Simone was still not sure what to make of the sight in front of her. She could see people she had worked with for years standing unmoving in the corridor. At first, she thought it was some kind of joke being played on her. Perhaps it was some sort of good luck ritual observed backstage every time the chorus performed on stage.
No, that made no sense.
How could they be ready in time for her and the others when they came off stage?
No, that could not be it.
Simone looked down at the well-worn green V-neck and simple grey undershirt, the soft fabric sitting comfortably against her frame in a way that spoke of familiarity rather than fashion. She had never worn anything like this before colliding with the blonde impostor earlier that evening.
She did not like wearing jeans of any colour, although she had to admit the garment was comfortable and seemed to complete the borrowed outfit. They were practical, comfortable, and entirely at odds with the satin, sequins, and feathers worn by the performers around her.
On her feet she wore a pair of grey trainers, equally practical and equally out of place. Their rubber soles were designed for everyday life rather than polished dance floors. Her ankles silently thanked her for the rest from the stage heels she would normally have been wearing at this point in the evening, the same heels currently worn by every member of the chorus. Each step she took barely echoed through the silent backstage corridor as she walked towards the chorus dressing room.
She looked up at the clock on the wall.
Once again, it still read 9:05.
“Ça ne peut pas être juste.” (That can't be right.)
She was certain it had to be later than that. It had taken her at least a minute to walk from the rear exit of the building to where she now stood outside the chorus dressing room.
That was when she remembered she was still wearing the impostor's watch.
Even though it was showing what she knew was the wrong time, it should still have been advancing. She had discovered earlier that to make it display what it insisted was the time, she had to press the small button on its side.
She did so.
The display lit up.
3:16
“Toujours faux.” (Still wrong.)
She looked up from the watch and saw Yvette still standing beside the doorway.
One hand rested lightly against the doorframe, her body angled towards the direction from which Simone had just come. She remembered Yvette watching her walk down the corridor in exactly the same way she always watched strangers.
But Simone was not a stranger.
No matter what anyone else believed.
Yvette still stood at the entrance exactly as though she were preventing anyone from entering.
Only now...
She was not moving.
“Désolée, Yvette.” (Sorry, Yvette.)
Simone reached out and gently touched her colleague.
Or was that friend?
She was no longer certain.
There was no reaction.
She is still warm, Simone realised.
Looking over Yvette's shoulder, she saw Claudette standing as motionless as Yvette.
She had been smoking, as she usually did between the chorus numbers—or at least that was what Yvette had always told her.
Even the thin ribbon of smoke rising from the cigarette had stopped.
It hung motionless in the air.
Neither rising.
Nor falling.
“Qu'est-ce qui se passe ? Ce doit être la faute de l'impostrice. Il faut que je retourne sur scène pour l'arrêter.” (What is happening? It must be the impostor's fault. I need to get back to the stage and stop her.)
With that, Simone turned away from the dressing room and hurried back towards the stage.
