The Cinderella Moment Page 8

  “Here.”

  “It’s okay, she’s gone.”

  Angel opened the door. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, she’s dining with friends, so she had to go.”

  “Thank goodness.” Angel slumped down onto the toilet seat. “What was she doing here? I thought she was sending you with Roberts in the Rolls.”

  “She was.” Lily looked embarrassed. “It was my fault. I got distracted and I’d only just started unpacking the first suitcase when she came home and saw what I was doing. She went all icy and polite in that scary way—you know—when you sit there like a total doofus and can’t think of what to say.”

  Angel nodded: she knew exactly.

  “She asked if I thought I could do a better job of packing than the maid.” Lily looked guiltily at Angel. “But the worst part was that I couldn’t swap any of our clothes and now the suitcases are checked in and that means—”

  “I’ll have only your clothes to wear in Paris,” cried Angel. “But I’m three inches taller than you and a different size and shape!”

  “I know, but I did manage to bring you these.” Lily handed Angel a plastic carrier bag. “It’s a pair of your jeans and a T-shirt. I grabbed them out of the dirty laundry.”

  “What!” Angel was incensed.

  “I couldn’t go down to your room, Angel. Margot stayed with me practically the whole time. She even made me wear this disgusting outfit and make-up. It was the worst.” She grimaced. “And there’s something else.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “It may not be so bad,” said Lily. “It’s just that with Margot there I couldn’t pack your Teen Couture outfits either. I’m sorry, Angel. I know I messed up.”

  Angel sighed. “I don’t suppose it’ll matter. I wasn’t sure about swapping the clothes anyway. The most important thing was always to swap the designs and the entry form because they’ll have Clarissa’s name on them, and I’ve got my designs here.” She patted her backpack.

  “Okay then,” Lily grabbed Angel’s hand, “Ready?”

  Angel swallowed hard, “I think so.”

  “It's crazy and totally out there, but we can do this,” said Lily firmly.

  “We have to,” replied Angel, lifting her chin.

  “Okay, let’s go and check you in for my flight to London.”

  ***

  Two hours later Angel was sitting in the gate-lounge waiting to board her flight to Paris and wondering how she’d ever let Lily talk her into such a crazy scheme.

  Except she hadn’t—it was all her own doing. Maybe it wasn’t too late to change her mind. Angel glanced at her watch. Nope, Lily had already boarded her flight to London.

  Angel suppressed the whirling butterflies in her stomach. She was going to Paris to take a stand. That’s what Papa would have told her to do—Papa who had fought right to the end and who had never stopped believing in her. For sure, he’d have told Angel to stop Clarissa Kane from cheating.

  Still, Angel wished she had a more concrete plan. Getting into Vidal’s was one thing, but finding a way to swap her designs was another. The butterflies whirled again. Maybe she should think this through.

  “GOOD EVENING. AIR FRANCE FLIGHT AF139 TO PARIS IS NOW READY FOR BOARDING. COULD PASSENGERS PLEASE HAVE THEIR BOARDING PASSES READY … ”

  Angel didn’t hear the rest. She leapt up, heart pounding as she fumbled for her boarding pass and joined the queue. When she reached the front the flight attendant looked at her in astonishment.

  “But Mademoiselle de Tourney, there is no need for you to queue. Just go through.” She pointed. “The first door on the left, whenever you’re ready.”

  Angel kicked herself mentally as she entered the plane. She should’ve remembered she was travelling first-class.

  “I’m not me, I’m her,” she muttered as the flight attendant led her to an enormous leather seat. I’m Lily de Tourney, Lily, Lily, Lily. And I’d better remember that!

  If only it were that simple.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle de Tourney.”

  Angel was dreaming: Lily was cutting a book with a huge pair of scissors and Angel was desperately trying to make out the title when a piece of midnight-blue velvet floated down and covered it. She was pushing it away when she saw Philip reach out and say something about Simone.

  “Mademoiselle de Tourney.”

  Angel woke to find the flight attendant gently shaking her arm.

  “Sorry?”

  The attendant gestured to the window. “We are approaching Paris. If you look, you will see.”

  Angel was suddenly wide awake. She pressed her forehead against the window and there, bathed in the late-afternoon sunlight, was the most beautiful city in the world.

  Paris!

  Below her the city gleamed like a jewel and Angel could see the wide boulevards radiating out from a center circle like a giant wheel. She felt her skin tingle with anticipation. She’d dreamed of coming to Paris for so long, it was hard to believe she was actually here. If only …

  Angel stopped. There was no point thinking about the if-onlys. She’d agreed to be Lily and now she was in Paris. It was awesome.

  A cloud of butterflies rose up in her stomach. She pushed them away, pressed her nose against the window and tried to see the Eiffel Tower.

  Angel waited nervously at passport control. The immigration official had examined Lily’s passport, then looked at Angel, before signaling to a colleague. The two men conferred in whispers while Angel’s stomach tied itself in knots.

  She wondered what the penalty was for travelling on a false passport and whether French jails allowed you to phone America.

  The second officer stepped forward, picked up Angel’s backpack, and said in English, “Please follow me.”

  It was over before it had begun. Her legs felt wobbly as she followed him and Angel wondered if she might faint. Jet lag, she told herself, trying not to panic.

  She followed the officer along a corridor, down a flight of stairs and past several rooms. Angel was wondering which one was for interrogation, when he pushed open a security door and led her into the arrivals hall.

  Looking around, he beckoned to a silver-haired man in a chauffeur’s uniform standing beside a trolley loaded with four Louis Vuitton suitcases.

  The officer gave Angel her backpack and passport.

  “The Comtesse de Tourney regrets that she is unable to meet you. She asked that we assist you. Welcome to Paris, Mademoiselle de Tourney.”

  Angel’s knees almost buckled with relief. The chauffeur touched his cap and beamed at her. “Welcome, Mademoiselle Lily,” he said in French. “It is good to have you home again. It’s been a long time.”

  Angel gaped at him. The staff! She and Lily had forgotten about the staff; this man must have known Lily when she was little. And now … Angel tried to think of something to say.

  “The car is this way.” When she did not respond, he said in English, “This way.” He took the trolley and headed for the exit.

  Angel followed.

  She didn’t notice the young man looking at her. Nor did she see him pocket his cell phone and stride after her.

  “Lily!” The clipped English tones sounded across the arrivals hall. Oblivious to her new name, Angel kept walking.

  “Lily! Lily de Tourney.”

  Angel stopped dead. Surely there couldn’t be someone else who knew Lily? She spun round and found herself looking up into a pair of sparkling brown eyes beneath a tangle of curly chestnut hair.

  She held her breath.

  “Lily de Tourney, after all these years.” Noticing her blank look, he said, “It’s me—Nick Halliday. As soon as I saw Henri,” he nodded to the chauffeur, “I knew it had to be you.”

  She stared at him, speechless, while inwardly cursing Lily for her assurances that no one in Paris knew her.

  He didn’t seem to mind her silence, but stood there looking at her, his eyes wandering over her face and body as if t
rying to match the girl before him with the girl he’d once known. Angel shifted uncomfortably and Nick whistled. Not a wolf-whistle exactly, more a long, low whistle of—surprise? Appreciation? Lust?

  Angel felt her hackles rise.

  Before she could speak Nick took her hands, held them wide and said, “You’ve grown up.”

  She pulled her hands free. What did he think he was doing, grabbing her like that? And that whistle!

  He seemed amused by her irritation. “Long flight?” he asked, grinning.

  “Very.”

  “You’ll be tired then.” He looked at her uncombed hair and crumpled shirt. “And probably dying for a shower.”

  Angel flushed. Was he serious? He’d only met her two minutes ago and he was acting like he’d known her forever. Who was this guy?

  She searched her brain, trying to remember anything Lily might have said about a gorgeous, annoying Englishman named Nick. Not that gorgeous, she chided herself, scanning him for some clue to his connection to Lily.

  Nick Halliday was about eighteen or nineteen, six-foot-two, and had the tanned, well-muscled body of a sportsman. And naturally he’s rich, thought Angel. I’d recognize that oh-so-casual, I’m-just-one-of-the-boys, private-school look anywhere. Anyone could wear a white Ralph Lauren polo shirt, but Nick’s pants were tailor-made and his accent definitely said upper-class English.

  He reminded her of the seniors from the boys’ school back home, and a warning bell sounded in her head. She frowned. That was it—Nick Halliday looked like another stuck-up, egotistical, all-the-girls-love-me kind of guy.

  “I haven’t seen you since that summer we spent together in Paris,” said Nick. “And you never even called me,” he added wistfully.

  Angel frowned. What was he talking about? Lily hadn’t been to Paris since she was five.

  Nick grinned and she suddenly got the joke. He was talking about Lily’s last summer in Paris—he hadn’t seen her since she was little. Angel breathed again. If she trod carefully she’d get through this minefield unscathed and never see him again.

  She felt a tiny pang of disappointment and shook herself mentally. As if! The last thing she needed right now was to get friendly with some snobby rich guy. She was in Paris for one reason only—to get into Vidal’s and swap her designs for Clarissa’s—nothing more!

  She looked up at Nick again and this time took in the full glory of his smile.

  He would have a gorgeous smile, she thought. No doubt his parents had spent a fortune on orthodontists—maybe even a plastic surgeon—his cheekbones certainly looked impossibly chiseled.

  “The last time I saw you,” said Nick, “you were wearing your grandmother’s tiara and demanding I play kings and queens with you.”

  Angel relaxed. Of course Nick Halliday wasn’t interested in her—he didn’t even know she existed—he thought she was Lily. Angel suddenly realized what her deception meant. She was no longer Angel Moncoeur—whose experience with boys could be written on a Post-it note—she was Lily de Tourney: outgoing, confident and completely at ease with the opposite sex.

  All she had to do was be Lily. It was that simple. She felt strangely liberated.

  She grinned. “I still miss that tiara.”

  “I seem to remember you wanted to send me to the guillotine, but I—”

  “Nick!” An imperious French voice sounded behind Angel. She looked round to see a girl coming towards them. She was about eighteen, tall and model-thin, with a sleek black bob, dark eyes and the poutiest lips Angel had ever seen.

  She took Nick’s arm and looked Angel over. Apparently seeing nothing to perturb her, she said in French, “Nick, darling, the flight.”

  He answered her in English, gesturing to Angel. “I found an old friend, Yvette. Lily, this is Yvette Saint-Gilbert. Yvette, Lily de Tourney.”

  Yvette seemed slightly more interested. “Ah, the American granddaughter of the Comtesse de Tourney.” She held out her hand. Angel shook it and tried to think of a sparkling reply. Nothing occurred to her.

  It was harder being Lily than she’d thought.

  Yvette turned to Nick. “We’ll be late.”

  Nick looked at Angel apologetically. “I have to go.”

  “Right. Yes. Me too.”

  He touched her hand, his fingers were warm against her skin. “See you.”

  Not if I can help it, thought Angel.

  Yvette tugged his arm. “Nick, the time.”

  “You’d better go,” said Angel. “Nice meeting you, Yvette.”

  “Et vous.” Yvette turned away, pulling Nick with her.

  As Angel moved away to where Henri stood waiting by the exit doors, she couldn’t resist glancing back.

  Nick’s arm was across Yvette’s shoulders, his head close to hers. She was definitely his girlfriend. A perfect match. Both good-looking, well-dressed and probably headed for some exotic destination popular with the rich and famous.

  Just then Nick looked round, saw her watching and waved.

  Blushing, Angel turned and hurried after Henri.

  Minutes later she was sitting in the back of a magnificent silver Bentley being driven towards Paris.

  ***

  It was after six when the car passed the Bois de Boulogne and entered a quiet tree-lined street. Henri drove in through elegant iron gates and up a curving gravel driveway. Through the trees Angel could see a two-story, grey stone villa covered in vines.

  The Bentley stopped outside the front door.

  Angel’s heart thumped as she got out of the car and studied the bronze doorknocker. Should she use it or wait for the chauffeur? Before she could decide, the door opened and an elderly butler appeared.

  “Bienvenue, Mademoiselle Lily. Entrez, entrez.” He waved Angel inside.

  She stepped into a circular foyer with a colored-marble floor and a high, domed ceiling that rose to the full height of the house. Across the foyer a doorway was framed by a heavy gold curtain and to Angel’s right a wide, white marble staircase curved upwards to the floor above. On her left, a beautiful flower garden grew behind a low stone wall with vine-clad pillars rising up to support the ceiling cornice.

  It took Angel a moment to realize she was looking at a painting—a French trompe-l’oeil picture designed to trick the eye. The garden, wall, vines and pillars were all painted. On either side of the garden was a pair of white double doors, paneled and trimmed in gilt.

  Angel was still staring at the amazing painting when the butler stepped forward and said rapidly in French, “Henri will bring your baggage and Marie … ” He coughed and a maid stepped through the curtained doorway. “Marie will show you to your room.”

  Angel dragged her gaze from the painted garden and tried to think of what Lily would say to a butler. Nothing sprang to mind.

  The butler regarded her doubtfully for a moment, before bowing and saying in English, “Forgive me, Mademoiselle Lily, I had assumed you spoke French. But of course it is many years since you were in Paris.”

  Angel blinked, but before she could assure him she spoke fluent French, he said, “Marie will take you up to your room.” He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “It is your old chambre. Madame thought you would like it best.”

  Angel nodded mutely.

  He smiled at her. “You will wish to change your clothes. When you are ready, come downstairs. Madame is expecting you in the drawing room.” He pointed at the doors to the right of the trompe-l’oeil painting and left her.

  Marie led Angel up the wide, curving staircase. On the first landing hung a stunning silk tapestry exquisitely embroidered with clusters of gold and purple irises. Beneath it stood a magnificent mother-of-pearl inlaid Chinese cabinet.

  On the next landing a beautiful blue-and-white Chinese cloisonné vase sat atop an alabaster pedestal. Angel paused. The vase looked almost identical to one she’d often admired at the Metropolitan Museum back home in New York. The design was different but the shape and colors were the same—a real Ming vase on
the landing!

  Angel felt the butterflies stir in her stomach again. She ran up the last few stairs and followed Marie down a corridor lined with paintings in elaborate gilt frames. They were mostly of aristocratic-looking men and women; many in the powdered wigs and elegant clothing of the seventeenth century. Angel would have liked to stop for a closer look, but Marie was waiting by an open door.

  “Your room, Mademoiselle Lily,” she said in English.

  Angel stepped inside and froze. Nothing downstairs or in the de Tourney’s New York townhouse had prepared her for this.

  Evening light filled the room, illuminating the soft tones of an antique Persian rug and the blue-greens of the silken wallpaper. A huge four-poster bed, hung with matching draperies, stood in the center of the room. It was covered with the most beautiful bedspread Angel had ever seen: gold and crimson birds of paradise flew through a dense satin forest of blue and green trees, the colors so deep and rich that the birds almost looked real.

  At the foot of the bed stood an enormous cedar chest and opposite was a marble fireplace. The grate was filled with pinecones and Angel could smell their faint scent. On either side of the marble mantelpiece was a huge armoire painted with scenes of the French countryside. A mahogany dressing table with a matching chair stood in an alcove beside the window and above it an enormous mirror reflected the beautiful room.

  But it was the frescoes on the ceiling that took her breath away. A chariot drawn by four winged horses carried Helios across the heavens and all around him the pantheon of Greek gods looked down from sunlit clouds.

  Angel could only stare in open-mouthed wonder.

  “Your baggage, Mademoiselle Lily.”

  Angel came back to earth with a thump. Henri was standing in the doorway, Lily’s suitcases behind him. She stepped aside as he brought the luggage into the room.

  “I will unpack,” said Marie, opening the first suitcase. “You will want something fresh to wear.”

  “No!” said Angel abruptly. “You’re very kind, but I’d prefer to do it myself.”

  Ignoring her shocked face, Angel shepherded Marie out the door and closed it behind her. Leaning back against it, she gazed around the room and found herself trembling. She crossed to the dressing table, dropped into the chair and looked at herself in the mirror—at her hair, unbrushed since the plane and at her travel-worn shirt and pants. Then she looked up at the ceiling again.