Cut Out and Keep

When Madame picked her out to be a fitting model, Bleuette was over the moon. Catwalks, silks, diamonds and adoration were surely imminent.

But when Bleuette walks, it’s across Madame’s smoky office. The silks are unfinished fabric draped over her and pinned, and Madame never speaks a word as she pushes Bleuette into this position and that. Madame is almost old enough to be Bleuette’s mother, but she isn’t kind or maternal. Her designs are the only cocooning, enveloping part of her. Her soul is a pair of scissors.

Sometimes men visit Madame, bringing gleaming gifts wrapped in scented paper, pawing her sketches, marvelling at her ideas. They too ignore Bleuette, unless she’s in her underwear, at which they stare. Madame bristles a little, but they don’t stop staring.

Everyone downstairs is scared of Madame. They treat Bleuette like the brave one, or sometimes, the petted one. But each evening, when 7pm comes and goes and Bleuette is still standing, legs stiff with pain, numb arms afloat, she gets a little delirious. Madame’s pale skin looks like an empty white shroud. Her constant cigarettes are mosquitos to be extinguished; sometimes Bleuette almost snaps at their horizontal flight. The cloth draping Bleuette is a wet blanket. Bleuette might die here. One day they’ll carry her body home to Maman…

Tonight, her heart is labouring, her vision dim. Madame’s fingernails are sharp. Bleuette mistakes the scissors for a silver bird, coming to bear her away as the floor rises to meet her with a slam that’s harder than hard.

Madame’s voice comes from miles above. Who is she addressing? Surely not Bleuette? But now Madame’s hands are beneath Bleuette’s head, lifting it and gently slipping a pillow there. Madame is holding a cup for her to sip. Bleuette tastes warm cocoa and brandy. The pillow is soft. Madame’s eyes are steely but her mouth twitches as she touches Bleuette’s cheek with the back of her hand.

Turn left

Turn right

flee towards the exit!