The Cinderella Moment (28 page)

“Are they there?” asked Angel, surprised out of silence.

“Yes, either the finalists wear their designs themselves or Vidal’s models do so. It is always fascinating to see the dresses worn.” The Bentley slowed. “Ah, here we are.”

***

It was nerve-wracking being at Vidal’s.

Angel waited nervously in the fitting room for Claudine and tried not to think about Vidal’s distress over the missing drawings. Perhaps the fitters would suspect her, but when they greeted her in their usual friendly manner, Angel’s pulse grew steadier.

She stepped into the black-and-crimson ball gown. Jeanne carefully tied the sash and Claudine swung the long mirror into place behind her. Angel spun slowly round and stared at her reflection.

She was wearing a perfectly fitted Vidal gown. It was an incredible feeling.

The fitters turned her this way and that, showing her the gown from all sides and assuring her that she looked “
jolie comme un coeur
,” “
très belle
” and “
comme une princesse
.”

And Angel did feel pretty and beautiful and
exactly
like a princess! Who wouldn’t? Any girl who got to wear a real Antoine Vidal ball gown couldn’t help feeling anything but gorgeous.

She undressed and watched in ecstasy as Jeanne swathed the dress in tissue paper before laying it in an enormous white box ready for Henri to take out to the car. Angel was pulling on her shirt when Claudine came back with another dress.

She held it out and said, “Madame la Comtesse has asked that you try this on.”

“Madame—oh!” Angel gasped as Claudine let the skirt fall. It tumbled to the floor in a glorious confection of amethyst ruffles below a clinging body of lilac jersey and amethyst organza. It was the dress from Vidal’s collection—the one with the skirt like whipped meringue; the one the Comtesse had described as “
la mielleure
”—the best.

She stared as the head fitter undid the zip and knelt down. Angel dropped her shirt and stepped into the dress, Claudine pulled it up over her hips, slid the straps over her shoulders and zipped it up. To Angel’s astonishment it was a perfect fit.

“I don’t understand,” she stammered, staring at her reflection in the mirror. The dress was sleeveless with narrow straps leading down to a deep V-shaped neckline accentuated by the fitted bodice, slender waistline and the delicately layered skirt. The amethyst cloth seemed to shimmer, reminding Angel of a beautiful jewel or a delicate crystal. She stared at her reflection. The dress was utterly different to the crimson-and-black ball gown, but it was every bit as stunning.

“Does the Comtesse want me to wear this instead of the other one?”

Claudine laughed. “No, no,
pas du tout
, Madame la Comtesse wishes you to have both. This one,” she indicated the amethyst dress, “is for tonight. The other is for the Versailles Ball.” She smoothed a tiny wrinkle from the clinging gown and whispered, “It is for you, a gift—a surprise,
n’est-ce pas
? Madame had us work on both dresses so that each would fit you
parfaitement
.”

A tear ran down Angel’s cheek.

“You are not happy?” The fitter looked at her with worried eyes.

Angel gave a wobbly laugh. “I’m very happy, but the Comtesse is
too
kind.”

“I think Madame has the great love for you.” Claudine touched her heart. “Perhaps you will tell her your thanks?”

“I’ll try,” said Angel.

***

But when she met the Comtesse in the foyer and stammered her thank you, she was waved aside.

“Oh, shush, child, it is only a dress. I knew you would wish to wear something special to Nicky’s birthday and it
is
your first visit to the Hotel de Crillon.” She tucked Angel’s hand inside her arm. “You may not know, but there are four truly great hotels in Paris—what I call
Les Quatre Grands
: the Crillon, the Ritz, the George Cinq and the Versailles. Of these, the Versailles is
le premier
, but the others also demand a certain level of dress and deportment.”

As they emerged onto the street, Henri opened the car door.

Angel said hesitantly, “I wanted to ask—would it be all right if we stayed in town a bit longer? There’s a shop I’d like to visit. It’s not far, we could walk.”

The Comtesse looked surprised, but nodded. “Wait for us please, Henri, we will be
… ”
She looked inquiringly at Angel.

“Would an hour be too long?” Angel asked.

The Comtesse thought for a moment, then smiled at the chauffeur. “Go and have lunch, Henri—a
long
lunch. Mademoiselle Lily and I are going shopping.”

It wasn’t far to the Rue du Faubourg St. Honoré, but when they arrived at the shop it was crowded with customers.

“Oh,” said Angel, disappointed. “I didn’t think it’d be so busy.”

“Hermès is
always
busy,” replied the Comtesse calmly. “It is one of Paris’s best-loved shops.”

“I thought we could do this quickly,” explained Angel, gazing at the customers waiting to be shown their choice of the hand-made silk scarves lying under the glass-topped counters.

“One does not choose an Hermès scarf quickly, Lily. It is an experience to be savored,” said the Comtesse. “I am delighted that you wish to own such an important accessory.”

“I would love to own an Hermès scarf,” confessed Angel, “but that isn’t why we’re here.” She colored and said quickly, “I want to buy
you
a scarf. To say thank you for everything you’ve done for me these past two weeks.”

She saw the Comtesse purse her lips and rushed on, “I know you probably have heaps already, but I thought that maybe we could look at them together and find some you liked and then, I thought, perhaps you’d let me choose a scarf for you.”

For one awful moment Angel thought the Comtesse was going to cry, but then she pressed her lips together and said, “That would be most delightful, Lily.”

Just then a woman in a black suit wearing a discreet manager’s badge swooped on the Comtesse with a cry of delight. “Madame de Tourney. What a pleasure to see you at Hermès again. Have you come to view the collection?”

“How nice to see you, Madame Dubois. I have indeed come to see the collection, but I am happy to wait.” The Comtesse nodded towards the crowded counter.

The manager looked shocked. “No, no, Madame—a valued customer such as yourself, but
naturellement
, I would be delighted to show you. If you will tell me which colors you had in mind.”

The Comtesse smiled. “It is not for me to say, Madame.” She beckoned to Angel. “Today, my granddaughter will select the perfect scarf for me.”

***

Two hours later, Angel and the Comtesse emerged triumphantly from Hermès, Angel carrying a bag in which sat the store’s trademark orange box tied up with slender brown ribbon. Inside the box reposed a beautiful three-foot-square silk scarf—the final choice after a lengthy selection process that had given them both immense pleasure.

It hadn’t been easy to choose the perfect scarf, for, as Angel explained to the Comtesse while arranging yet another silken masterpiece around her neck, “How
do
you choose between exquisite and stunning?”

She’d made up her mind eventually and the Comtesse was delighted with her selection—a striking fuchsia Christine Henry
L’arbre de Vie
design. She’d have worn it out of the shop but it looked like rain and the Comtesse had said, “One
never
wears an Hermès scarf in the rain.”

They wandered along the famous fashion street, stopping whenever a shop caught their eye. The Comtesse was keen to find a coat to go with her new Hermès scarf and led Angel from one designer shop to the next. Whether it was Givenchy, Valentino, Versace or Yves Saint-Laurent, the moment Elena de Tourney stepped through the door there was a flurry of activity and the instant appearance of a delighted store manager.

Angel quickly learned to appreciate her manner. The Comtesse was shrewd and experienced with no time for flattery and no interest in gossip outside the fashion world. Her knowledge of clothes, their fabric, making and design seemed omniscient to Angel. There was not a designer whose name she did not know or a fashion house of which she was unaware. It wasn't long before Angel realized she was in the presence of a true fashion connoisseur and was content to simply watch and listen.

She wasn’t allowed to stay silent, however, and as they moved from shop to shop the Comtesse became increasingly interested in Angel’s opinion of the clothes. Angel answered as best she could and the Comtesse seemed satisfied with her replies. In the Rue Royale they entered Christian Dior, where the Comtesse enjoyed a vigorous discussion with the manager about the couture house’s latest collection before buying a stunning pale pink and white wool coat to wear with her new scarf.

By the time they entered Chanel they were deep in conversation about the new American designer, Jason Wu, but when they stepped inside the famous shop the Comtesse broke off and said, “I sometimes think that I am never happier than when I am wearing Chanel.” Her eyes held a faraway look. “I first met Madame Chanel on her return to Paris, you know, when I was about your age. I have always thought that her eye for cut and style was truly sublime.” She looked at Angel. “You were probably too young to remember, but your mother also adored Chanel. I remember Catherine had a superb coral-colored suit made—”

“I love that suit!” cried Angel. “It’s one of my inspirations—” Suddenly she was aware of saying too much.

The Comtesse misinterpreted her silence. “I’m sorry, Lily, I did not mean to awaken painful memories of your mother.” When Angel did not answer she added, “We can do Chanel another day. It is getting late and we have Nicky’s party to prepare for. I will call Henri.”

She turned away, leaving Angel to ponder on the dangers of speaking her thoughts aloud and whether it was possible for her web of deceit to become any more tangled.

They drove most of the way back to the villa in silence. They’d talked briefly about the Comtesse’s new scarf (which she’d insisted on wearing as soon as they got into the car), but after that neither of them spoke. The Comtesse seemed preoccupied and Angel was busy with her own mixed-up thoughts.

It’s not only my thoughts that are confused
, she decided.
My whole life is just one big maze and I don’t see how I’m ever going to find my way out.
She glanced at the Comtesse, who was staring out the car window.
The only real way out is to tell her the truth
, Angel decided.

If she could just explain it the right way—beginning with the Teen Couture and Clarissa’s theft—then maybe Elena de Tourney would understand. If she knew about Simone’s illness and Margot’s threats, she might see why Angel had acted as she had and believe she’d meant no harm. She might even find it in her heart to forgive.

Of course, she might
not
understand why Angel had pretended to be her long-lost granddaughter or why she’d allowed her to lavish so much love and generosity on an imposter!

Angel’s stomach clenched. Maybe she should just stick to the plan: get through the next two days, fly home to New York and leave the Comtesse with a bunch of happy memories. She’d know it all before long because Lily was coming to Paris once she’d finished in London. It could be as soon as Monday that Lily finally told her grandmother the truth.

Lily’s grandmother
…

“I wish she were mine,” whispered Angel.

“Did you say something, Lily?” asked the Comtesse. “I’m sorry, my thoughts were elsewhere.”

“No, Grandmama, I was just thinking aloud.”

“I, too, have been thinking,” she replied. “When we get home there is something I wish to ask you.”
 

Chapter Thirty-One

Marcel met them at the door.

“We will be in the library, Marcel. Please see that we are not disturbed.”

“
Oui
, Madame.” The butler went away to give the order and Angel followed the Comtesse into the library. She loved the wood-panelled, book-lined room. After her bedroom, it was her favorite part of the house.

To her surprise, instead of sitting at her desk or in her favorite armchair as she usually did, the Comtesse remained standing. Unsure of whether to sit or stand, Angel stopped where she was and waited.

She didn’t have to wait long.

“I want you to stay,” said the Comtesse suddenly.

Angel stared at her blankly.

“I want you to stay, to spend the rest of your holidays here with me in Paris.”

Angel finally found her voice. “I
…
I can’t.”

“Why not?” The Comtesse looked hurt.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” explained Angel desperately. “I love being here—you’ve given me the two best weeks of my life—but I have to go home.”