GLAMOUR (Finale)
PART III: Rouge Sur Noir
Claire clutched the photograph in her pocket as if her life depended on it.
She walked through the prison corridors, her footsteps echoing off the walls as she approached the visitation room. She had expected her heart to be pounding out of her chest, to be overwhelmed by her anger and disgust. But all she felt was a surprising calmness as she watched Chloé trudge toward her table in nothing but a gaudy pink sweater and skinny blue jeans. Her hair fell limp against her sharp elbows and she had not seen her skin looking so rough since their adolescence. Any trace of Daji had disappeared under the harsh fluorescent lights.
Claire cleared her throat. “I thought you’d waltz in here dressed in bla—”
“That’s not what you’re here to tell me,” Chloé cut her off.
Claire scoffed and looked away. She had prepared her words carefully, rehearsing them in her car for nearly a month. She had prepared the day she would forsake her sister as meticulously as she prepared an interview with a lauded couturier. But the woman seated across from her was both, and Claire quickly found that no amount of preparation could have prevented her tied tongue when faced with such a character. A spurned sister. A fallen designer. Claire could already picture the headlines, the pull quotes, and the views an article like that could generate. She had briefly thought of pitching it to NOIR, but the speed with which she knew they would green-light it deeply unsettled her. She could already picture Michelle salivating at the mouth for the revenue an exclusive like that would generate. After nearly five years, Claire still could not claim to be a great journalist, let alone a good one. Daji had saved her from mediocrity once, but she was not ready to let her do it again.
“Fire away,” Chloé spoke, her words poised.
“With what?” Claire began to feel it again, the metallic venom coating her tongue. That bitterness she could taste whenever she felt herself falling for Daji’s games.
“Your questions. I bet your readers are dying to know.” Chloé’s angelic smile only sharpened the sting of her mockery.
Claire shook her head. “I’m not here to ask you questions. In fact, I’m not here to hear you out, to give you a platform. You’ll be listening to me for a change.”
Chloé straightened her back, though her smug smile remained unchanged. “Wow, look at you. My baby sister is all grown up.”
Claire's eyes narrowed. “Don't patronize me, Chloé.”
Chloé sighed, leaning back in her chair. “Alright, I’m listening. What do you have to say?”
Claire took a deep breath, steadying herself. She had come here with a purpose and wouldn’t let Chloé derail her. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the photograph, placing it on the table between them.
Chloé’s eyes flicked to the photo, her expression unreadable. It was a picture of Camille and Pauline, taken a few weeks before their deaths. Despite Camille’s consistently distracted gaze, her smile betrayed a genuine joy she shared with the newborn daughter clutched in her arms.
“Do you remember this?” Claire asked, her voice soft but firm.
Chloé nodded slowly. “I took it.”
“It’s not the only thing you took.” Claire’s eyes began to water, but she did little to contain herself. What did it matter if Daji saw her crying now? Claire did not have anything left for her sister to break. “You wrote in your letter that you wanted to know why I never showed. Well, this is why!” Claire continued, her voice growing stronger. “You took away our sister, our niece. And for what, Chloé?”
“You don’t get it. You don’t understand what it’s like to be revered one minute and then hated the next.” Tears welled up in Chloé’s eyes, but she blinked them away.
“This again? Oxford?”
“You will never know what that’s like because all you are destined for is being average.”
The sisters sat in silence, unable to look at each other. Claire slowly retrieved the photograph and shoved it back into her coat pocket, regretting her decision to bring it in the first place. Meanwhile, Chloé stared at the ceiling, her eyes trained on a crack by the window.
A prison guard banged against the metal door to announce the visitation’s end. Chloé and Claire rose from their seats in unison, though the former motioned for her little sister to stay down. She gave her a final once-over before exchanging a very on-brand goodbye. “You wear my coat well.” She disappeared in the corridor.
Claire crossed the parking lot, nearly tripping on a concrete block as she made her way to the nearest bus stop. Disgruntled by the 45-minute waiting time, she sat and watched the billboard scroll through advertising posters for various couture houses and fast food restaurants. With Fashion Week on the horizon, she dreaded how quickly her agenda would fill up with interviews and puff pieces over the year’s up-and-coming designers. The billboard rolled back to its first poster, an ad for ZHIZHU which featured the tangled legs of three models wearing red tights and matching Mary Janes in an otherwise dark alleyway. The creative director had evidently chosen to lean into the controversy, though Claire was much too disturbed to appreciate the artistry.
When she made it back to her apartment, the dim afternoon sun had long gone and the shutters cast linear shadows against her barren walls. She sat at her desk, staring at the blank document on her computer screen. The cursor blinked her into hypnosis, a trance-like state that deprived her of all feelings and thoughts. She had promised herself she wouldn’t write about Chloé, refusing to give her the satisfaction of being remembered. And yet, when she came out of it, the only word she had been able to write was her sister’s name across three pages. She deleted the document altogether and slammed her laptop shut.
The wailing of an ambulance jolted her awake, momentarily flooding her room with red and blue lights. She took a few somnambulistic steps towards her bed, burying herself under the covers to enjoy however many hours were left for her to sleep through. But sleep had escaped her entirely, and she resolved to stare at her tufted desk chair until the morning sun began to creep inside.
When her alarm rang, she turned off her phone and placed it in her bedside table’s bottom drawer. She opened her laptop and wrote a letter of resignation. At 9 a.m. sharp, she forwarded the e-mail to the entire office and called Louis to make plans for lunch.
Damnatio memoriae would be wishful thinking on Chloé’s part, unthinkable given the loudness with which Daji’s story had resonated throughout the world. What little power Claire held over the narrative, she would keep it close to her chest. She vowed to never speak or write of the truth. Because only the truth could set Chloé Sun free.
