Scandalous (4 page)

16 November 2006

I
'M OUTSIDE THE STUDENT
welfare offices hesitating to
go in. I'm not so sure I want to go there now. I'm
hanging back slightly, not quite opposite the door.

It's November and the weather's freezing. My weight
loss has really accelerated in the last couple of months;
it's as if I can feel the cold going right through me and
it's never done that before. And that's even though I
made a point of putting on lots of layers of clothes this
morning. Since I've been this thin I'm cold the whole
time. I shake all over, even in my insides: in lessons, at
work, at home.

Winter is coming on in leaps and bounds and we still
haven't put the heating on in the apartment. At least,
I
don't want to put it on. Manu sets it going the minute
he gets in before installing himself on the sofa like the
lord of the manor. I wait for him to go out and switch it
off straight away. I've been doing this ever since I've been
paying my share of the bills. Electricity, water and
heating, it all it adds up to quite a lot. Manu couldn't
care less because he's not the one who has to budget for
these expenses. So he hikes up the heating while I secretly
keep lowering it because I can't bring myself to ask him
this favour.

At first I did my studying in normal clothes but I
quickly realised that sitting still for several hours without
moving made me feel so cold I might as well have been
outside. So now, when I'm working, I put on quite an
outfit: a huge scarf knitted by my mother, a sports fleece
and thick socks that come up to my knees. Manu
laughed the first time he saw me like that and I did too
when I saw myself in the mirror. For a couple of seconds.
Because there's nothing funny about the situation if you
think about it. In the end I got used to this excess weight
on my frail shoulders – the money saved helped. I'd
rather look as if I'm off mountaineering than have to pay
fifty euros on an avoidable bill.

I put as much money as I can aside and never buy
anything non-essential. It goes without saying I gave up
clothes shopping long ago. Mainly, because I don't have
time and, anyway, what would be the point of drooling
over something I'll never have? So I avoid temptation
and I'm careful to avoid window shopping. I've finally
got it into my head that I'll never wear the latest fashion.
Of course sometimes I could just die for a pair of new-cut
jeans, one of those belted jackets and a pair of astronomically
priced shoes like my friends at uni wear. All I
can do is look, until it becomes embarrassing and I have
to sigh and get back to what I'm doing. I'd like to be
strong enough to say that I hate any sort of consumer
culture and find it repulsive, but let's be honest: is there
anyone who
never
wishes for anything and doesn't give
in to well-marketed temptations? I'm young and there's
advertising everywhere – I'd be easy prey if I had any
money.

I envy the girls around me in lectures. Looking fresh
and rested, some of them have never had to work to
survive financially. Their parents earn plenty of money to
support them. Sometimes they must go shopping with
their mothers and hint that they like something with a
well-practised pout, to which their mothers reply by
taking out a credit card. I can't resent them for it, I'd do
the same without a second thought. I just envy them their
peace of mind when I'm the one shaking each time I see
a ticket inspector on the Métro, and constantly asking
myself how I'm going to cope at the end of the month. I
quake when Manu casually asks me for my share of the
rent too. Am I the only one going through this? I'm so
ashamed of the situation I can't talk to my fellow
students about it. How could they understand? So I
politely decline their invitations to join them for lunch
and shut myself away with the only free thing left:
studying.

None of this would really be a problem if I could get
enough to eat. The state of my food cupboard is still just
as pathetic, and the things my mother gave me didn't last
long. Pasta, pasta and more pasta. When the time comes
to make a meal, I look at it and feel it's sneering at me,
pointing out that this evening – yet again – I can't do
better than that. In the early days I had it with tins of
tomato sauce, but indigestion problems during the night
have turned me off that, and the very thought of pasta
swimming in cheap sauce turns my stomach. A dab of
butter's not so bad after all.

There's also a pot of Nutella, my little taste of
happiness. I never eat more than a spoonful at a time, so
I can keep it as long as possible. It's there to comfort me
when I open the cupboard.

I've spent so long feeling hungry I've stopped eating.
That was how I realised that, after a while, hunger
disappears and the human life cycle just carries on of its
own accord. After a few days of this regime I don't really
feel any pain. I've got into the habit of not having lunch
and doing several consecutive days at uni with nothing
in my stomach. Sometimes it makes strange noises during
lectures, but I'm so used to them that I hardly hear them
any more.

One girl in my class turned round and gave me a
chocolate bar and joked kindly, 'Here, have something
to eat, all we can hear round here's your stomach
gurgling!'

I was very ashamed and whispered a thank you, trying
to pretend I thought she was being very amusing, but I
didn't find it funny at all. I savoured that chocolate bar,
slowly and silently. If I'd been somewhere else I would
have gobbled it down in a matter of seconds because I
wanted it so badly. I controlled myself, with dignity, but
I did make sure I got every last shard that fell on my
notes, dabbing them with my finger. I could easily have
eaten another one.

In the evening, if I've got the time or the energy to eat
when I get home from uni or from work, I have a bowl
of rice pudding. And if I need to lift my spirits, a
spoonful of Nutella at the end of my 'meal'. It may seem
pathetic but that chocolate has a calming effect. I lick the
spoon clean to get the maximum amount of taste, right
to the end. I feel as if I work better afterwards.

Then, towards the end of one morning, the thing that
was bound to happen happened. I collapsed right in the
middle of a lesson. I'd pushed my luck so far I didn't
realise I'd gone beyond my own body's limits. People got
into quite a state but I came to very quickly and got back
to work. Some of them kept saying I should go and see
the campus nurse, which I politely refused to do. No
need for medics to tell me what's wrong with me: I'm
suffering from a deficiency of money.

That was the day I decided to go to the welfare office
to find a solution, some financial help. This lack of
money is affecting my health and I'm not prepared to
accept that state of affairs. I hate the fact I have to work
so hard just to eat, and to eat so I can carry on working.
But now that I'm outside the building I haven't got the
strength to go in. I would never have guessed I could end
up here for this. I know a lot of students come here to
ask for help, but it's not in my nature. For me, coming
here is tantamount to failure: I haven't managed to cope
on my own. But I've got to face the facts. I can't do this
by myself, I need a bit of help from somewhere. This
permanent hunger can't go on any longer.

So I go inside and wait meekly at reception. A woman
sees me half an hour later having dealt with a great
crowd of students at breakneck speed. In her office I beat
about the bush before admitting, 'OK, I've come to see
you because I've got big financial problems and I
wondered whether I could get any kind of help from
your organisation.'

Then it all starts coming out, and I describe my life,
the lack of money, Manu and the rent, the rushing to and
from work, the gap getting bigger every day. While I'm
talking I watch her reaction: she's listening attentively
and seems concerned by what I'm telling her. She's
young, in her thirties, she must remember her own time
as an impoverished student.

After a good fifteen minutes of explanations I finally
stop talking but, instead of answering, all she does to fill
the silence is give a little cough.

'All I can offer at this moment in time,' she says
eventually, 'are some vouchers so you can eat in the
welfare office. They're good value, each meal is less than
three euros!'

I do some quick mental arithmetic. I can't spend nearly
fifteen euros a week on just one meal a day. I came here
in the hopes of being offered significant reductions so
that I can eat lunch
and
supper.

'It's just . . . that would add up to so much by the end
of the week. I wondered whether you had any other
possibilities.'

'In your circumstances, I can think of only one way to
avoid spending money on food: the local soup kitchen
for the homeless.'

She says it slowly, very gently, conscious of the
psychological impact her words will have on me. And
they do. I open my eyes wide and stare at her. There, in
one sentence, is my position on the social scale: at the
very bottom. So far down I can't pay for my own meals,
so low I'm being offered food meant for the homeless. I
must be dreaming, I can't believe she's being serious. But
she's still looking at me, her eyes wide with understanding.

I mumble a vague 'Thank you' and ask where I have
to go to find the soup kitchen. She takes a piece of paper
and jots down an address . . . in beautiful handwriting –
perhaps she's making an effort to prove she's touched by
my lowly situation. I say my goodbyes quickly, desperate
to get this over with. She shakes my hand warmly in the
corridor before shrieking, 'Next.'

I confront the November cold back outside the building
and, clutching the piece of paper, walk off quickly to
keep warm. I won't go, no way. I can't make up my mind
to go to a place like that; I tell myself I don't need it all
that badly, when all's said and done. I would almost feel
I was 'stealing' the food from those poor people who
really don't have anything. But most of all I can't
reconcile myself with them, the homeless. I've got a roof
over my head, a job, my studies. No, that's it, my pasta
suits me just fine, really, I'll make do with it. After all,
I'm not the first . . . or the last.

9 December 2006

I
N EVERY LIFE
there comes a night when we grow up
too quickly. Nothing will ever be the same again.
Goodbye to innocence. One of those mournful nights
when it hurts to take stock of the situation. As it
happens, mine is financial. No money, bills vying for
attention and rent to pay. Sitting in the dark, leaning
back against the chair in front of Manu's computer, I'm
barely in control of my finger as it frenetically manipulates
the mouse in search of a solution. A site full of ads,
then another. A small window catches my eye; it's almost
hidden at the bottom of the page, trying to be discreet,
and says 'For Adults Only'. There are two categories of
listings: money-making or non-money-making. I'm immediately
tempted to choose the second, as if trying to
justify my actions to someone . . . but the room's empty,
I'm on my own. Let's be honest, money's still very much
my main reason for being on this site.
Just out of
curiosity
, I tell myself, knowing full well I've already
stepped over the limit. Without any vetting, I click on the
window (adults only, yeah right!). In the 'key words'
box, I put that I'm a student and give the name of the
city.

An endless list of requests then appears and I scroll
through it with my mouse. Is it really possible and so
easy? I skim through the ads which, at a quick glance,
are all alike. The same words keep cropping up: 'young
girl', 'intimacy', 'meet up', 'seeking'. I'm seeking too:
money, and quickly. The men here – stupidly categorised
under the dubious alibi of 'massage' – are on average
well into their fifties. Older than my own father.
Daddy,
if you only knew
. . . The main difference is they've got
cash, lots of it, and they seem prepared to spend it to feed
a fantasy that I'm potentially in a position to satisfy. The
rates, if they're mentioned at all, are in hundreds of euros
per hour. Can that be right? All these figures soon
aggravate my longing to have some money of my own. I
can already see myself with all that loot in my battered
purse – it would be spilling out in every direction! They
also talk about several hours spent together. What does
one afternoon matter in a lifetime! I would have thought
that, if you really need the money, it wouldn't mean a
lot. Perhaps this is my solution, the one I've been looking
for. A bit of comfort, and soon.

Still, I've made do without comfort until now, and
quite well actually. My parents' council flat until I was
eighteen, the cheapest simplest clothes, roll-up cigarettes
– that was plenty for me. Until now. Of course I was
envious sometimes, like everyone else, but I'd never
really been materialistic . . . Perhaps I couldn't afford to
be. Never two coins to rub together, always dodging
fares on public transport, a tolerable life. Occasionally
awkward, often embarrassing when a bill came along,
but you muddle through. I try to tell myself these
'massages' would mean I could easily afford to have
choices. I don't realise that the exact opposite is happening:
I'll never have a choice again.

There in the darkness – so often at the root of
irrational actions – I become sharply alert until my senses
seem to be boiling. First, my eyesight, so painful and
constantly there: the sight of bills pilling up unopened,
abandoned on the humble piece of furniture in the living
room that I use as a bookcase; the sight of money offered
by my few friends to pay for my coffee at the local bistro
for the umpteenth time. A hypothesis begins to emerge,
and one that may have been lying dormant all these
years: with some cash I'd not only be able to study the
whole time, but I'd actually like myself a bit more.

My mind's racing. My whole body's clamouring for all
these possibilities, I can almost feel them with the tips of
my fingers. All I have to do is click on the mouse, that's
all, just a tiny bit of pressure. My hand refuses to be
controlled, it's motivated by this dark longing – so taboo
and, paradoxically, so dazzlingly exciting. My arms, my
head, the whole of me knows that there, at the end of my
arm, is an answer, however controversial it may be, a
way to sort everything out, at least for now. Every part
of me gangs up against the feeble voice of reason in my
head, they just want to get it over with. Who cares about
afterwards, we'll see about that later.

I've suddenly been gripped by a sort of frenzy, it's
already too late. All I need do is look back at those
messages and I'm completely in their hands.
Don't think,
Laura, just type out these fucking messages and you'll get
out of all the shit you're in – it's the only way out and
you know it
. I mustn't back away out of fear. I've been
offered a chance, I need to jump at it. My go-getting
attitude can no longer see the difference between good
and bad, it wants a way out more than anything,
whatever the cost. From that moment on a sort of
schizophrenia takes over. I've become two different
people since seeing the ads: there's the Laura who's
perfectly aware she's playing with fire and the Laura
desperate for money. A ridiculous sense of defiance
comes into the mix: I can do this, I'll prove it to myself.
So I type, I type away on my keyboard as if each letter
pressed could eradicate the gaping hole inside me getting
bigger every day. I believed I was in control of my
faculties as I set out on the wrong path, now I feel
invincible just at the thought of this money.

Manu's not here, make the most of it
. Still, I glance at
the time and at the front door, just in case. He's still with
his friends at the moment, he won't be back straight
away.

I type quickly, not stopping to think, to avoid imagining
the world I'm straying into. I'm falling: yes, it only
took five minutes for me to fall. An hour later my hands
stop, satisfied. I've sent about forty replies in my manic
enthusiasm. But what does forty mean? These people
don't really exist yet. The hazy image of them conjured
by their words doesn't mean anything to me. The feeling
that it's all just a dream never actually went away. The
whole time my fingers tinkered on the keyboard I was
very careful not to think about what I was doing. To put
a stop to my daydreaming, I snap the laptop shut and go
out to get some air.

Nightfall was all it took. In the first hour of darkness, the
idea of loneliness and longing for human company came
to mind, like an echo of what I need myself. In a way
we're the same, them and me; we all need something.
Maybe I wasn't actually dreaming. My mailbox is
already showing the consequences of my actions –
actions that are even now out of my control, even in the
safety of my own home. I answered . . . lost in a frenzy
of need, desperate to find this fucking money, and now
I'm face to face with my own stupidity. So the thought
of a female student really does it for the older man, I've
got proof of that now. It seems they've all found what
they were looking for; they want their fantasies to be
made a reality, and I mine.

You always remember the first message. Mine is from
Joe, an unusual name in France but the one he uses to
sign off his emails to me. Joe, usually known as Joseph.
It seemed obvious to him to use a pseudonym: on the one
hand, it makes him seem younger and more in touch to
his potential 'collaborators in pleasure', on the other, it
avoids exposing his true identity. Does he too become
two people as it gets dark at night and he feels the urge
rising in him? I didn't try giving myself a pseudonym.
Too inexperienced, too new, I didn't even think about it.
I stupidly believe Laura will always be Laura, whatever
happens.

Young 50-year-old man seeks occasional masseuse.
Students welcome.

His message is oddly polite but, reading between the
lines, you can feel him sweating with longing. He asks
me whether I have any taboos . . . his words begging that
I won't, implying the pay will be even better. He hasn't
asked for a photo but has sent me one. He's fifty-seven.
That gives you an idea of what he might look like.
Reality hits me now, tough and uncompromising, forcing
me to realise what I'm doing.

As I read his message I really feel like a little child for
the first time in my life, and I'm someone who's always
been old for her years. This is a mature man, three times
my age. He's talking about well thought-out fantasies
that have obviously been buried deep but never quashed.
He's looking for a naive girl, probably picturing her in a
pleated skirt with knee socks, sucking on a strawberry-flavoured
lollipop. Then he switches off his computer
because his wife's walked into the room and asked him to
come and have supper with her and their daughter. And
during the meal he acts as if nothing's happened because
he's been hiding all this from them for years now.

He might have a quick look at his daughter – who's
older than the girl in the short kilt – and think how
pretty she is and how promising her future. When she
asks him to pass her something he does it happily, with
a smile. At night, on a good day, he makes love to his
wife – politely, taking his time, controlling himself so she
has time to enjoy it. Because he loves her. Because he
loves both of them, from the bottom of his heart.

The question of rates is elaborated on, and I swindle
myself without any help from him. With the anonymity
of the net, there are so many lies and they're so easy to
hide that I've slipped effortlessly into the guise of a
professional prostitute who's been around the block and
can't be tricked. But when I have to talk about money, I
put my foot in it. My instant reaction was to ask for
hundreds and thousands but I thought that wouldn't be
realistic. With time, I'll realise you won't lose anything
by daring to raise the stakes, even if it means renegotiating
if there's too much resistance.

These men imagine – and in my case, I have to admit,
quite rightly – that if a girl asks a lot then she must be
worth it. An astronomical sum often means they can
expect a pleasant surprise: perhaps a really stunning girl
whose body alone means she can raise her prices. Getting
what you pay for, so to speak. They probably think these
are girls who like sex, who keep asking for more,
coquettish young students who want mature men to take
control of their monotonous sex lives, to make a change
from the brainless pretty boys their own age.

My inexperience means I ask for a hundred euros an
hour, matching what I'd seen in other ads. Our friend Joe
seems delighted – he most likely wasn't expecting that
sort of sum. It was probably at that point that he realised
he was dealing with a first-timer. I'm sure he won't have
wasted any time imagining scenarios, pushing the boundaries
that a 'pro' would normally impose.

We arrange to meet up after a brief exchange of emails
which I pretended to get involved in. We're meeting in
three days, in a hotel near the station. He'll be wearing
a red polo shirt so I can recognise him because, although
I've got his photo, he doesn't want to miss me, to make
the trip for nothing. He makes a real point of saying he
doesn't live in the city, and would be very disappointed
if I wasn't there after he's come all this way. Talking to
me like a little girl, like giving a child a warning when
you know she's going to do something silly.

I say 'yes' straight away, to get the subject out of my
mind as quickly as possible. Even so, the details are
already falling into place. A patchwork is gradually being
pieced together inside my head. In my mind's eye, I think
of his face and connect it to the body of a man in his
sixties, wearing a red polo shirt. I place this combination
outside a crumby hotel on the street that goes down to
the station, a street with quite a reputation for prostitution
and drug trafficking.

Once I've closed the computer down and extinguished
the last embers of my imaginings, I go back to my
humdrum little life in a flash. Manu still isn't here, the
prick, so I decide to immerse myself in a Spanish
translation exercise. But I can't seem to concentrate.
After a few minutes' thinking, I manage to persuade
myself not to go and meet Joe, on any account. I've
played with fire, a bit, and even burnt my fingers but I've
absolutely no intention of really going. Joe will stand
outside that hotel all alone, I'll still be at home.

Still, that stupid figure keeps coming to mind: a
hundred euros an hour. Three days to wait. To wait for
what? I've decided not to go, so why have I got it into
my head that I should respect the agreement I made with
this stranger? I won't go, that's it, end of story. My
thoughts seesaw backwards and forwards, between what
I should do and what I need, very careful to avoid my
poor young heart, which doesn't have any part in all this.

I look at my food cupboard, my empty food cupboard.
Stupidly, I have a quick look at my bills on the bookcase.
I've got a headache. I snap my translation book shut.

Once, just once.