The Cinderella Moment (4 page)

Angel loved this bedroom with its primrose wallpaper and tall windows overlooking Central Park. It was light and airy, with a four-poster bed and a huge armoire from some chateau in France. A pretty mahogany desk stood against the wall with a Louis XIV chair on either side. A blue silk sofa stood at the foot of the bed with a marquetry coffee table beside it.

It was amazing how much mess one person could make in a room that was cleaned daily by a maid, thought Angel. Every horizontal surface seemed to be covered with the belongings of someone very rich and easily bored.

The sofa was hidden beneath piles of discarded clothing, swathes of fabric, drycleaning bags and a pink silk bathrobe. The armoire doors stood open to reveal a collection of designer clothes hanging from its rail while a tangle of socks, sweaters and underwear spilled from its drawers. Two Prada handbags, with price tags still attached, stood on one chair and on the other sat an oversized make-up case, its lid thrown open to reveal an array of cosmetics.

Photographs of famous fashion designers were stuck to the wall above the desk that had almost disappeared beneath a tangle of fabric, cotton reels and sewing things. The coffee table was covered with stacks of sketchbooks and piles of the latest fashion magazines. But most interesting of all was the state-of-the-art dressmaker’s dummy in the center of the room. On it hung a partially made silver-and-black cocktail dress. Angel stared. Could that actually be the hand-screened Japanese silk she’d seen featured in
Vanity Fair
three months earlier?

She stepped forward for a closer look and was abruptly recalled to her surroundings.

“Is that my breakfast? It’s about time.”

Angel swung round to find Clarissa Kane sitting up in bed, polishing her nails and watching her through narrowed eyes.

Even in her nightdress she was striking. High cheekbones, cat-like green eyes and a wide, petulant mouth reminded Angel of the snow queen in her favorite storybook. Clarissa’s hair was long, straight, and a pale blonde that must have cost a fortune to achieve. Her eyebrows had been shaped by a master and Angel suspected her eyelashes had been professionally extended. However messy Clarissa might be in her bedroom, she was clearly a perfectionist when it came to her face and hair.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” Clarissa snapped.

Angel looked around for somewhere to put the tray. Not on the bed, that was a Conran bedspread. Perhaps on the coffee table. She bent down and carefully pushed the tray into the space beside the magazines.

“Not there, you idiot!” cried Clarissa.

Startled, Angel jerked backwards and watched helplessly as papers and magazines cascaded to the floor.

“Great,” snorted Clarissa, “clumsy
and
stupid.”

Throwing back the bedcovers, she swung her long legs out of bed and stood up. She pointed to the vacant space, “Put it here. And pick everything up before you go.”

She strode into the bathroom and shut the door. Angel heard the lock click before the radio started blaring.

She put the tray on the bed and glanced around. Could she look at the cocktail dress
and
pick up the papers before Clarissa came back?

She decided to risk it. She flew across the room and gently lifted the fabric. The silk slid over her fingers in a sort of whispering rush and Angel’s heart skipped a beat. It was amazing. As near to gossamer as she’d ever imagined: light yet strong, and, she suspected, with enough body to make it a joy to sew. She examined the bodice and facing, then picked up the sleeve to look at the cut and set.

The fabric moved sinuously and she imagined how a pair of dressmaker’s scissors would sound as they cut the silk. What a great designer could do with such material.

She wondered who the designer was—Miki Merua perhaps. Clarissa had boasted to Lily that he’d agreed to let her sew some of his designs and there were a couple of likely looking folders among the pile on the desk. Angel was wondering whether she had time for a quick peek when a noise from the bathroom sent her scurrying back to the coffee table.

She quickly began picking up the magazines and piling them on the table’s inlaid surface. She felt a pang of envy as she gathered the most recent editions of
Teen Vogue
,
Marie Claire
,
Vanity Fair
,
Elle
,
Vogue
and
Harper’s Bazaar
—her favorite fashion magazines were a luxury she’d foregone to help fund her Teen Couture entry.

She retrieved the last one and began gathering the scattered papers. To her surprise the pages were covered with fashion sketches.

There were dozens of drawings of every kind of outfit in pastel, pencil and ink. Among them were several sketches of the silver-and-black cocktail dress, each beautifully executed.

Angel stared at the pictures, trying to absorb the designer’s vision, then considered the dress on the dummy. She wrinkled her nose, the cut was better than average and Clarissa’s sewing was good, but something was not quite right— 

Angel looked through the pile of sketches again and frowned. The artist had talent, but not many of the designs seemed original. Puzzled, she leafed through the drawings, trying to recall where she’d seen that off-the-shoulder, slashed-hem evening dress before. And the suit with the short bolero jacket and the tight buttoned legs
…

Then she remembered. It’d been in an old
Vogue
magazine, in an article about a Spanish designer who’d died years ago.

Angel sat back on her heels. It was the same with nearly all the pictures: the artist could certainly draw and definitely had a talent for copying, but that was all.

Except for the dress on the dummy.

There, at least, the designer had achieved something fresh and new, but when Angel looked at the rest of the drawings she could see nothing original—and not a single idea that she hadn’t already seen in one of the major fashion magazines.

She piled the sketches on the table and reached for those near the bed. They were of the cocktail dress and, as she picked them up, Angel noticed the signature—
CK
—and on the next sheet, a flamboyant “
Clarissa Kane
,” and beneath it the words:
Teen Couture
.

***

Angel’s jaw dropped. Suddenly it all made sense: the sewing things, the dressmaker’s dummy, the Japanese silk. Clarissa was entering the Teen Couture. She couldn’t believe she’d been so slow to realize it. But it
was
a leap to think of Clarissa—despite her job with Miki Merua—as being like herself: a girl with a passion, who loved to create and who wanted to win the Teen Couture more than anything else in the world.

Of course, Lily had told her about Clarissa’s ambition, but stupidly Angel hadn’t thought of her entering the Teen Couture. She studied Clarissa’s sketches again and thought of the effort and determination needed to produce so many drawings and five individual hand-sewn garments.

She stared at the unfinished dress on the dummy. The fabric really was exquisite. If Clarissa could make it work, the dress would probably be a contender for the finals.

The bathroom door opened and Clarissa emerged.

“You’re still here?”

“Sorry,” said Angel, groping under the bed. “Almost done.”

“Well, hurry up. I want to get dressed.”

Angel grabbed the last errant page and pulled it towards her. She drew it out and found it was attached to a sketchbook. Standing up, she brushed the dust bunnies off the blank page and held it out. “This must be yours.”

To her astonishment, Clarissa leapt forward and snatched the sketchbook from her hand. “How dare you touch my things!” she snapped, flipping the book closed. As the pages fell together Angel caught a flash of something red. For a split second she felt an odd sense of déjà vu before Clarissa let fly and the moment was gone.

“How dare you come in here! You shouldn’t even be upstairs! You’re nothing but a cook’s daughter from the kitchen!” Clarissa seized Angel’s arm and herded her to the door. “Get out! Get out, Angelique, and go back to the kitchen where you belong!” She pushed her into the hall and slammed the door behind her.
 

Chapter Four

Angel leaned against Clarissa’s door trying to breathe. Her heart was pounding and she was still trying to work out what had just happened when Lily came out of her room.

“My Angel.” Lily took her arm and headed for the stairs. “Have you been visiting the evil diva? What did she want?”

Angel thought quickly—if she told Lily what’d happened it’d only make things worse. She took a breath and tried to speak calmly. “Just breakfast in bed.”

“Lazy brat.”

Angel thought of Clarissa’s rage. “I don’t think she’s lazy. Not where fashion’s concerned anyway.”

“Oh?”

“Clarissa’s entering the Teen Couture.”

Lily stared. “You’re kidding?”

“That’s why she’s making that gorgeous silk dress.”

“You mean that’s her design?” Lily was incredulous.

“Must be.”

“I’ll bet she had help,” said Lily darkly. “It’d be just like Clarissa to cheat.”

“I don’t think you
can
cheat,” said Angel. “The rules are really strict and Antoine Vidal is like a fashion mega-mind—he’d know all the designers.”

“Well, if she
is
entering, I hope she suffers epic failure,” replied Lily. “And Margot, too. Honestly, I don’t get what my dad sees in her.”

“Well, Margot
is
gorgeous and Clarissa's a stunner too.”

“Looks aren’t everything.”

“Only attractive people say that.”

Lily stopped on the bottom step, hands on her hips. “Really?”

Angel grinned. “Yes. Like people with big blue eyes and long, curly,
naturally
blonde hair. No wonder Clarissa resents you.”

Lily punched her lightly on the arm.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“You’re the gorgeous one and
you
have style.”

Angel laughed and shook her head. “Come on, let’s go eat breakfast.”

***

“There you are.” Simone put breakfast on the table. “You’ll have to hurry or you’ll both be late for school.”

Lily pulled a face. “School. If it weren’t for the play I don’t think I’d survive the next few days.”

“You’re lucky you only have days,” said Angel. “I have nearly two weeks before vacation and all I want is to be working on my ball gown.”

“At least you’re busy,” said Lily. “Once
Our Town
is over, all I’ll be able to think about is the London Academy.”

“Shouldn’t you have heard by now? Doesn’t the course begin soon?” Simone said.

“June twentieth,” said Lily. “But you don’t hear until a couple of weeks before.”

“It does not seem like much time.”

“It’s not, but the course only runs for two weeks. Mind you, we still put on a full production at the end,” added Lily happily.

“It sounds exciting.” Simone smiled at her.

“It will be if I get the letter saying I’m in. It’ll be
the
most exciting thing ever!”

“
If
Philip lets you go,” said Angel.

“I am sure you can persuade him, Lily,” said Simone. “But if you cannot, then I am sure he will have a good reason for saying no.”

“There isn’t any reason good enough,” said Lily.

“Then I am sure Philip will give his consent.” Simone took off her apron. “I must go. I have errands to run.” She looked at Angel. “Dinner will be early so you can get to the Waldorf in plenty of time.” She kissed her and then Lily. “I hope your letter arrives today with good news.”

“Me too.”

Simone wrapped her arms around Lily, and Angel felt a sudden tightening in her throat. She gave herself a mental shake. It was natural for Simone to hug Lily like that—Lily, who had no mother of her own but who always seemed to get everything she wanted. Angel bit down hard on her piece of toast and pushed the treacherous thought away.

The door closed behind Simone and Angel asked, “So when are you going to tell Philip about drama school?”

Lily grimaced. “When I get in.”

Angel hesitated and then asked the question she knew Lily didn’t want to hear. “Do you think he’ll let you go?”

Lily lifted her chin. “He’ll have to—it’s the London Drama Academy. Two weeks of intensive training with the greatest names in theatre
and
an audition at the end.”

“But Philip wants you to go to college here—Harvard or Wellesley or Brown. He’ll never let you study overseas—especially not acting.”

Lily bit her lip. “I know that’s what he says, but if I get in he’ll have to agree.”

“But what if he doesn’t?” Angel knew she was pushing Lily but maybe it was time she realized she couldn’t have everything she wanted. A real best friend would help Lily face the facts. In most things Philip let her have her way but a career in the entertainment industry was probably not going to be one of them. Lily had tried everything to persuade him but he remained obstinately resolute. School plays and amateur productions were all he would allow.