The Strays - Softcover

Jerome got up from the table. He had on loose, well-cut trousers and a white shirt, its top buttons undone, revealing a white singlet underneath.  His skin was smooth and perfectly matte, as if he never perspired.
 
“I was going to ask,” he said, his eye settling briefly on Eva, “whether any or preferably all of you ladies would be willing to sit for me.”
 
To pose for Jerome Carroll, rising star. The sisters gave no thought to the request. Their father had made hundreds of sketches and paintings of them as they grew. I had dreamed that one day I might find my way into a painting, like Alice through the looking glass. I imagined it in the same way: a new land. Before being painted and after. Evan had made sketches sometimes of Eva and me as we played, but these were not even studies, merely a way to keep his hand moving. He had boxes of black-bound sketchbooks in the roof above the studio.
 
“Wear a strappy top if you have one,” Jerome instructed us. “I want shoulders, bone structure.”
 
He assembled us, seated on the Persian carpet in the studio. Patrick was in there too, shaping a wax model for a sculpture. We clustered together, jostled four sets of limbs until Jerome was happy. I recalled our outdoor baths together years before. The same shifting attempts to fit bony shoulders and ankles around one another. He began to make sketches. It was a warm afternoon. We were by a large window, dozy in the late afternoon sun. Dust somersaulted through the air.
 
“So, another question,” said Jerome. “Feel free to tell me I’m a pervert, but I would love it if any of you felt inclined to remove your upper garments...”
 
There was a pause.