Mina shrugged. ‘And he said to tell you he’s willing to pay you double the standard fee.’
The comb in Miranda’s hand stilled. She turned around slowly, her sapphire-blue eyes wide under their dark fringe of lashes.
‘You’re joking! Double?’
‘Yup. I’ve got to admit, it makes me gnash my teeth with envy, but that’s what he said.’ Mina sighed. ‘I wasn’t going to mention it at all, knowing how you feel, but we were talking about money and I figured it was only right to tell you.’
‘Double the standard fee,’ Miranda murmured with a wistful smile. ‘I’ve got to admit, it’s tempting. But—’
‘But it’s no go.’ Mina nodded. ‘I told him I was sure that’s what your answer would be.’ She smiled good-naturedly as she turned back to the mirror. ‘Old Ernst is just gonna have to get it through his head that Miranda Stuart thinks it’s immoral to peel down to the altogether for a strange guy, and never mind that there’s an easel between the two of them.’
‘Come on, you know me better than that. I don’t think it’s immoral. How could I? I’m a painter myself—I’ve done heaven only knows how many life studies.’
‘OK, so I overstated it. You just don’t think it’s right for you.’
‘Yeah. I’d be—I don’t know, paralysed, I guess. I’m just too self-conscious or something.’ She hesitated. ‘Besides, there’s something about that man…’
‘Mueller? I admit, he looks a little greasy, but he’s OK. In fact, he’s never so much as laid a finger on me—literally, I mean. “Turn a little to the right, fraulein,” he says, “chin up, tilt it like so, yes?” But he never touches the merchandise.’
‘It’s probably just my imagination, then, but there’s just something about the way he looks at me that makes it so—so personal, if you know what I mean…’ Miranda’s voice trailed away. ‘That’s what an empty stomach does,’ she said briskly. ‘It turns your brain to jelly.’
Mina grinned. ‘There you go, talking about food again. It’s a good thing Mevrouw De Vries will have breakfast laid out by now. Do you think anybody will notice if I eat four fried eggs instead of two?’
And that was where the matter had rested—until yesterday, when everything had seemed to come apart all at once. Miranda had bought her usual frugal late lunch and realised, with a start of horror, that she only had money enough for one more meal, and then Mevrouw De Vries had stopped the two girls as they went down to the kitchen for their evening mugs of cocoa with a polite smile and a reminder that their rent had yet to be paid.
Miranda had turned reluctantly to Mina. ‘I hate to ask,’ she’d said, ‘but I don’t suppose…’
The look on Mina’s face had been all the answer she’d needed. The words she’d spoken days before came back to Miranda with a rush.
‘If the rent money doesn’t get here, neither will breakfast and bedtime cocoa.’
Suddenly all her moral posturing had seemed ridiculous. Mina had posed for Mueller, and so could she. It was a perfectly legitimate way to earn extra money, and she’d have to be an idiot to pass it up.
‘What’s Mueller’s telephone number?’ she’d asked Mina, and before she could think about it too long she’d marched to the phone, dropped in a coin, and made the call—and now here she was, making her way along the street that ran beside the Oudezijds Voorburgwal, her heart pumping away inside her chest as if it were going to leap free at any minute.
‘Hey, good-lookin’, you spreken English?’
Miranda barely glanced at the American sailor leaning against the canal rail. Yes, she wanted to say, I speak English, but someone should have told you that not every woman you see in this quarter is for sale.
But she wasn’t foolish enough to do that. Instead, she kept her eyes straight ahead as she walked purposefully along the street. Why did Mueller’s loft have to be here, of all places? She knew the answer—rooms in the Walletjes were cheap. For centuries these narrow streets had catered to men eager to taste the pleasures of the flesh, and the quarter’s offerings were geared towards fulfilling that desire with every imaginable enticement.
Miranda swallowed hard. Well, that had nothing to do with her. She was here to pose. To work.
Her glance flickered to the narrow buildings that lined the street. Although it was only mid-afternoon, there were already women seated behind some of the wide shopfront windows. Some were reading, some simply looked out with bored, empty eyes. One, the very picture of domesticity, seemed to be knitting a sweater. But Miranda knew they were here to work, too, to work at the world’s oldest profession. Even after all these months, that fact still amazed her.
‘They’re just earning a living,’ Mina had said stoutly the first time the two room-mates had come to the quarter to gawk along with the rest of the tourists.
All at once, posing nude for Ernst Mueller seemed very tame indeed. Her attitude was naïve, almost priggish. She wasn’t going to do anything wrong, for heaven’s sake. And it might be illuminating. Maybe it was time to find out what it felt like to give your all for art.
The thought brought a smile to her face. Still smiling, she pulled a slip of paper from her pocket and glanced at it. Number fifteen. It was that next house, then, the tired old one with the paint peeling from its fa de. She took a deep, deep breath, tossed back her hair, and marched up to the door.
It was dark inside, almost oppressively so. But it would be, wouldn’t it, after all that bright sunshine? Miranda took a step forward. The place smelled musty; her nose wrinkled in distaste while she waited for her vision to adapt to the greyness. She could see a narrow, almost perpendicular staircase looming ahead, the kind unique to some of the old canal houses. She was wearing her high-heeled leather boots again—there’d been no choice, really; she’d found a hole in the sole of her sneakers just that morning—and the steps would be hard to negotiate.
She took a deep breath. ‘You’re just looking for excuses,’ she murmured into the silence, and she put her hand on the railing and started up into the gloom.
Mueller’s studio was on the top floor, and her legs were trembling a little by the time she reached it. Nerves, that was all it was, and it was silly. Mina had posed in the buff for the man half a dozen times, and he’d never so much as touched her. Wasn’t that recommendation enough?
She rapped lightly at the door. ‘Herr Mueller?’ When she got no answer she rapped again. The door swung slowly open. ‘Hello? Is anyone here? Herr Mueller? It’s me. It’s Miranda Stuart.’
Her voice seemed to echo in the mid-afternoon stillness. The room was obviously empty. Her spirits lifted. She could leave now, secure in the knowledge that she’d kept her part of the bargain…
As if on cue, her empty stomach growled. ‘All right,’ she said, sighing, ‘I get the message.’
The door slammed shut behind her as she moved cautiously forward. The faint, sweet smell of marijuana hung in the air, and Miranda wrinkled her nose with displeasure. The light in the room was excellent, good enough so that she could see every inch of litter and dust. Mueller
