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 po
ssible.”
“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.
“Go on, Angel, remember—fortuna favet fortibus.”
It was Nick.
She looked around and there he was, standing between his parents smiling at her, his brown eyes warm and affectionate, urging her on.
“Fortune favors the bold,” whispered Angel.
Every voice fell silent as she passed through the crowd and halted in front of the girl who had so ruthlessly tried to steal her dream.
They faced each other: Clarissa, tall and elegant, a magnificent ice-queen in midnight-blue velvet and silver gauze, and Angel: soft and ethereal, an otherworldly creature in an identical gown.
Angel critically examined Clarissa’s dress. Right down to the delicately embroidered silver angel on the bodice; it was a mirror image of her own.
She stared into the cat-like green eyes of her enemy.
“Hello, Clarissa.”
“I have nothing to say to you,” said Clarissa haughtily and turned away.
“Oh, don’t go,” said Angel. “Not when it’s about to get interesting.”
“I don’t speak to thieves,” said Clarissa curtly. “I don’t know how you have the nerve to be here in the gown that I designed.” She looked tragically around the ballroom.
Angel saw several people nod sympathetically.
As if sensing her advantage, Clarissa said, “I’m sorry for you, because I know what it is to dream. But I forgive you for stealing my design.”
All around them people murmured their approval of her magnanimity.
But Angel said, “Your design?”
“That’s right,” replied Clarissa firmly.
“Then tell me, Clarissa, why the silver angel?”
To her surprise, Clarissa laughed. “Isn’t it obvious?” She touched the embroidery on her bodice. “It’s my logo: ‘Angel Designs.’ Didn’t you know?”
Angel gasped. “You’re lying! You—”
Clarissa interrupted, “You’re the only liar here.” She glanced round the ballroom. “We all know that.”
Angel took a deep breath. “Okay, if the angel is your logo then you can tell us how you made it.”
“Well, duh, I embroidered it, obviously.”
“Yes, but how?” persisted Angel.
“I have my methods,” said Clarissa loftily.
“I’d like to hear them.”
“As if I’d share confidential design information with a thief,” retorted Clarissa.
“Then share it with me,” said Lily, stepping out of the crowd. “I’d love to hear all about your design.”
“Me too,” called Kitty, letting go of Giles’s hand and running forward to stand beside Angel. “If you’re the designer, then you can tell Lily—I mean Angel—what she wants to know.”
“I don’t have to tell her anything,” snapped Clarissa, glaring at the trio.
“Then perhaps you can tell me,” said a voice. They all turned to see Antoine Vidal coming towards them. “The embroidery on this gown is of a particularly high standard and I should like to hear how you achieved it.”
Clarissa paled slightly, but held her ground. “It … it’s tambour beading.”
Vidal nodded. “Yes, I see that. And what sort of implement did you use?”
Clarissa hesitated, and then said firmly, “A tambour needle.”
Vidal nodded and turned to Angel. “And you, mademoiselle, how did you achieve this effect?” he asked, pointing at her silver angel.
“With a Lunéville hook,” replied Angel. “My mother taught me when I was little.”
“I see,” said Vidal. He looked thoughtfully at Angel and then turned to Clarissa. “You have created a magnificent ball gown, mademoiselle,” he said. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me about the thinking behind your design?”
“My … my thinking?” echoed Clarissa.
“Yes. Every designer has their inspiration and I’m sure we’d all like to hear about yours. For instance, why the silver gauze?”
For a split second Clarissa’s knuckles showed white as she gripped her trophy. She glanced desperately at Margot, who did not move.
“I … I just liked it,” said Clarissa at last.
There was a sudden buzz of conversation and around her Angel could see a glimmer of doubt in people’s faces.
Clarissa must have felt it because she coughed and tried again. “The silver gauze accentuated the blue velvet—the fabrics were an unusual combination and that’s why I chose them.”
“Yes, yes,” said Vidal, a touch impatiently. “But what inspired you?”
Clarissa stared at him in confusion. “Winning the Teen Couture, of course.”
“Ah,” said Vidal, nodding. “I see.” He turned to Angel. “Very well, Mademoiselle, why don’t you tell us about the silver gauze?”
Angel touched the silver fabric. “Silk gauze is difficult to work with because it’s slippery and it frays easily, but if you can get it to do what you want, it can be incredibly effective.”
“And did you?” asked Vidal. “Did you get it to do what you wanted?”
Angel nodded. “Eventually. You see, I had a vision in my head—something I wanted to achieve.”
“Ah,” said Vidal, “the inspiration about which I wish so much to hear.”
In a clear, carrying voice, Angel said, “My real name is Angelique, but my Papa always called me Angel—his angel. He used to tell me to figure out who I really was on the inside and to always be that person, no matter what. After he died, I’d imagine him watching over me.” She touched the embroidery. “You see, it wasn’t just about having an angel here, the whole dress was meant to remind me of who I am and how it feels to be loved.”
And Angel smiled—at Vidal and Lily, the Comtesse, Kitty, the summer season group and Nick’s parents. Last of all, she smiled at Nick, her eyes questioning.
He held her gaze for a moment, then smiled and nodded.
Angel saw him through a mist of happy tears. No matter what happened now she knew it would be all right: Nick was there for her.
She faced Vidal. “I didn’t know if I could achieve my vision until just before my entry was due to leave for Paris, so I didn’t draw my final sketch until three days before the competition closed. That’s why Clarissa’s dress only looks like mine. In fact, the dress she had made by Harrington’s doesn’t match my final drawing.”
“It’s not true!” shrieked Clarissa. “She stole my design. This is my ball gown.” She ran over to Margot. “Tell them, mother. Tell them how I work for Miki Merua in a real fashion studio, while she,” Clarissa spat the word, “is only a cook’s daughter and—”
“Worth a dozen of you.” An angry male voice cut her off.
“Dad!” cried Lily.
Angel turned to see Philip cutting through the crowd and heard Margot gasp. “Philip! You’re here!” The next moment Margot had wrenched free of Clarissa’s grasp and run forward to seize Philip’s hand.
“I thought you were in South America,” she cried. “But thank goodness you’re here. I don’t know what to do. Clarissa has been behaving so strangely. I had no idea about any of this.” She gestured to her daughter, standing pale and furious in the middle of the ballroom.
“That’s a lie!” hissed Clarissa. “You knew all about it—it was your idea!”
&nb
sp; “It’s not true,” Margot argued. “Don’t listen to her, Philip. You know I would never—”
“Lie?” thundered Philip. “Or send my daughter to Paris without my permission? Or threaten Angel and Simone?” He stared at Margot as though seeing her for the first time. “Get out,” he said, his voice like steel. “Get out and take your daughter with you.”
Margot blanched. “No, Philip, please. I did it for you, for the Comtesse … ”
But she got no further, for the microphone suddenly squealed, drowning out every sound. As the noise faded, Vidal said, “Ladies and gentlemen, the designer of this magnificent ball gown is not Clarissa Kane—who has never heard of the Lunéville hook essential for tambour beading and has neither the heart nor soul essential for a great couturier. The real designer is Mademoiselle Angel Moncoeur, whose love of fashion and talent for design is evident in every detail of her dress.”
He stepped down from the dais and wrested the silver trophy from Clarissa’s hands. “Mademoiselle, you are a disgrace to the name of haute couture! Please leave.”
Clarissa cringed, but before she could speak, Margot grabbed her hand and, looking neither right nor left, dragged her from the ballroom.
For a moment no one spoke and then Philip turned to Angel. “Go on. Show them.”
She nodded and looked at Nick. He stepped forward, opened his arms and with a cry of happiness, she tumbled into them.
“Dance with me,” she whispered.
He held out his hands and, as Angel raised her hands to his, the silver gauze lifted away from the midnight-blue velvet and the tiny pieces of delicate, hand-sewn fabric floated gently upwards like soft silver feathers.
And in that moment the whole room could see that her gown had wings.
Angel’s wings.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
For several seconds the vision of Angel dancing with Nick, her silver wings floating behind her, held the crowd in thrall.
Then the applause began.
It swelled to a mighty crescendo as Nick lifted Angel off her feet and spun her slowly round, her silver wings rippling and dancing behind her.
The Cinderella Moment Page 25