Charm and Consequence (Novella) - By Stephanie Wardrop Page 0,21

but she’d heard her. Last week, after Lily’s dad had left for South America, Lily and Clarissa had fought like cats. Afterward Lily had come down to the kitchen wing and burst into tears.

Angel and her mother had tried to comfort her, but they’d both known it wasn’t the fight that had upset Lily so much as her dad inviting Margot and Clarissa Kane to stay the whole six weeks he was away.

Lily had done everything to convince her dad not to invite them but she hadn’t succeeded. And it was only after the fight that Angel had realized how much Philip’s decision had upset her best friend. She’d never known Lily to lose her cool like that. Sure, she had a passion for drama, but she could always hold it in when she wanted to. Trouble was, as Lily told Angel later, on that occasion she hadn’t wanted to.

In the week that followed, Lily came downstairs so often to report Clarissa’s latest iniquity that Angel suspected the older girl of deliberately trying to start another fight. So far, Lily had managed to refrain from taking the bait, but Angel doubted she’d last another five weeks without biting back.

Angel listened again. The voices were moving away; she heard footsteps, a door close and silence. She sighed with relief and crossed the foyer. As she passed the hallstand she stopped. Thrown carelessly against the antique Japanese cabinet was Clarissa’s discarded schoolbag. Books, folders, pens, an iPad, headphones and a crumpled cheerleader’s uniform spilled out across the floor beside a black-and-white Moschino jacket.

At least, it looked like one of the new Moschino designs . . . Angel hesitated, glanced nervously around and, satisfied she was alone, put down her parcel and picked up the jacket.

She cast a judicious eye over the cut and fabric. It was well-made and she noted with approval the even seams and well-fitted lining. The black-and-white look was very much in the Moschino style, but it wasn’t Moschino. Angel checked the label and felt a tiny shock of recognition. A flamboyant black CLARISSA told her at once who had made the jacket.

Ever since Lily had told her that Clarissa designed her own clothes and had a part-time job working for the up-and-coming New York fashion designer, Miki Merua, Angel had felt a guilty fascination for her best friend’s archenemy. Anything to do with fashion was an irresistible lure for Angel and (despite Lily’s regular catalogue of Clarissa’s vices) she found it hard to believe that anyone who brought their own dressmaker’s dummy and sewing machine to the house could possibly be as bad as Lily made out.

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