I’m not entirely certain what made me suspect our new neighbours were prostitutes. My experience of the oldest profession is limited to a stroll through Amsterdam’s red light district, having a sneaky peak at the variety of gruesome wenches from the safety of the street, so it wasn’t exactly an informed guess. I suppose it was the stereotypically whorish way they dressed, the tawdry jewellery and heavy make-up, and the way they seemed to silently sneak in and out of the flat next door. I saw them very rarely and presumed they were quiet types, maybe students, but I soon began to notice a lot of nervous, ugly men of varying generations shuffle suspiciously up and down the close stairs. At first I tried to console myself by believing that the women at 4 / 2 were incredibly sociable and hosted parties every night of the week, but if they did they were the quietest parties I’d ever (not) heard. I desperately grasped at other unlikely possibilities – a book club maybe, a big family – but I knew it was hopeless. The flat next door was a brothel. Read more »
