A bell chimed neatly, signaling the beginning of Valerie’s appointment. She leapt to her feet, eager as a Pavlovian dog. The tweed of her trousers brushed her ankles as she trotted to the door and twisted the multifaceted crystal knob. Valerie admired the lavish office as her footfalls landed soundlessly on thick alabaster carpet. Heavy yellow drapes dominated the powder-blue walls, and candles in elaborate wall sconces provided a buttery glow. It felt like walking through a Rococo daydream as she approached a mahogany chair with chartreuse silk upholstery. She seated herself in front of a glossy table topped with an ornate glass bowl of multicolored pastilles. Madame Boucher emerged from between the lush curtains, immaculate in her rose-colored suit. Her white-blond hair was pulled back into an elegant chignon, adorned with a pillbox hat. She had paired the ensemble with pumps made from some kind of reddish suede. Valerie felt a tad underdressed, but she reas sured herself that Madame Boucher would know her intimately by the end of the process. There was no need to maintain a perfect façade.
“Bonjour, Valerie,” said Madame Boucher in her lilting French accent. “You are so pretty it will be difficult to capture you in wax.”
“Thank you, Madame, it’s an honor to be here,” replied Valerie, shocked at being complimented by such a polished woman. “We only cater to the upper echelon of celebrities, as you know. Our clientele are always satisfied with their results. Many say we are the best at what we do, and I credit our proprietary method,” said Madame with an air of self-assurance. “The pictures I saw online of your wax figures were incredibly accurate, so I’m not worried about getting butchered,” Valerie agreed.
Madame Boucher laughed lightly, flashing wolf-white teeth. “Of course not. Please, help yourself to a sweet from the dish,” she offered, noticing Valerie’s glances at the cut-glass bowl of sugary confections. “There are several delectable fruit flavors, and they provide a mild anesthetic effect to ease the procedure.” Valerie selected a pink candy.
“Pomegranate,” said Madame Boucher.
“If I may ask, what kind of procedure requires numbing me?” wondered Valerie.
“Do not worry. You can trust the process completely and when we are done, you will have a perfect wax replica,” Madame reassured.
Valerie began to dissolve the pomegranate candy under her tongue. It was a strange texture—like a gummy, but harder. “The process is effortless on your part, really—I know you are busy with touring, interviews, and appearances, not to mention producing new music. The world adores you; that’s why your likeness deserves a spot in our Paris museum. We have your photographs. All we need from you now are a few samples—for reference, shall we say,” continued Madame, beckoning subtly towards the concealed doorway she had emerged from earlier. An equally composed woman in a white lab coat came out, hold ing a leathery medical bag that matched Madame’s heels.
Valerie swallowed the last of the candy. “Samples of what, exactly?”
“Just a bit of skin and hair.”
“Skin?” gulped Valerie, alarmed.
“Yes—it is crucial to create a lifelike skin texture with wax, otherwise the figures look… disconcerting. Same with hair.” “Will it hurt?”
“No, the candy should take effect shortly and it is nothing more than a pinch.” As Madame Boucher spoke, the woman in the lab coat had taken out a small tool resembling a hole punch. Valerie felt an icy surge of fear, but she allowed the technician to remove a minuscule circle of skin from her forearm. It was scarcely visible, would heal in a few weeks, and seemed like a small price to pay for her place in the most famed wax museum in Europe. Once the samples had been sealed in sterile con tainers and the technician in her spotless lab coat had retreated behind the saffron drapes, Madame handed Valerie an embossed invitation to the unveiling of her wax figure and politely waved her out.
Two months later
The unveiling at the Paris museum was a lovely affair, with champagne and exquisite hors d’oeuvres. The long-awaited wax figure was perfectly proportionate and accurate, down to the plum satin dress that Valerie herself was wearing. But towards the end of the night, a curious child of one of the staffers slipped past the velvet rope that cordoned off the statue from the small crowd of music producers and socialites. Valerie’s fans watched in horror from the windows of the gallery as the errant child toyed with the figure’s hand. Before anyone could intervene, a finger detached from the wax girl with a sickening snap. The kid glanced at the finger in their hand for a second, then start ed screaming and dropped it as if it were a hot coal. Instead of running away to avoid responsibility, they curled into the fetal position on the floor and started shaking. The guests crowded around, trying to ascertain the cause of the commotion. Valerie made her way to the front and peered at the severed finger. Something was wrong, something beyond just the damage to the statue. A stain was spreading around it, soiling the smooth con crete floor. Bloody marrow leaked from the core of a splintered bone that looked disturbingly human, too human. Why would the waxworks waste time and material molding an anatomically correct skeleton to go inside a statue? They wouldn’t.
Disconcerting thoughts spun dizzily around Valerie’s brain. Her arm stung where the silent technician had sampled her flesh. A sickening rush of vertigo brought her to her knees as she remembered those strange reddish shoes and that handbag, made of a material she couldn’t quite identify. Maybe even the innocent-looking candles that added a warm glow to Madame Boucher’s luxurious office, and oh god, oh no. Her stomach dropped as she remembered gnawing at that strange, gelatinous gummy. Valerie blacked out.
When she woke up, she didn’t remember anything.