Charm and Consequence

by Stephanie Wardrop

  Angel held the jacket away from her—the cut was good and the black panels were a cute idea but something—

  Upstairs a door slammed. She stiffened as the staccato tip-tup sound of high heels on marble came toward her. Angel dropped the jacket, grabbed her precious parcel and fled.

  Opening the door to the kitchen wing, she passed through into the safety and familiarity of her own world. There was no gleaming marble here, but over the years Angel had grown to like the bare walls and worn carpet. This part of the house might be austere but it was quiet and these days that was all she wanted.

  She walked quickly down the hallway past the long-disused butler’s room and the former housekeeper’s old room. Angel’s bedroom was opposite her mother’s at the end of the hall. They were next to the kitchen, which made things quicker in the morning—especially when Philip had guests and there were breakfasts to be delivered upstairs.

  Angel frowned. Usually Philip de Tourney’s houseguests were pleasant and undemanding, not like Margot and Clarissa Kane. It was incredible: they’d only been in the house a week and already they’d created havoc. No wonder Lily kept staying late at school. Unless …

  She crossed the hall and entered the butler’s old room. Here lay a treasure trove of unwanted things gathering dust. In the centre of the room, two large wooden wardrobes and a low table formed a makeshift theatre and standing on the table, with her back to the door, was Lily.

  “What do I want?” Angel heard her say. “What motivates me?”

  “Fame, money, a movie deal—the usual things,” said Angel.

  Lily spun round. “I wasn’t talking about me!”

  “I know, but maybe it’s what your character wants.”

  “No way,” cried Lily, jumping down. “Emily Webb is deeper than that.” She sat down on the coffee table. “Though she’d probably like a new dress if it was offered.”

  “Who wouldn’t want a new dress?” smiled Angel, holding out her parcel.

  Lily’s eyes widened. “Don’t tell me you finally found it?”

  “Look.” Angel parted the paper.

  “OMG, it’s exactly how you described it—the same colour as—”

  “—the dress you were wearing the day we met.” Angel nodded. “I’ve always remembered it. It was the prettiest dress I’d ever seen.”

  “You couldn’t have seen many,” objected Lily. “You were only six.”

  Angel smiled, “You’re forgetting, I’d seen your mother’s entire wardrobe by the time you came down here.”

  “Yes, and you looked so guilty!”

  “I felt guilty. We’d only been here three weeks and I thought for sure your dad would tell Maman we had to leave.”

  “No chance of that. Dad was far more likely to be mad at me for invading Simone’s privacy. He’d made me promise not to come down here bothering her.”

  “And we both know you always do what your Dad tells you.”

  Lily gave her a shove. “I do when he’s reasonable. Anyway, he likes us being friends. He knows what a good influence you are on me.”

  This time it was Angel’s turn to shove. “Sometimes you make me sound so boring.”

  “As if you’re boring! You just think about stuff. Not like me …”

  “You do jump into things sometimes,” conceded Angel.

  “Which can be a good thing, right?” asked Lily. “Like coming down here that day and knowing straight away we’d be best friends.”

  “Even though I was going through your mother’s things?”

  Lily looked surprised. “You weren’t hurting anyone. If my mother had been alive I don’t think she’d have minded, and all I wanted was to see the little French girl my dad had brought home with our new housekeeper.”

  “I’m a quarter American,” protested Angel. “Papa grew up in France but he was born here and …” she fiddled with the velvet, “… he died here.”

  Lily looked at her sadly. “I’m sorry Angel,” she whispered. “I know you miss him.”

  Angel managed a tiny smile. “It’s okay. He was sick a long time.”

  Lily put her arm around Angel’s shoulders. “I can’t believe it’s been four months,” she said gently. “I wish I’d been here with you when it happened.”

  Angel shook her head. “You couldn’t have done anything. That was the weekend your dad came back from China. Your first real chance to see him since New Year’s.”

  “True, but I would’ve given up our holiday if you’d told me about your dad.”

  “I know.”

  “How’s Simone?” asked Lily gently.

  Angel hesitated. She still wasn’t entirely sure how her mother felt about Papa’s death. He’d been ill for so long. It was ten years since they had come to New York for the surgery they’d hoped would cure him. It had taken months and months of waiting and most of their hard-won savings before Simone had finally accepted that, despite the famous surgeon’s best efforts, her husband would never be one of his success stories. It had taken another six months to find a nursing home they could afford for as long as Papa needed care.

  In the end they’d had to settle for a place three hours train ride away in upstate New York. Not that the distance had stopped Simone—it was a rare Sunday that they did not visit Angel’s dad. But since he’d been gone, it seemed to Angel as though some part of her mother had gone with him.

  She sighed. “You know what Maman’s like, she keeps things inside.”

  Lily nodded. “Yeah, but I thought she might’ve talked to you.”

  “She has, a bit.” Angel chewed her lip. In the week after his death, Simone had talked to Angel about Papa—mostly recounting memories of their life in France when Angel was little, before the accident that ended their happiness.

  Angel had been too young to remember the day the tractor had run over Papa, crushing his back and leaving him partially paralyzed. Whenever she asked Maman about it, Simone would always change the subject and talk about how good things would be when Papa was well again. She would never speak about the accident or about having to sell the vineyard or the dreadful months they’d endured with Grandpère before coming to New York. Angel soon learned not to ask.

  She had hoped that Maman would tell her things—that she would overcome her sadness and talk to her about the past. Instead, Simone built a wall around her grief and locked it away. She was as loving and affectionate as ever, but she would not share her pain.

  Sometimes Angel wondered if she was as stubborn as her mother. She hoped not. It seemed like such a barrier to happiness and more than anything Angel wanted her mother to be happy.

  She sighed. Simone had such a fierce pride that it made her impossible to move once her mind was made up about something. Angel shifted restlessly. “I sometimes wish …”

  “What?” asked Lily.

  “Nothing,” said Angel abruptly. She pulled Lily to her feet. “Maman is fine and so am I, but what about you? How’s the play going?”

  “Good, I think.”

  “I’ll bet it’s awesome,” said Angel. “And you’re going to be amazing in it, like always.”

  “I’m not always good, Angel,” said Lily with a smile. “Remember that awful play I wrote when I was ten?”

  “The one where you played all the lead roles and I made those terrible costumes?” asked Angel.

  “The costumes were the best thing in it.”

  “They were horrible!” cried Angel. “I was a total novice.”

  “I was worse,” said Lily. “But look how far we’ve come since then.”

  “Sure, but look how far we’ve got to go.”

  “We can do it, Angel,” declared Lily, her eyes gleaming. “I know we can. I’m going to be a famous stage actress and you’re going to be a top fashion designer. It’ll happen—you’ll see.”

  “I like your enthusiasm,” said Angel, “but I think it’ll need more than enthusiasm to get us over the line.”

  “Nah, it just needs you to win the Teen Couture a
nd me to convince Dad that acting is a real career.”

  “Shouldn’t be too hard,” said Angel with a wry smile.

  “It’d be a lot easier if he’d stop listening to Margot. Or just stopped seeing her altogether!”

  Angel hesitated and then said tentatively, “You don’t suppose you could try to like her …”

  Lily snorted. “Been there, done that, got burned. Anyway, even if I could bring myself to like Margot again, nothing could ever make me like Clarissa! She’s the most stuck-up, spoiled, self-absorbed, wanna-be-famous-for-all-the-wrong-reasons, queen diva who thinks she’s a lot more talented than she is!”

  “She must be pretty talented, or she wouldn’t have got the job with Miki Merua.”

  “She got the job because Margot pulled strings, like she always does.” Lily scowled. “People don’t see Margot like I do. They think she’s marvelous. It’s like she’s got some weird power that makes people practically fall over themselves to please her. She’s even got my dad sucked in.”

  “Maybe when he gets back from South America, you can tell him—” Angel broke off as Lily’s cell phone buzzed insistently.

  “Oh, shoot!” cried Lily. “That’s Dad now. I’ll have to go, it’s better reception upstairs.” She waved and ran out.

  Angel followed her out the door.

  In the kitchen, her mother looked up from cleaning the coffee machine and smiled.

  “There you are, Angelique, ma chérie.” Ten years in New York hadn’t diluted Simone’s accent and not even her housekeeper’s uniform could disguise her indefinable air of French chic.

  “Sorry I’m late, Maman,” Angel hugged her, “but I found it.”

  Simone stopped cleaning. “Not the velvet?”

  “Yes. Wait till you see it.”

  “But where was it?”

  “That little shop in Soho—I don’t know how long it’s been there but it’s everything I’d hoped for.” She opened the parcel, cradling the velvet in her arms as her mother reached out to touch it.

  “It’s beautiful.” Simone looked anxious. “Did you get enough?”

  “Just. It took the last of my savings, but it’s okay ’cause I’ve already paid for the international courier. The ball gown is the last thing I need to make and there’s still three weeks before I have to send everything to Paris.” Angel hugged the fabric to her chest. “I’ll have to work on it every spare minute but I know I can get it done—I must!”

  Simone hesitated, then said, “You know how much I believe in you, chérie. I know you are talented and passionate about fashion design, but …” She twisted a strand of Angel’s tawny hair around her fingers. “Winning the Teen Couture is a big dream, mon ange.”

  Angel’s blue eyes were earnest as she said, “I know, Maman, but some dreams do come true.”

  “Yes, but you’re competing with teenagers from all over the world. Young people trained in fashion design, while you’ve …”

  “Never even been inside a design studio, I know. But the Teen Couture is my chance to change all that. First prize is $50,000 and a year working in Antoine Vidal’s Paris studio.” Angel’s eyes shone. “Can you imagine? Antoine Vidal—the king of haute couture himself. I mean, he actually trained under Christian Dior before setting up his own fashion house and creating the Teen Couture.”

  She took her mother’s hand. “And tomorrow night I might get to see him—all because you convinced Jean-Pierre to hire me as a waitress last summer.” Angel hugged the velvet. “Imagine—tomorrow night—me in the same room as Antoine Vidal. And maybe, just maybe, I might make the final in the Teen Couture and get to meet him!”

  “Yes, chérie, I know.” Simone’s soft brown eyes were sombre as she cupped her daughter’s face in her hands. “And I know how much you dream of it all. It’s just that …” Her face grew sombre. “You and your papa were so close and now he is gone. I don’t want you to be hurt by anything more. Some dreams can be dangerous.”

  “Not this one.” Angel’s voice rang with confidence. “I know I probably won’t win, but something good will come of it, I’m positive.”

  Her mother looked skeptical. “I hope you are right, mon ange.”

  END OF SAMPLE

  Look for HOW TO DATE A NERD coming from Swoon Romance this Fall.

  HOW TO DATE A NERD

  Cassie Mae

  Chapter One

  If I say I’m sick, don’t kiss me!

  Rules of keeping up your popular rep:

  Number one, the shorter the skirt, the better.

  Number two, natural hair color is a thing of the past.

  Number three, high heels are an extension of your foot. To go without them would be like losing a toe.

  Number four, guys are disposable, and should never be used more than once or for an extended period of time.

  And number five, never ever reveal you collect Star Wars memorabilia, you know every line from Lord of the Rings, and you actually know the birth dates of all the Harry Potter cast members.

  Yeah. I’m a total closeted nerd.

  I’m not cool with pity glares in the hallways, painful jabs, and social scars. No thanks. It’s much easier to keep my true nature hidden beneath layers of eyeliner, skimpy outfits, and even, I must admit, a rockin’ body. Though the pushup bras tend to do most of the work.

  Welcome to high school. Where everyone tries to be someone else.

  Well… everyone except Zak.

  Here’s the DL on my next-door neighbor. He’s labeled King Dork because he wears nerdy shirts and talks in geek code. The front pocket of the plaid overshirt he wears always has at least three or four Pokémon cards in it. And if it’s not that, it’s a graphing calculator he has to keep shoving down so it doesn’t fall out. There’s a Star Wars keychain always clipped to the back of his holey jeans and he sometimes carries a Wii controller in his back pocket.

  And I’ve got it bad for the boy.

  It’s not just the fact that he was the one to introduce me to the awesomeness of the Elvish language, the hidden mysteries of World of Warcraft, and the magical world that lies beyond Platform 9 ¾. He pulls off sexy geek so damn well! His dark, like super dark eyes and his matching hair, which flops around his forehead when he’s laughing too hard, combined with his nice height, and swoon… He’s like the Peter Parker of my high school.

  I may be the only person who finds his nerdiness just so hecka irresistible. Everyone else treats him like some dead bug on the sidewalk. I know how it is, and I have no idea how he handles all the verbal abuse.

  Middle school Zoe—Geek Zoe, I like to call her—was made fun of and tormented so much she spent most nights crying into her pillow. High school was the break I was totally looking for. A chance to freakin’ rewrite myself into someone who’s socially acceptable. The summer before school started, I grabbed loads of magazines and watched all those teen movies that so aren’t as awesome as Star Trek, but worked for my status education. And apparently, I was doing this popularity thing all wrong. I had to be, like, a major bitch to people, and I’d end up getting the hottest guy in the end.

  Took some work, but I think I got it down. I should win an Oscar for how awesome I am at the fake personality.

  But freak, it’s been two years since I was de-geek-a-fied, and I still find myself trying to stifle the urge to buy Comic Con tickets, and try not to act jealous when I see Zak dressing up for the event.

  Don’t get me wrong, my life is pretty darn fantastic and a whole heap better than the alternative, which is getting my emotional butt kicked around. So the fake persona is definitely worth it.

  There’s a huge party tonight. Lots of alcohol and boys, but like every party night, I try to show off this hot bod first to my neighbor, who can see straight into my open window.

  I strip down to my underwear so Zak can get a good look and turn up the music on my iPod. It’s pathetic, I know. I’m trying way too hard to get his attention, but I don’t care. It’s not like I can flirt with him at school.
Social suicide bomb right there.

  Stealing glances out my window into his, I flaunt around my room pretending like I’m getting ready for the party. But I can’t get a good view of Zak and I don’t want to be more obvious than I already am.

  Nothing.

  Huh, maybe he’s not…

  Yikes! I’ve reached my Lost playlist and my heart stumbles over itself as I quickly turn the music back down until I can get a more trendy song on.

  “Hey, I was listening to that,” a voice says from outside my window. I knew he was home. Darn boy, ignoring a prancing half-naked girl next door. Gosh, I thought I was doing this right. I adjust my bra to make my boobs look extra luscious, and then smoothly appear in his line of sight.

  Zak is at his computer, books piled next to him. He rubs his eyes and blinks a couple times before staring back at the screen, brow furrowed. Totally not looking at me or my boobs.

  “What exactly were you listening to?” I ask, using the seductive voice that guys—well, most guys—fall over.

  Looking at me—about time—he shakes his head at my revealing attire before reaching over to a cord I can’t see. His blinds shut with a rejected smack!

  Youch.

  I examine my boobs, but there’s nothing wrong there. Maybe I have a booger or something.

  Nope. No booger, no drool, nothing.

  Just me.

  Great, now I’m all self-conscious. I’m not gonna even attempt a party appearance.

  I throw on my pajamas—the big unflattering ones—and slouch on the bed. Stupid geek boy and the hold he has on me. I shouldn’t care what he thinks.

  But I do. Because I care what everybody thinks.

  I sigh and look out the window again. The sun dips below the horizon, casting orange and yellow streaks across Zak’s blinds, like something out of Harry Potter. Just super full of cool magic beans. I wonder if Zak’s still sitting there at his computer, typing away or plunging his nose into one of his thousands of books.