Karyn stood beneath the warm lights of the dressing-room mirror, wrapped in the cream satin robe Claudette had draped around her shoulders. The robe itself felt familiar enough. She had worn it earlier that evening, after finding herself in the dressing room for the first time.
Everything underneath it did not.
She looked down. The cream bra sat far higher than any bra she owned back home. The ones she normally wore were designed to disappear beneath her clothes—soft enough that, once she had put one on, she barely noticed it, although she always knew it was there.
This one refused to let her forget it existed.
It held her upright, separated and supported her, and gave her a deliberately shaped silhouette.
Beneath it, the longline girdle wrapped firmly around her waist and hips. She had seen vintage photographs of women wearing them. She had never imagined that she would actually wear one herself.
It was not painful, she thought. Just… present. It felt as though someone had gently placed both hands around her waist and never let go.
She instinctively rested her hands against her sides.
The fabric beneath her palms barely moved. Her clothes back home relied on stretch.
This relied on structure.
Claudette noticed her looking.
She did not ask what Karyn was thinking. She simply stepped closer.
“Ne bougez pas.” (Don’t move.)
That was all she said.
Her fingers disappeared beneath the open robe.
One quick tug at the girdle. Then another.
Karyn felt the garment settle by perhaps half a centimetre—nothing dramatic.
Yet somehow, everything felt more balanced.
Claudette smoothed both hands over the front.
Everything happening now was building the shape the clothes would eventually sit upon, Karyn thought, remembering the old photographs she had seen.
Claudette crouched and checked each suspender clip in turn.
Click. Click. Click. Click.
Karyn looked down at the stockings. She had worn tights countless times.
Pull them on, and you were done.
These felt entirely different.
Each stocking was an individual garment. Each one had been carefully rolled up her leg and clipped separately to the girdle.
There was something oddly ceremonial about it, Karyn thought.
Yet Claudette treated it as completely ordinary—something women did every day. Necessary. Routine.
Nothing worth discussing.
“Ne vous inquiétez pas, nous aurons bientôt terminé.” (Don’t worry, we will soon be finished.)
Claudette spoke as she straightened the top of the right stocking.
Karyn still did not know what she was supposed to do while standing there, so she merely nodded.
“Cette étrangère a dû vraiment vous secouer lorsqu’elle vous est rentrée dedans tout à l’heure. Cela explique sans doute votre comportement étrange. Vous ne disiez presque rien. Vous restiez simplement assise à regarder les autres.”
(That foreigner must have really taken it out of you when she ran into you earlier. I suppose it explains the way you were acting—hardly saying anything, just sitting and watching everyone else.)
Claudette walked slowly around Karyn as she spoke.
She was not so much looking at Karyn as examining how the clothes sat on her body. It was her responsibility to ensure that everyone looked their best when they left the dressing room.
She had spent years working her way up to the position of principal dresser, and she was not about to allow her reputation to be damaged merely because one of the dancers was unwell.
Technically, Madeleine was the one in charge of the dancers, regardless of what Henri might think.
Claudette looked once more.
Everything beneath the robe was sitting exactly as she expected.
Well, perhaps one final adjustment.
Karyn felt the pressure around her waist change again.
“Is that it? Are we finished?” Karyn asked, smiling.
Claudette crossed to the wardrobe rail. She returned carrying a cream knitted top.
Compared with everything Karyn had already put on, it looked almost absurdly simple.
Yet it was about to become the final layer over nearly half a dozen carefully prepared garments.
“Les bras.” (Arms.) Claudette motioned for Karyn to raise them.
Karyn did.
She noticed that Claudette slowed, not because of the top, but because of her hair.
Claudette carefully lowered the garment over the stage-ready curls Karyn had discovered on her head when she first found herself in the dressing room—another present from this Simone woman.
She did not snag a single strand as she gently drew the fabric down over Karyn’s shoulders.
Then lower.
The top passed smoothly over the girdle.
Claudette gave the hem two firm tugs, then smoothed the fabric across Karyn’s ribs.
She stepped back.
Looked.
Walked around her.
Made another tiny adjustment.
Then she slipped the satin robe from Karyn’s shoulders and reached for the skirt.
Karyn noticed that it was dark navy and perfectly straight. It was high-waisted enough that, back home, she would probably have joked that it came almost to her ribs.
After wearing the girdle for several minutes, however, the waistband looked as though it belonged exactly where it was.
“Entrez dedans.” (Step in.) Claudette held the skirt open for her.
Karyn had realised—despite her earlier jokes, which had fallen on Claudette’s deaf ears—that everything she was currently wearing amounted to underwear. Since she clearly could not leave the dressing room in only a knitted top and her foundation garments, she stepped into the skirt.
The fabric slid upwards until it met the firm structure of the girdle.
Claudette took over, settling the waistband into place and fastening it.
Then came what felt like an endless series of adjustments.
Would this woman never be satisfied? Karyn thought.
Claudette eventually tucked the knitted top neatly inside the waistband. Then came more smoothing, lifting and straightening.
Both of her palms travelled lightly around Karyn’s waist as she made another correction, and then another.
Only minutes earlier, Karyn had been staring at visible suspenders, structured underwear and satin.
Now all of it had vanished.
The cream knit flowed naturally into the dark waistband. The skirt continued in one uninterrupted line to below her knees.
Nothing suggested what lay underneath.
Yet she could feel every hidden layer.
The bra continued to encourage her posture. The girdle quietly supported her waist. The stockings remained perfectly suspended instead of gradually slipping as tights sometimes did after a long day.
Even standing felt different.
“Marchez.” (Walk.) It was more of a command than a request.
Karyn crossed the room and, as she did, noticed another difference.
The skirt shortened her stride.
Not uncomfortably, she thought.
Just enough to encourage smaller, calmer steps. Combined with the shoes and girdle, it altered the rhythm of walking itself.
Her jeans had allowed her to move however she wanted. They were gone now, and these clothes seemed to ask her to move with them instead.
“Parfait.” (Perfect.)
Karyn wished she knew what the woman standing in front of her had said.
She might not have been particularly fond of the outfit she now wore, but it was still far better than the pink stage costume she had been wearing earlier.
She turned fully towards the mirror.
The transformation felt almost impossible.
Nothing about the finished outfit suggested how much careful work was hidden beneath it. From the outside, it looked effortlessly elegant.
Simple.
Understated.
Only she and Claudette knew how much hidden structure made that simplicity possible.
Karyn glanced towards the clock.
It was 9.28.
That could not be right, she thought.
“Karyn, n’oubliez pas votre montre.” (Karyn, don’t forget your watch.) The voice came from behind her.
Of course, it belonged to the woman Karyn had come to know as Lucienne. The woman had done little but smile at Karyn during the last hour or so—except, of course, when she had been one of those helping Karyn into the same stage costume that Lucienne was still wearing.
“J’espère que vous vous sentirez bientôt mieux. Si jamais je revois cette garce…” (I hope you feel better soon. If I ever see that bitch again…) Lucienne stopped herself.
She did not like showing that side of herself, but sometimes it slipped through.
Before Karyn could stumble through any kind of reply, Lucienne had already turned away. She still had to prepare for her next performance.
For Claudette and Lucienne, the clothes were not unusual.
For Karyn, getting dressed had quietly become something different.
She could take as much time as any woman when preparing to go out, but she had never worn anything remotely like this before.
She turned slowly, almost cautiously, towards the full-length mirror at the far end of the dressing room.
Until that moment, she had not seen the complete outfit.
She had not seen the whole picture.
The young woman in the mirror stopped her completely.
For several seconds, she simply stared.
The outfit was not dramatic.
A cream knitted top.
A dark pencil skirt.
Cream court shoes.
Simple.
Almost understated.
And yet…
Nothing about it suggested that the woman looking back at her was really Karyn.
She turned slightly to one side.
The silhouette changed immediately.
The high waist seemed to lengthen her legs while naturally drawing her eyes back towards her shoulders. The knitted top skimmed smoothly over her torso without clinging. The skirt fell in one uninterrupted line to almost the middle of her calves.
“That can’t be me,” she said quietly.
Then she headed towards the door, wondering what Jon would make of her new appearance.
