel held a single sketch. She looked at it for a long time before she turned out the light.

  Chapter Three

  When Simone came to wake her, Angel was in her pajamas hard at work pinning fabric to her ancient dressmaker’s dummy. She moved slowly around the mannequin, concentrating fiercely as she draped and pinned the yards of cheap calico cloth.

  As she stepped back to gauge the effect, Angel saw her mother in the doorway, a glass of orange juice in her hand. Simone smiled. “I thought you could use an energy boost.”

  “Thanks, Maman,” said Angel, taking the glass and drinking.

  Simone touched the fabric. “You seem inspired.”

  “I hope it’s inspiration. One thing’s for sure, pulling it off is going to be a challenge.”

  “You’ll do better with some breakfast in you.”

  “Okay, I’ll just finish pinning.” Angel stopped as a bell sounded in the hall.

  Simone sighed. “That’ll be Margot. She and Clarissa ordered breakfast in bed. I’d better run.”

  “Don’t you dare,” commanded Angel. “Remember what the doctor said—the indigestion will only stop if you stop rushing around. The she-witch and her horrible daughter can wait.”

  “You must not call them that, chérie. They are Philip’s guests.”

  “I know, but I hate how they constantly ring that bell and keep you at their beck and call. They’ve only been here a week and already they act like they own the place. I don’t get why Philip invited them to stay while he’s away.”

  “He was thinking of Lily. She is growing up and he worries about her not having a mother.”

  Angel looked at Simone in surprise. It was unusual to hear Maman speak so openly. “Lily doesn’t need a mother—she has you.”

  “I love Lily, but a housekeeper is not the same as a mother.”

  Angel stabbed a pin into the dummy. “A gold-digging social-climber isn’t the same as a mother either.”

  Simone’s brow furrowed as she gently rubbed a pencil smudge off Angel’s cheek. “Philip will have his reasons for asking the Kanes to stay. We must make the best of it.”

  “But—”

  Angel was about to list the twenty reasons why Philip had got it wrong when Simone said, “The truth is that Lily would hate anyone who married her father.”

  “No, just Margot Kane.”

  “Well, that is Philip’s business. Perhaps Lily must learn to accept her father’s decisions, whether they are to her liking or not,” said Simone.

  “But she still has the right to an opinion,” said Angel.

  “An opinion, yes, but no more than that.” Simone frowned. “Sometimes adults must make decisions which their children do not like, but that does not mean their parents weren’t trying to do what they thought was best.”

  “Like you with Papa.”

  Her mother looked at her sadly, then said softly, “Yes, like me with Papa.” She touched Angel’s cheek. “Sometimes, mon ange, the right decision is not the best decision and the best decision can be impossible to make, no matter how hard you try.”

  The bell rang again, long and insistent, and Simone hurried away.

  Angel threw on her clothes and ran after her. When she reached the kitchen Simone was putting the silver covers over the plates on Clarissa’s breakfast tray. As she lifted it, Angel saw her mouth clench in pain. She ran forward.

  “Don’t, Maman, let me.”

  She took the tray and heard her mother whisper in French, “Angelique, chérie, ne m’en veux pas … ”

  Angel’s heart leapt. This was the language of her childhood. She put down the tray and hugged her mother. “I didn’t mean to upset you either. Je suis desolée—I’m sorry.”

  As Angel picked up the tray again, Simone said, “Don’t let Clarissa upset you. Remember, those that have the power—”

  “Make the rules. Don’t worry, Maman, I’ll be … an angel.”

  The tray was heavy and as she climbed the stairs Angel was glad she’d taken it. Her mother’s pain was worrying and Angel wished she’d go back to the doctor. She’d only been once and was diagnosed with indigestion. The doctor had told her to slow down and avoid rich food.

  Simone insisted she’d followed his instructions, but Angel knew she was often nauseous; only last week she’d heard her retching in the bathroom. Maybe it wasn’t indigestion, thought Angel. Maybe it was grief. Maman might have had nearly a year to prepare for her husband’s death, but that didn’t lessen the pain of losing him. Sometimes Angel missed Papa so much it physically hurt—maybe Maman’s pain was the same.

  Angel had tried talking to Lily about Simone’s symptoms, but Lily’s only response had been to suggest they buy her one of the healt
h remedies she'd seen on TV. It wasn’t the answer Angel was looking for, but then Lily was never ill, so getting her to understand Angel’s worries about her mother was difficult.

  Angel sighed. There were times when she wondered how Lily—who easily understood a character in a play—could be so lacking in empathy in the real world. She loved Lily, but lately she’d found herself wondering if sometimes her best friend wasn’t just a tiny bit spoiled.

  She pushed the thought away and tried to think of who else she could confide in about Simone.

  There was only Philip, but Maman would kill her if she talked to him about personal matters. Even after ten years, Simone still maintained a strictly professional relationship with her employer: she ran the house like clockwork, managed the staff, prepared all the food and met with Philip regularly to discuss household issues and Lily’s schedule.

  In the early days, Philip would come down to the kitchen to talk and he’d often bring Angel a treat and ruffle her hair and ask her in French how her English was progressing. She'd loved these visits but, after the first few, Maman seemed to find it more convenient to take Philip’s instructions upstairs.

  That first year at the de Tourneys', Maman would often talk about where they would live once Papa was well again. Angel knew she longed to move on and get a different kind of job, but Philip paid her generously and they needed the money. Papa’s surgery had taken most of their savings, but Simone had been convinced that the next procedure would work.

  Only it hadn’t.

  It’d been hard for Simone to accept that her husband would never be well again, and she never seemed entirely comfortable living at the de Tourneys'. Simone never talked about her feelings, but Angel sensed her unease. As she grew older she thought it was probably because Simone’s mother had been a cook, whereas Philip’s mother was a comtesse. Not that Philip ever mentioned it, but maybe it was hard taking orders from someone you’d been to college with.

  Maman rarely talked about her life in Paris before she got married, but she’d told Angel she’d known Philip at university. They’d lost touch after she’d left to marry Yves Moncoeur but had met again by chance at Café Un Deux Trois on Times Square where Simone had been working as a waitress. It was there that Philip had offered her the job as his housekeeper.