Scandalous (5 page)

12 December 2006

I
T'S ONLY THREE DAYS
since our exchange of emails.
And, actually, that's not a bad thing. At least it means
I haven't had time to think about what I'm doing . . . and
I need the money too badly. We've agreed to meet at two
o'clock, for an hour at a cost of a hundred euros. Just an
hour, before I go off to work at the telesales company.
Right up to the last minute I don't know whether I'm
really going to go. But the hole in my pocket kind of
spurs me on.

I'm not really sure how or why, but here I am heading
towards that wretched street, walking like someone
going to a meeting they haven't put in their diary but still
can't forget. I've tried hard to pretend I really don't care
about this meeting by putting on a boring pair of jeans
and a jacket. But under these supposedly normal clothes
– in case I bump into someone on the way – no one
would guess I'm wearing stockings, which are chafing
slightly. It made me laugh when I put them on, I feel a
bit ridiculous in them. I even shaved in the shower this
morning. Obviously, I do that pretty often, specially
since I've been living with Manu, but this time I made a
real effort, going back over my knees and ankles several
times. A very tricky place, ankles. The reason I did this
so carefully isn't absolutely clear yet.

On my way I realise I haven't prepared an explanation
in case I meet someone in the street. It doesn't matter
that much, anyway, I'm a good liar, I'll come up with
something. When I get close to the station I do start
hurrying though. The sooner I get there, the sooner it'll
be over.

I go through the rules I want to stick to inside my
head, methodically: once, just once. I should have
smoked a joint before leaving. Yes, that's right, why
didn't I think of it? I'd have been much more chilled out,
more relaxed, I might even have found the whole thing
amusing. Might.

Weirdly, I want to take a few precautions, things I
think are important: I won't show myself first, I'll wait
till he gets here. Deep down, I still feel as if this is some
kind of joke. Stationed outside the appointed hotel, I
wait in the chill December air, watching passers-by,
almost wanting Joe to turn up just so I don't have to go
on enduring this icy wind. Joe, the rough sketch who will
become a reality in a few moments' time.

Masses of perfectly logical questions mill around my
mind. He said he'd booked a room – did he give his real
name at reception? I didn't say anything when he
suggested coming here but I think it's such a grim choice.
He must test out all his new conquests here and, if they
deserve it, he makes their day by taking them to more
salubrious places after that. But, actually, if all he wants
is sex, why make such a fuss about it? If that's what it
is, then he doesn't need much else.

Just before the agreed time, an older looking man
stops outside the building and looks around casually,
quite naturally. 'Older', that's what people say when
they want to be polite and avoid saying plain 'old'. So,
basically, he's old. I would never have thought I'd end up
sleeping with a man that age.

He doesn't look anything like the photo. Despite the
younger, sporty image he's gone for, he certainly looks
his age. He's wearing a red checked shirt, tracksuit
bottoms and trainers; with greying hair to match his
years. The middle of his face is adorned by a large
moustache, still brown in colour. Not very stylish but at
least he looks clean. Someone I certainly wouldn't have
looked at twice in the street, but he's not repellent either.
To think I'm going to see him naked! To think he'll want
to touch me! I'm shivering with disgust at the thought.
Perhaps because I was expecting much worse, I jump out
from my hiding place and cross the street to join him. I
also think I'm already forcing myself to switch off my
mind.

He sees me coming and his expression changes. I
couldn't say whether it's for the better or the worse. We
give each other a hasty peck on each cheek, obviously
both quite tense. But he's suddenly relaxing and introduces
himself very politely, in a gentle voice. My God,
he's so old! Oh yes, he's all of fifty-seven now.

'Hello, Laura,' he says, watching me intently.

'Hello, Joe,' I say, not knowing what else to add.

I can't help looking him up and down, completely
unashamedly. I don't feel any particular empathy for
him, more like loathing, to be honest. I'm struck by his
accent and it makes me want to inspect him carefully –
he's got boring country bumpkin written all over him.
His intonation, the way he puts a lilt at the end of each
sentence . . . he's a perfect example of a country boy sent
off to make a career in the 'big city' but never quite
shaking off his origins. Right now, I'm wondering
whether he really will pay me. Given his basic – not to
say downright cheap – clothes, I have every right to be
worrying about it.

The way he carries himself betrays an element of
routine: this obviously isn't the first time. He appears to
be delighted with how I look, and I pretend not to notice
that he's ogling me with his crinkly old eyes. I'm like a
gift from the gods for him: what more could he ask? A
student, giving her body for the first time and, what's
more, for a ridiculously low price. He's quivering with
pleasure in anticipation and is privately congratulating
himself for his excellent choice.

As for me, I'm glancing round frantically; I've been
filled with insurmountable fear ever since we met up. I
desperately want to get inside because there's only one
thing I'm worried about at the moment and that's being
recognised. He must have gathered that from the tension
on my face, because he's leading the way. He must have
gathered lots of things, seeing me there on the pavement
for the first time.

I sneak through the main entrance behind him. From
the way he's behaving I can tell he knows the ropes.

I walk behind him politely, as if trying to hide. I decide
I don't want to see the look on the receptionist's face –
he's no fool, he knows exactly what's going on and that
this room hasn't been booked in the middle of the
afternoon for a couple of tourists who've just got off a
train and are tired from their journey.

I've been so busy hiding myself I didn't notice the
policemen straight away. Joe didn't slow down or turn a
hair at the sight of them. Basically, he didn't do anything
to give me the nod. But they really are there: two of them
in their distinctive
képis
, chatting by the reception desk.
Now that I'm face to face with them I'd be happier with
the accusing stare of the stranger at the desk.

Still, it suddenly dawns on me that the receptionist
couldn't matter less, and that what might happen next
could have much more impact on my life. Policemen can
land you in prison.

Once I'm level with them, I look away, panicking. A
horribly familiar feeling of heat – a physical warning of
imminent danger – is spreading through my stomach and
tormenting my insides. This is it, it's over almost before
it's begun. This is it, I'm not yet twenty and I'm going to
be caught out at some pitiful game because I didn't gauge
the consequences properly. I keep walking while my
imagination plays out a sequence worthy of a Hollywood
film: I can see myself down at the station with a dazzling
white light trained on my face, and handcuffs on my
wrists, as I sit on a metal chair protesting my innocence.
And my parents are summoned to my local police
station, my mother in tears obviously, and my father not
even looking at me because I've sullied the family name.
What a nightmare!

I keep going, sure that any moment one of the
policemen is going to stop me. My feet keep treading one
ahead of the other, in spite of everything, following the
man responsible for this whole business, for my future
life as a convict. But what about him? Joe doesn't seem
in the least bothered about what's going on around us.
Fuck it, do something, the cops are going to nab us!

I don't cry out though. I'm so paralysed that no sound
comes from my mouth at all. Hang on a minute: if the
brute isn't batting an eyelid, then maybe he's in on it too.
Could he be a plain clothes policeman? Oh, I've really
been had . . .

I'm still busy hating myself, along with the whole rest
of the world, when I realise we're already in the lift. He
hasn't even suggested going separate ways and meeting
up in the room, which would have betrayed a bit of
perfectly logical concern. In fact, he couldn't give a
monkey's about the cops. I get an explanation a few
minutes later because something incredible happens:
nothing. Absolutely bugger all. The policemen saw us, of
course they did, we brushed right past them. Still,
nothing's happened.

Instead, we've carried on with our journey in the lift
in silence, with him probably already fantasising about
what he's going to do once we get up there; and me still
petrified, not yet recovered from the head-on impact with
the law. When we get up to our floor he goes over to the
room without a moment's hesitation – he must know the
hotel like the back of his hand.

The first thing I notice are those hideous faded green
curtains drawn across both windows. Fucking ugly
décor! What sort of person has such bad taste to put
curtains like that in a room like this? The rest is pretty
basic. Quite big but only with the bare essentials: a bed
and matching bedside tables, a desk up against the wall
with a phone. It's a good thing I've spotted that straight
away; I could lunge for it if Joe gets violent. The carpet's
boring, very dark blue, nearly black, I can't be quite sure.

A snapping turn of a key brings me back to reality. Joe
has locked us in. No way! We still haven't said a word
to each other, except for standard introductions.

'No, the door stays unlocked,' I say.

What a nerve! I've hardly said the words before
realising just how curt I sounded. Can you do that to a
man you're supposed to be giving yourself to completely?
I have absolutely no idea right now. It's the real Laura
talking, the one who speaks her mind. He's pulling a bit
of a face, just for a moment but long enough for me to
see it.

'If you like. It was just so we could be left alone.'

He's not arguing about it and respects my request.
Perhaps this won't be all that hard after all.

I'm so wound up and uneasy I can't stop moving,
walking aimlessly backwards and forwards between the
few pieces of furniture as if trying to offload my stress.

'Are you feeling OK?' he asks.

I'm so obviously tense that the old boy feels he has to
ask how I am.

'Yes, I'm fine,' I say quickly to get the pointless
conversation over with.

'So, you're a student, are you? A student of what?
How old are you, actually?'

I can't bring myself to answer. I'm in too much of a
state and too busy looking at him. He's fairly athletic
looking and, apart from the pukey shirt, the rest is pretty
acceptable. In a way I'm impressed by how old he is.

He continues to ask me a couple of boring questions,
and I'm no more forthcoming with them, more out of
awkwardness than bad manners.

I turn round and see those ugly curtains again. Why am I
so obsessed with them? Everything about them is repulsive.
They're sneering at me with that fabric no one's ever
washed. I know that they only bother me this much
because they're a reflection of my ugly, miserable situation.

He comes across the room carrying a small brown case
I hadn't noticed till now. A real businessman's briefcase.
He puts it gently down on the bed and starts to work the
combination lock. Such an incongruous scene: just try to
picture this bloke playing the great professional in his
stupid lumberjack shirt!

What's he actually hiding in there? I have a quick
enquiring look. At the moment I'm expecting him to take
out all sorts of medical equipment, tools and utensils to
butcher me. Or perhaps just one little gadget to add a bit
of spice to our activities. I'm suddenly very worried
about what he might want to get up to; after all, I don't
know him from Adam.

The briefcase is lying open on the bed. For a moment
I think I'm in a Tarantino film and, as I move closer to
see what's inside it, I even picture wodges of banknotes.
Instead it's just a boring letter which Joe hands to me.

'What do you want me to do? Read here in front of
you?'

Without a word, he nods to mean yes. He's not exactly
eccentric but is desperately trying to create something
enigmatic in the situation, that's blindingly obvious.
Well, I have to admit it's working. Disconcerted, I pick
up the piece of paper. The writing is neat and it's clear
from the start he's chosen his words carefully.

Dear Laura,

First of all, I'm pleased with your punctuality and
would like to thank you for it.

What an idiot! Did he write a different letter in case I
was late?

We're going to play a game together today. I'd like
you to read my letter all the way through and do
what it says as you go along. First of all, I want you
to take all your clothes off.

Time seems to have mutated into a vast embarrassed
silence. Joe isn't saying anything, just standing with his
arms crossed. A proper job interview. If I pass the nudity
test, I'm bound to be offered the job.

I slowly put the letter down on the edge of the bed.
Without thinking I take off my top and, not waiting for
any reaction from him, slide my jeans down over my
thighs. I lower myself in what I hope is a slightly languid
movement to get them right off.

He can't take his eyes off me, his mouth is gaping. I
can see the beginnings of an erection beneath his jogging
pants.