The Cinderella Moment (34 page)

How naïve she’d been. And how unprepared for everything that’d happened since. She glanced at the bedside clock; it was almost one and the sun was shining.

She wondered if Philip had called Maman. Angel couldn’t imagine how that conversation would have gone. Maybe it was a good thing Philip had ordered her and Lily to bed. And what about her ball gown? Could he have flown it to Paris in time for the ball?

Angel ran down the hall, pushed open the sitting-room door and stopped dead.

In the middle of the room stood a brand new dressmaker’s dummy and on it, with her needle still waiting for its silver thread, was Angel’s midnight-blue-and-silver ball gown.

With a cry of joy she ran across the room and caught the velvet between her hands. She rubbed it gently against her cheek and looked around. There was no sign of Philip or Lily but propped against a vase of orchids was a note:

Room service will deliver your lunch at 1:30. I’ve taken Lily to make peace with her grandmother. Back around 4.

Philip.

Angel considered the message. Did Philip mean that he had also gone to make peace with the Comtesse? Angel couldn’t help thinking how happy his mother would be if her son would only forgive her.

And it would be better for Philip, too, Angel decided, picking up a piece of silk gauze and pinning it into place. He’d lost so much love in his life—first Simone, then his wife and finally his mother. If the Comtesse would only tell him how sorry she was, thought Angel, plying her needle carefully through the delicate fabric, surely Philip would open his heart to her.

She wondered if Philip would talk to his mother about Simone. From what Lily had said, the Comtesse had gone ballistic when she’d heard Simone’s name, so it must have been a terrible shock to discover that Angel was her daughter.

Angel snipped her thread. She didn’t like to imagine how the Comtesse would feel on learning that she’d treated Simone Moncoeur’s child as her own granddaughter.

“Think of something else,” said Angel firmly and picked up another piece of silver gauze.

It was after six when Lily returned to the hotel where Angel was anxiously waiting for her.

“Lily! Thank goodness,” cried Angel, hugging her. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” replied Lily. “Things didn’t go exactly to plan, that’s all.”

“What happened?” asked Angel. “Was the Comtesse mad? Did she see Philip? Did they talk? Tell me,
please
.”

“Grandmama is in the hospital,” said Lily, throwing herself onto the sofa. “She’ll be okay,” she added quickly. “Don’t look like that, Angel! I promise you, she’s fine.”

“What happened?”

“Apparently she’s diabetic and she let her blood sugar get too low. She’d passed out just before we got there and we had to call an ambulance.” Lily took Angel’s hand. “I promise you she’s okay. Marcel knew exactly what to do and the medics were there pronto.”

“How’s Philip?”

“Well, considering I left him and Grandmama almost coming to blows over whether she’d attend the Versailles Ball tonight, I’d say they’re both fighting fit.”

“Thank goodness,” said Angel, falling into an armchair. “I was worried they mightn’t speak to each other.”

“No chance of that,” said Lily. “They didn’t stop talking from the minute Grandmama opened her eyes in the hospital and saw Dad sitting beside her bed. It was pretty special. She took one look at Dad, cried out, ‘Philip! My son!’ and then burst into tears.”

“Wow,” said Angel, imagining the scene.

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t ‘wow’ for very long,” replied Lily, punching a cushion. “’Cause after she stopped crying and telling Dad how sorry she was for all the wasted years and he’d hugged her and told her it was all right, he went off to talk to the doctor, and left me to apologize for switching places with you.”

“And?”

“And nothing,” said Lily, scowling. “She might be in a hospital bed but it hasn’t stopped her from being the most stubborn, pigheaded
… ”
She pummelled the cushion. “I never met anyone so set on having their own way.”

Angel smiled. Maybe Lily was more like her grandmother than she knew.

“Did you tell her about me?” she asked.

“I tried,” replied Lily crossly. “But that’s what I mean by stubborn. Like last night, when no matter how many times I tried to tell her the truth, every time I mentioned your name, she’d shut me down and refuse to listen.”

Angel winced. “And today?”

“A bit better, but not much,” said Lily crossly. “She still wouldn’t hear a word about you, but she let me apologize, and she’s invited me to stay in August before school goes back. But to be honest, she didn’t seem all that enthusiastic.” Lily looked sideways at Angel. “If you want to know what I think, I think she’s annoyed that I’m not you.”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Angel. “The last person the Comtesse wants in her life is me.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Lily, tossing her cushion onto Angel’s lap. “I think she’s missing you.”
 

Chapter Thirty-Seven

It was a quarter to ten when Angel left the penthouse to go downstairs. Her heart thumped as she waited for the elevator and she touched her finger to the embroidered silver angel on the bodice of her ball gown.

She ran over the plan in her head again: Philip would meet her in the vestibule at the top of the stairs at ten and they’d enter the ballroom together—just before Vidal announced the winner of the Teen Couture.

“That way we can be sure Clarissa will be there,” Lily had declared before going downstairs. “Because it’d be just like her to be late so she can make an entrance.”

“And what about Margot?” Angel had asked. “Will Philip have talked to her by then?”

“I think so,” said Lily. “After we’d finished at the hospital he said he had something he had to do and would meet me at the ball.” She smiled gleefully. “I assumed he was going to break it off with Margot, so I didn’t ask questions.”

Maybe Margot will be too upset to come to the ball
, thought Angel hopefully, as the elevator descended. The doors pinged and she stepped into the hall with her heart in her mouth, but the two security guards just smiled and waved her on. Trying not to run, Angel turned into the vestibule and positioned herself behind the heavy brocade curtain guarding the entrance to the ballroom.

Peeping out from behind it she could see the wide marble staircase that she’d have to go down.

The Hotel Versailles was majestic and its famous ballroom was its crown jewel. Gazing at the huge painted murals and elaborate gilt decorations, Angel was reminded of the Louvre.

Only the Louvre isn’t lit by twelve huge chandeliers and filled with five hundred party guests, she thought, staring down at the men in their white ties and black tails and the women in their exquisite gowns.

She could see Kitty, gorgeous in her celestial blue satin ball gown, looking radiantly happy as she danced with Giles. And there was the Comtesse, superb in a dress of molten-gold silk with no sign she’d been ill.

Angel was relieved. She’d been worried when Lily had told her that the Comtesse was attending the ball. “Grandmama insisted. Said she’d never missed a Versailles Ball and didn’t intend to start now. She wouldn’t listen to the doctors—just discharged herself and went home to get ready.”

Angel thought she could understand the Comtesse’s decision. It wasn’t just the Versailles Ball that she cared about. Last night, Elena de Tourney had suffered the humiliation of Angel’s very public unmasking. To be absent from the grand occasion at which she’d hoped to introduce her granddaughter to Paris society would have been an admission of defeat.

And that was never going to happen. Not so long as the Comtesse de Tourney had breath in her body.

Angel scanned the ballroom for Philip, but she couldn’t see him anywhere. She found Nick, though. He looked amazing in formal wear and she felt a pang of envy as he led Lily onto the dance floor. If only
…

But this was no time for regret. She needed to find Philip.

She found Margot instead, looking stunning as she stalked across the ballroom in a strapless evening gown of scarlet taffeta. Angel felt her stomach clench as she watched her make straight for the Comtesse’s table and sit down. She saw Margot say something to Vidal and felt a surge of disappointment when he laughed. He and the Comtesse seemed completely captivated and there was no sign that Philip had broken up with her.

Worse, there was no sign of Philip.

The great clock above the stairs struck ten and Angel’s heart thumped as, around the ballroom, people turned to watch Vidal make his way to the dais.

Behind him came the Teen Couture finalists: Clarissa, striding ahead with two male contestants on her left, each escorting a Vidal model: one in gentian, the other in bridal white. While behind them came the other three finalists: a tall brunette in a black organza gown, a slender blonde in indigo silk and lace, and a raven-haired Hispanic-looking girl in pale-green tulle.

The contestants stepped onto the dais and took their places on either side of a black marble pedestal on which stood a magnificent silver trophy.

As Antoine Vidal approached the microphone, Angel saw the Comtesse rise and speak to Margot. She saw Margot nod and smile and watched in dismay as the two women—their gold and scarlet gowns almost touching—made their way to the front of the crowd.

Vidal began his speech and it was then that Angel realized: if she was going to change things she would have to do it alone.

She felt paralyzed.

Suddenly, Vidal switched from French to English, startling Angel.

“And I am delighted that this year’s Teen Couture has seen the highest standard of entry since the competition began.” Vidal nodded to the six finalists. “I congratulate you for your vision, your determination and for the meticulous execution of your designs. But, as always, there can only be one winner.”

Angel held her breath as Vidal held aloft the shining silver trophy. “The winner of this year’s Teen Couture is
…
Mademoiselle Clarissa Kane.”

Any noise Angel might have made by her sudden expulsion of breath was drowned out by Clarissa’s squeal of excitement as she ran towards Vidal.

In that moment, Angel felt the fear that had paralyzed her give way to a sudden rush of anger. She watched Clarissa receive the silver trophy and take the microphone.

Angel stepped forward.

She heard Clarissa say, “Monsieur Vidal, Madame de Tourney, ladies and gentlemen.”

She saw Clarissa hesitate as a ripple ran through the audience and saw her shrug her smooth white shoulders, before continuing, “The Teen Couture is the most prestigious—”

Angel descended.

She saw Clarissa stop speaking and slowly turn to see what every one of the five hundred guests was staring at.

It might have been rage that had propelled Angel forward, but it faded the instant she took her first step down the great staircase. This was the moment she had visualized all those months ago and she wanted to savor it, no matter what waited for her at the bottom of the stairs.

She didn’t hear the gasp that rose from the crowded ballroom as she came down the stairs. She was too busy listening to the soft whisper of the velvet and the rustle of the silk gauze behind her shoulders. She felt the embrace of the fitted blue bodice against her breasts and the delicate silver filigree straps across her shoulders and watched in ecstasy as the half-skirt of sparkling silver gauze rippled across the midnight-blue velvet of her gown like sparkles on the sea.

It was the velvet that filled her with the greatest joy. It was exactly as she’d imagined that day in the little shop in Soho: the deep blue, the pussycat softness and the sensual way it moved, pouring over her hips to embrace the floor.

As she reached the last step, it seemed to Angel as though she’d found a way to inhabit her dreams and she stood for a moment, letting herself soak up the feeling.

Then she heard the voices.

They rose up from the crowd, softly at first, then gradually louder, as the guests stared, first at her, then at Clarissa, and then back at her again: like spectators at a tennis match. Angel saw the incredulity and heard the outrage as she stood there in what appeared to be an exact replica of Clarissa’s gown.

“Who is she?”

“Where does it come from?”

“Impossible!”

“
Ce n’est pas possible
.”

“
Incroyable
.”

“It’s incredible!”

“How can it be?”

She moved slowly towards the stage, trying not to hear the answers.

“It is the American girl—the imposter.”

“Such audacity.”

“
L’audace
.”

“It is the girl who broke into Vidal’s salon.”

“The thief.”

“
C’est la voleuse americaine
.”

The scandalized whispers swirled in an angry buzz around Angel and an insidious tingle of fear skittered across her skin. She saw the hostility in a hundred pairs of eyes and almost turned back, when a voice rose up clear and strong above the whispers.