Scandalous (9 page)

I immediately understand what he wants. No need for
a degree in prostitution for that.

I unbutton his trousers and start to perform fellatio. I
feel him gradually becoming aroused. In no time, he's
whipped off his jeans and lowered the passenger seat
right down. He lies on top of me, puts on a condom and
seconds later he's inside me.

I can't explain how I feel at the moment. Sickened, yes.
My head's somewhere else, I can't feel anything any
more. Julien has become 'him', an impersonal 'him'. The
first 'him'. It's too much. I can't bear him inside me, I
don't want him in me. Everything goes hazy and I close
my eyes. I feel so dirty already. I clench my teeth with
disgust. I feel terribly empty and the same words keep
going round inside my head: now you really are a
prostitute, abandoning yourself completely to a stranger's
dick.

I don't look so clever now. No more provocation or
showing off. Actually, he's won in the end; he's the one
who's getting what he wanted. I must think about the
money, not forget what this is for, but it all feels too raw.
I feel dispossessed of my own self. I've never felt so far
removed from myself. I haven't any tears left to cry, just
dizzy spells as proof of how tough my life is and bills
piling up, forcing me to understand why I'm doing this.
Where are you, Manu? How did I come to this? I don't
want him to touch me any more, why do I have to put
up with this? The situation feels so unfair I have to grit
my teeth to stop myself crying out.
It'll be over soon,
Laura, don't open your eyes, it'll soon be finished.

I have to say he doesn't waste any time. He's come and
now his conscience has taken over from his libido.

'Um . . . Laura . . . we'd better get going,' he says.

I don't look at him. I'm almost crying with joy to think
it won't go on any longer.

'I'll pay you your two hours, don't worry. I'll give you
the 140 euros.'

'Yes, OK.'

The money smells the same as the cash Joe gave me;
the handing over process is hasty, taboo. Not at all easy.

'I'll drive you home, OK?'

I nod my head and we set off in silence. I can't utter a
single word.

Long before we get to my friend's apartment, I ask him
to pull over. We give each other a quick peck on the
cheek, slightly embarrassed.

'Goodbye.'

'Goodbye, Laura.
Bon courage
.'

I get out of the car without a murmur and he drives
off straight away.

Yes, courage, that's what I'm going to need. So that I
accept not only the dirtiness but also the fact I'm already
addicted to this money tumbling into my hand.

I hurry home through the freezing dark night. As
Julien heads home to his wife waiting for him in their
nice warm home, I go to sleep alone in my bed. I'm cold.

24 December 2006

M
Y MOTHER HAS LAID
the table specially for the
occasion with a multitude of different dishes, each
one more appetising than the last. And I'm hungry as a
wolf – which has become my default setting in the last
three months. There are five of us for supper this
evening: my father's invited a friend of his who would
otherwise be spending Christmas alone. It always
touches me when my father does things like this, but I
don't understand why he doesn't extend the same
kindness to me.

Having this friend here brightens the whole evening,
and everyone's chatting happily. Everyone except me. I
don't seem to be in party mood, I can't do it. These
so-called Christmas holidays are more of a curse than a
blessing for me. We've got exams right at the beginning
of next term so I've got to revise more than ever. I'm still
working for pitiful pay at the telesales company during
the two-week break – I can't afford to take days off. I
need to be earning money. But on the days I'm not
working I don't know what to do with myself at home.
Not going to lectures the last few days has really unsettled
me. My studies are my refuge, the time when I don't have
to think. Going to uni means getting away from home
and having only a minimal social life. I've hardly seen my
friends since September – my time is divided between uni
and telesales. The rest of my spare time is completely
devoted to studying, reading and revising.

This family reunion is a charade. My father's playing
the perfect host, ostentatiously giving his friend a second
helping. He's even all sweetness and light with me – he
wants to look like the perfect, caring father. I listen to
him talking, which he never does when it's just the four
of us. He's a magician; he can transform himself in
public and wear a mask.

It doesn't wash with me. Another year I might have
accepted his little performance, even knowing he
wouldn't speak to me the next day. I would have agreed
to the pretence that we're very close just because it's
what I absolutely long for. But it's different this year. I've
had enough of begging for his love, I can't bear being
ignored like this any longer. If he really were attentive he
would have realised long ago that I'm struggling so
badly: I've lost over two stone since September, I'm
working myself to death and I'm reduced to tears every
day. Maybe if he took the time to look closely at me he'd
understand what I have to do for money.

I'm doing too much thinking to enjoy this evening.
I'm ruining my father's plans – his guest can tell I don't
feel like partying. I'm not bothered by my father's
disapproving looks, I've had enough of playing a part.
My mother does her best to fill the silent pauses. She's
bound to be worrying that I'll make some insolent or
nasty remark. My father's relying on my sister for
conversation, asking her an avalanche of questions about
school and her friends, bombarding her so she almost
doesn't have time to draw breath. But she's delighted
with the situation, feeling as if she's really being listened
to for once.

After an unbelievably copious supper, it's now time to
open our presents. My mother loves Christmas and
makes a point of respecting tradition. She's put a large
Christmas tree in the living room and arranged the
presents beneath it. And, like every year, she's also got
the whole crib out. No one in the family is a believer, not
even her, but she loves going along with the whole thing.
I know that in her heart of hearts she regrets not being
able to give us a wonderful Christmas with loads of
presents. So, almost as if she's compensating, she pushes
the boat out with the decorations. I adore my mother
and it really touches me how much trouble she goes to
to make sure we're both happy, not just at Christmas,
but all year round. She's a full-time broody hen, even
though she's always talked to us as she would an adult.
And her hard work pays off: seeing the sparkling tree and
the crib with its little figures makes me happy to be here
with her this evening.

No mountains of presents for us at Christmas – we're
used to getting just one. Mum always manages to find us
something that's particularly significant so that we forget
that it is just the one. My sister and I don't really put
much store by it all any more, but when we were little
we would die with envy when our school friends showed
off presents which looked like they were straight out of
The Thousand and One Nights
. Looking back, I can see
it was a normal reaction.

This year, more than any other, I'm not expecting
anything special. I haven't asked for one particular thing
because I've got such an overwhelming feeling that I need
everything. But 'everything' is out of reach for my
parents; it would be utopia.

So here I am opening the present labelled for me. I
slowly tear off the apple-green paper and find a pair of
high-heeled black shoes. I saw them in a shop with my
mum during the
Toussaint
bank holiday and I told her I
liked them. I would never have thought she'd go back
and buy them later. Even though I know he's had
nothing to do with choosing my present, I thank my
father from where I'm sitting. We don't kiss or hug.

I keep thinking about Manu. I haven't heard from him
since we split up. My parents were relieved to hear we'd
stopped living together; they've never really liked him
and think he's a snob. I think that, in my mother's eyes,
no one will ever be good enough for my sister and me.

If she only knew . . . She would definitely loathe Manu
all the more. But first she would cry for days on end, then
her sadness would turn to anger and she would try to
find a culprit. At first she would blame herself, then
Manu. If she found out everything he had made me pay
for while he was spending virtually none of his own
money, she would undoubtedly hold him responsible for
my prostitution. She would go absolutely wild with rage,
trying to find answers where there are none to be found.
Over time, the whole thing would just become a bad
memory and she would help me forget it, but she would
spend the rest of her life licking that wound, holding it
against herself for ever. No, she must never know.

The evening goes on quite peacefully, with no raised
voices or arguments. I decide to go up to my room fairly
early: I need to be up in good time tomorrow to revise.
In the afternoon I'll catch the train back to V because I'm
working for the telesales company from the twenty-sixth.
No downtime really, but it'll pay off in the end, it just
has to.

I hurry off to bed, giving everyone a little wave. Up in
my room I start looking at one of my Spanish texts. I
can't help it: the minute I have some spare time, I revise.
I know I won't have any trouble passing my exams, I've
worked hard for them, but I can't help myself, I'm a
perfectionist, everything always has to be perfect. And,
anyway, working stops me thinking about other things.

The very next day I'm on a train taking me back to V
and, as usual, there isn't much to tell anyone about the
two days spent with my parents.

7 January 2007

U
NFORTUNATELY, MY EXPERIENCE
with Julien hasn't
stopped me. It's had exactly the opposite effect.
There are always more new ads on the internet and I
sometimes feel the world is full of frustrated people
who'll never be satisfied. Mind you, I'm not sneering at
them, given that these strangers and their rampaging
urges are helping me out temporarily with my financial
problems.

So I make contact with an older man, almost certainly
for fear of landing another indecisive penniless bloke like
Julien. This time his name's Pierre. The only thing I
know about him is what he does: he's a businessman in
a well-known company. I find that reassuring because it
suggests a really solid financial basis. Making the decision
in the first place is hard enough and this world really
is like Russian roulette so I might as well make sure – as
far as I possibly can – that I'll be paid. We've arranged
to meet in the early afternoon on the large square in the
centre of the city. He'd rather meet in the city centre and
then go back to his place where, he makes a point of
saying, 'we won't be disturbed'. At first I objected: there
was no question of my going to some complete stranger's
place, where all sorts of things could happen to me. But
after some thought, he managed to persuade me: there
would be no danger of being seen by anyone because his
place was empty. He's keen on his anonymity, too, and
doesn't want to run the risk of meeting in one of the
city's hotels where he could bump into people. So our
last email agreed that he would come and pick me up
discreetly in his car, then drive me back to his place. I
like to think I'll know whether I can trust him when I see
him. I've gauged the dangers I'm exposing myself to by
doing this, but I need the money. I want more and more
now.

At the appointed hour, I head for the famous square in
the city centre. I'm wearing one of my favourite dresses:
grey with puffy tops to the sleeves, it shows off my waist
and reveals a bit of leg, above my über fashionable boots.
I feel very elegant in this outfit and I know it has an effect
on men. It gives me a girl-woman appeal that turns
heads. I've put it on with clear financial aims: the better
I look, the more he'll be prepared to pay. And it's a
beautiful, sunny winter's day: I got up early and just felt
like looking pretty. For myself, not for him. As I walk, I
can already see men staring at me and silently admiring
my dress. Yup, I know I look good today.

In the distance I can see bustling stalls with people
crowding round the produce on display. I forgot! There's
a farmers' market today where inquisitive tourists come
and buy things from local smallholders. That's good and
bad: with so many people around, I can easily disappear
into the crowd, but at the same time I could come across
someone I know, and that thought soon becomes an
all-consuming fear.

I decide to wait a little way back from all the activity
so that I can quickly spot this Pierre and take him further
away. He said he would be wearing a dark suit and a red
scarf, something easy to spot but justified by the cold
weather.

I scan passers-by and am already running out of
patience after five minutes. I feel very uneasy and can't
stop patting my hands against my crossed arms. I'm
convinced people around me have noticed how strangely
I'm behaving, which makes me even more paranoid.

All of a sudden I hear someone calling my name
behind me, someone with a more than familiar voice. I
recognise it instantly and it makes my blood run cold.

'Laura! Laura!'

I admit I'm tempted not to turn round, to run away
like a coward. Instead I turn my head slowly, wanting to
appear natural.

'Mum? What are you doing here?' I'm stuttering,
trying to control the panic inside.

My mother. Here on the main square. While I'm
waiting for a customer who's going to pay me to give
him my body. I've turned to stone, like a child caught
with her fingers in the jam before tea time. I stammer at
her, knowing that if I can't speak intelligibly my mother
will be suspicious, she'll know something's not right.

'You knew all the family were coming down from
Nantes to see us today, didn't you? Do you remember?
We thought it would be nice to spend some time in V
together, to show them the city.'

Yes, utterly charming, right. Behind her I spot my
father and the aforementioned representatives of what
she calls 'the family'. I'd completely forgotten these
factors: the farmers' market, my relations here for the
weekend and my parents being perfectly capable of
coming to the effing market. What a pretty picture: my
mother, my father, my uncle and aunt and a couple of
other strangers I've only seen two or three times in
my life but who I recognise as part of my family tree.
I'm cornered. I need to come up with something right
away. I try not to look around for this unknown Pierre
but I can't help the occasional furtive glance left and
right.

My mother must know I'm not really listening to her
but she can't possibly guess why. Enthused by this
unexpected coincidence, she turns to the family members
behind her to announce the happy news. I'm worried
some big man in a red scarf is going to turn round and
start talking to me if they say my name too loudly.

'Hey, look who's here! It's Laura!'

'Oh, you don't say, it's Laura! What a lovely surprise!
You've changed so much. Quite the young lady. Were
you coming to join us?' my aunt says ecstatically.

I like my aunt a lot, even though I don't see her very
often, but I really couldn't give a stuff about her today.
Through no fault of my own, I've ended up bang in the
middle of a major family reunion in a public square
while I, the prostitute, am waiting for a customer. And,
anyway, what an idea to arrange to meet here in the
middle of the afternoon! I was so stupid, but it's too late
to moan about it now, I need to get out of this situation
as quickly as possible.

Then I suddenly spot a red scarf wafting on the wind
in the crowds. The man wearing it has his back to me
and is walking towards the middle of the square. He
must have been waiting on the sidelines too and, having
not yet seen me, must be having a good look round to
make sure he hasn't been tricked. About fifty, wearing a
suit like he said, and very elegantly turned out. I know
straight away this is my man.

My aunt, still waiting for an answer, snaps me out of
my dazed state. 'Hello-o, Laura! Wake up!'

She and my mother turn round to see what the hell I'm
staring at so intently. Luckily for me, Pierre the businessman
has disappeared into the crowd.

'Um . . . Sorry, I was miles away,' I say with a smile to
stop them looking any further. 'I've been waiting for
some friends for a quite a while and I thought I'd seen
them but it wasn't them.'

I hastily grab my mother and my aunt by the arm and
take them in the opposite direction to where the man is.
As if we were three good friends. My father and the rest
of the family start following us, chatting all the way.

'Of course, the girl's busy. Well, what do you expect
at her age? We won't keep you any longer, lovely Laura.
We'll get back to our shopping. You know this is such a
beautiful place!'

She can't stop talking – my aunt's such a chatterbox.
And my ageing businessman must have left. The thought
of losing money because I've bumped into my family is
overwhelming. Even though these two worlds that
should never meet have come so close today . . . I still
need the money to keep my head above water. I know
I'm playing with fire, but a voice inside me keeps telling
me there's nothing else I can do.

I can't help myself, my eyes are frantically scanning
backwards and forwards again. My aunt doesn't seem to
notice but my mother can see how impatient I am.

'Come on, we'll carry on now. You have a nice time
with your friends, sweetheart. Come and have supper at
home this evening if you like. We could drive over and
pick you up after our shopping, you can spend the night
at home and catch the train back in the morning. I know
it's a bit of a journey but . . . Unless you've got plans
already . . .'

'I'll see, Mum, thanks for asking. I'm not sure what
I'm doing yet. I've got work tomorrow, you know.'

I'm actually working at the moment. The goodbyes to
my family seem to go on for ever. My aunt givesme a long
hug and whispers that she hopes she'll see me this evening,
that I'm so pretty, that blah blah blah . . .My father, on the
other hand, gives me a little wave without really looking at
me. Can he somehow see the sin written on my face?

I skip off, looking nonchalant but my head's whirring.
I try to be discreet as I look around to find my man – I
know my mother's still watching me. I cross my fingers
that he hasn't done a runner because I'm so horribly late.

As I search for a scarf, I suddenly spot it at the far end
of the square. I've done such a good job of getting my
family away from him that he's now right over at the
other end so I'll have to be discreet again. I'm determined
to have this money today. Bumping into my parents was
a wake-up call but I haven't got time to think about that
or worry about it.

I eventually reach my businessman and slow down to
avoid attracting attention. He doesn't know who to
expect because I didn't describe myself and, right now,
I'm glad I didn't. He's pacing up and down in front of
me, so I fall in step behind him then slip past him. As we
draw level, I sound like a professional dealer as I mutter:
'I'm Laura, follow me, don't turn round and just keep
walking, my family are here.'

The whole sentence comes out in one quick breath. I
can feel the pressure around me. I want to get away from
this oppressive situation as soon as I can.

I can feel him walking behind me, carefully following
my every step. I keep up my furiously athletic pace for a
good five minutes without turning round once. When I'm
finally convinced that we're no longer in danger, I stop
in a deserted street to catch my breath.

I turn to face him: he's quite tall and not that bad for
his type. Standing there in his suit you can tell he's going
for a sort of James Bond look. Pretty successfully in
terms of classiness, not so much for his speedy reactions.
Now that I can see his figure close up, I'd say he was over
fifty. Still, it's definitely shown off to best advantage in
that suit. But the minute I look up at his face I'm
disappointed. His eyes are a pale blue which, in itself, is
quite captivating, but they're completely devoid of spark.
He looks as if he's been through ten years of toil and
exhaustion, and hasn't got anything left to give.

What with him dressed up as an elegant businessman
and me done up as a sexy young student, we make a
right pair: a father with the daughter he brought up well
and taught to dress nicely . . . but definitely not an
eighteen-year-old prostitute and her client.

'Hello, Laura. That was quite a pace!'

He speaks so slowly that I've already forgotten the
beginning of his sentence – even though it was so short!

'Hello, Pierre. It is Pierre, isn't it?'

'Yes, it is. What do you say to going and sitting in a
bar for a bit to recover? Then we can set off.'

There's a swanky bar on the corner of the street which
provides us with a refuge. Firstly, because neither of us
wants to carry on running through the streets, but also
because I'm keen to hide myself away as soon as
possible. I've been too visible already today. We choose
a table at the back.

Once we've ordered our drinks we sit in silence for
several minutes, which gives me a chance to have a look
at the place. The waiters are well suited to the setting:
good-looking and very cool. Mind you, they're giving us
funny looks and whispering amongst themselves. At first
it annoys me that the one who brings our drinks doesn't
acknowledge my 'thank you' or the smile I give him.
Then, in a flash, I realise why he's so cold: the boy can
tell we're not father and daughter, despite our crafty
disguises. I can picture him talking about me to the
others behind the bar while he makes coffees for more
reputable customers: 'Oh, come on, I swear that one's a
pro. And he's either her pimp or her next trick. It's so
obvious.'

Is it really all that obvious? Pierre doesn't seem to have
noticed anything and I daren't mention it to him.

'Let's finish our coffees, then shall I take you to my
place?' he asks easily.

Yes, the sooner the better. Halfway through a gulp of
coffee I nod my head in agreement. One thing I can tell
for sure after spending only a few minutes with him is
that he hasn't got the oomph to do me any harm. But I'm
still on my guard; I have to be careful because still waters
run deep, as they say.

'It'll be more private than a hotel, there's no one at
home at the moment. I'm sure you're going to like it, it's
beautiful. I'm lucky I actually own . . .'

After Julien, there's no way I'm going through all that
again. I don't want to know anything about his life and
I tell him so straight away. That's the sort of thing that
makes me hate going into cafés with customers: it
encourages a palliness I can't deal with. I wouldn't make
a good escort girl.

Five minutes later we're outside walking towards his
car. While he acts like a Formula One driver at the wheel
of his luxury car, I daydream about where he's taking
me: a lovely big house with a large garden, far on the
outskirts of the city with no near neighbours. One day,
I'll have a place like that myself.

Pierre doesn't say anything, which gives me more time
than I need to panic and start gauging the consequences
of what I'm doing. At the end of the day, I've no idea
where I'm going or what I'll find there. I've taken risks
this time. Who knows, this gentlemanly suit who speaks
more slowly than his own shadow might turn out to be
a coke addict in need of a fix and once he's had it he
might pounce on me. Mind you, judging by what he's
like now (taking a good ten minutes to check the coast
is clear before pulling out at a T-junction), I doubt it.