Sandra Marton - Yesterday And Forever

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 wasn’t terribly fastidious, but she wasn’t here to judge him on his housekeeping. She moved another step forward. The room was huge, most of it taken up by canvases except for the far wall, which was dominated by a large, unmade brass bed.

Her heart tripped against her ribs. The easel. Look at the easel. Yes, of course. She was here to pose. That was all Mueller wanted of her. She walked towards the easel slowly, concentrating all her attention on it and on the paintings that lay scattered around the room. They were oils, most of them, some originals, others copies of their more famous counterparts that hung in the Rijksmuseum. Mina was right, Miranda thought grudgingly, the man was good.

If only she could stop thinking of the way he’d looked at her the first time he’d asked her to pose for him, the way his beady little eyes had slipped over her body, the way they’d paused at her breasts…

‘Stop it!’

Miranda’s words hissed into the silence. She took a deep breath as she walked the last few feet to the easel. There was a note pinned to it; her brows lifted when she saw her name scrawled across it in charcoal.

Miranda, forgive me, I’ve been called away. Be back in a jiffy. Please make yourself comfortable. Ernst.

Miranda and Ernst. How cosy it sounded. Her heart thudded. There was still time, still time…

Stupid. She was being stupid. Quickly she marched to the screen in the corner, placed there, she knew, for the convenience and privacy of the model, and put down her bag. Would it be easier to get undressed and into her robe before he returned? Yes. Oh, yes. The thought of taking off her clothes while Mueller sat in the same room, watching the screen, made her skin crawl.

She unbuttoned her coat, working swiftly before she could change her mind, and tossed it over the high-backed stool that stood beside her with an artist’s smock, clean but stained with paint, draped across its back. The coat was followed swiftly by her black turtleneck sweater. Her hands trembled a little as she unzipped her skirt.

‘You’re being an ass,’ she mumbled, and the skirt and her panties slithered to the floor.

She was completely undressed now, except for her silver jewellery and boots. The jewellery could wait, but the boots—she frowned. The floor looked dirty. More than dirty. It looked as if centuries’ worth of filth had been ground into it.

It had been foolish not to have brought slippers. Next time she’d—she’d…

Miranda drew a sobbing breath. Oh, God! There wouldn’t be a next time. Who was she kidding? There wouldn’t even be a first time. She couldn’t go through with it, not even if it meant going hungry, not even if it meant throwing herself on Mevrouw De Vries’s mercy. She’d phone the Harrington Institute right away. They had to do something. Her situation was desperate.

Someone pounded on the door.

‘Mueller!’

Miranda’s hand flew to her throat. The voice was male—loud and very, very angry. The pounding noise came again, the sound of that heavy fist more than a match for the fury in the disembodied voice. Her heart began to race. She had to get out of here. She—

‘Mueller!’

The door slammed against the wall as it flew open, and she fell back into the corner. God, she thought wildly, oh, God, what had she walked into?