by Vesna Main
–I’m not a social worker, or an entertainer, or even a life-coach for that matter.
–So, why do you want to write about what happens to a couple when the woman discovers that the man had been seeing prostitutes for a good part of their marriage?
–I feel strongly about the issue.
–That should help your writing.
–Not sure about that.
–Isn’t passion good? Strong views can be motivating.
–It could also hinder. But I was talking of something else.
–Which was?
–Particular topics invite particular treatment.
–You mean, if you were writing about waiting for some Godot, or about your mother omitting to kiss you good night and agonizing about that until you and your readers lose the will to live . . . you could experiment but not with this.
–Yes, I worry that my story doesn’t lend itself to experimental treatment.
–You may be right.
–But I don’t want to accept it. I wonder whether Anna’s search for answers is like waiting for Godot? Or perhaps Marcel’s agony brought on by the failure of his mother to kiss him good night is comparable to what she goes through. Or even what Richard suffers.
–I can’t answer that. Not my métier. What else did you say to Ursula?
–I told her about Richard and Anna.
–And?
–Ursula thinks that if anything like that had happened to us, she would disown you. She’d never want to be under the same roof with you.
–Unforgiving Ursula.
–She said what Richard does is not so much to do with betraying Anna, but betraying all women. It’s the buying aspect, the treatment of women as a commodity, that’s what she wouldn’t be able to take.
–Ursula’s being pompous.
–My good feminist daughter.
–In a family, people have to help each other. Not walk out. I’m sure Emma would take a different view.
–Possibly. Ursula wondered whether I should make his job connected to something with women.
–?
–Promoting women’s rights.
–As long as he’s not known for his research into women in the Labour Party.
–Why haven’t I thought of it?
–Don’t you dare!
–Oh, I know: an academic specialising in . . . suffragettes.
–No, too close.
–You’re paranoid.
* * *
–Richard could be sacked from work.
–Why? Seeing prostitutes isn’t a crime.
–No, but using his work computer to access porn and to contact the women is a sackable offence.
–Technically, yes. He shouldn’t be so unlucky.
–He’s done horrible things.
–Using prostitutes isn’t illegal.
–It should be.
–That’s a different matter. By the way, have you decided what he does?
–Something professional. Something clever. He’s successful. But he also has very low self-esteem.
–Why?
–Men who regularly use prostitutes often suffer from low self-esteem, even when they’re professionally very successful.
–Punters come from all walks of life, don’t they?
–Yes. But it’s men like Richard who interest me. Why is it that they resort to prostitutes? Therapists claim that most men don’t go for sex. And if it isn’t sex, then it rankles even more. Because you can’t find the answer. Some research suggests there’s something in their past, in their upbringing, in the way their mother treated them that creates a predisposition.
–Perhaps. A prostitute is easier than an affair. No baggage. Less threatening to a relationship.
–More horrible for the man’s partner. With an affair, at least you can think your husband fell in love with someone; it happened. With a prostitute, it’s the deliberate setting out to deceive.
–But it’s simple. No emotional interference in the marriage. No threat. If I had to seek something outside our relationship, I’d imagine paying would be less threatening to us. A real woman—
–A real woman? Prostitutes aren’t real women?
–You know what I mean.
–I don’t expect you to use such language. Not the man who’s made a career out of arguing for women’s political representation.
–Okay. Sorry, it was just shorthand.
–Sometimes shorthand reveals our prejudices.
–What I’m saying is that seeing a prostitute is less likely to undermine one’s relationship than having an affair, an emotional attachment that can get out of hand—
–Things can get out of hand with prostitutes.
–With Richard, having prostitutes means the affection he has for Anna doesn’t need to be shared—
–A spurious argument. As if one had a limited pot of affection.
–But If I had to seek something outside—
–What is this ‘if I had to’?
–I don’t know. This is hypothetical. But if so, would you prefer I had an affair or went to a prostitute?
–That’s not a choice. Hang on. Are you trying to tell me something?
–No!
–Do I need to point out to you that only a male can argue like you do—
–I am male—
–I mean, a sexist male, a politically unaware male—
–Look, it’s obvious. Having an affair, you may fall in love, or your fellow affairist—
–Affairist?
–The person you’re having an affair with.
–No such word.
–I just made it up. You always do.
–I’m a writer.
–All right. You have the prerogative to make up words. What I’m saying is your lover, she can fall in love with you, and you with her, and that can cause complications, make her demanding, etc. Nothing like that with a prostitute.
–Everything you’re saying only works provided the secret life remains secret. Besides, you’re not taking into consideration the political, ideological wrong.
–?
–Don’t tell me you don’t understand: buying women is morally wrong.
* * *
–Good day?
–Yes. Yours?
–Fine, thank you.
–What great things happened today?
–Figures.
–?
–Frightening figures. Depressing figures.
–?
–Did you know that one in nine British men has paid for sex?
–Really?
–Many more than I thought. Gone up recently. No shame attached to it any more. Men freely admit to it. All walks of life, all races, all ages.
–Mmm.
–As for women, there are around 100,000 who sell sex.
–Supply and demand.
–It’s not a simple question of the market, or of the statistics, such as a sex worker for every 300 men.
–No?
–It’s a question of ruined lives on both sides.
–Some pleasure as well.
–You can’t say that.
–What about the men who are disfigured, severely disabled and can’t find anyone? Isn’t it better for them to pay—
–No, it isn’t.
–What can they do?
–What about the poor women? What we want is a world where disabled people are seen as valid sexual partners.
–A tall order.
–Achievable.
–I still think prostitutes are selling a service.
–What those men are buying is not a service; it’s mastery of the woman’s body.
–Some women freely choose to do it—
; –Freely choose – no such thing. Forced by pimps or circumstances.
–Some women are forced by circumstances to become cleaners.
–That’s a job.
–Often on very low pay.
–Another issue. You can’t compare it to being forced into prostitution, an intrusion into your body, into your most intimate self.
–I was only thinking aloud.
–Aloud and without any sense.
–Some prostitutes are on record saying they regard it as a job. They have ways of switching off.
–That’s all right, then? What does it do for their sense of identity?
–They don’t worry about it. In any case, they’re not the only ones who have to resort to switching off at work. Think of those on assembly lines, or millions of people, the majority even, doing unpleasant dull jobs—
–There’s no comparison. No matter how much she chooses and consents to paid sex, a prostitute is raped each time.
–That’s going too far.
–How much do you know about how a woman feels letting a stranger do what he likes to her body? A sex worker isn’t the same as a hairdresser.
–No. Blow dries are different from blow jobs.
–Don’t be facetious.
–What’s to be done? Legalisation? Have it in the open, help the women, allow them to report violence.
–No, it hasn’t worked in Holland. The only thing is to help the women get out and criminalise the men. As in Sweden.
–Your novel might make a contribution to the debate. You have to write it. Experimental or not. You’ll find a way.
–One thing I’m sure of: there should be no price on a woman’s body.
–A powerful sentence. One of your characters should say that.
* * *
–A good day?
–Yes. You?
–Okay. Who was it?
–Richard.
–What happened?
–I know what he does.
–Yes?
–He’s an academic.
–No! Don’t tell me he’s in politics, has a PhD and does research on women in the Labour Party.
–Don’t be silly. Richard is a suffragette historian.
–That’s too close. I told you I don’t like it. Why do you have to take everything from our lives?
–Only a few details.
–What will people think?
–I couldn’t make him a . . . I don’t know . . . a . . . physicist. There would be no irony. A chap in a lab, working on gravity, or whatever they do, buying sex. Lacks that extra dimension. But a man who has made his career out of promoting women’s rights, going on about the importance of women’s right to vote and then that same chap goes out and buys women as if they were commodities. Much richer.
–People are bound to make the connection.
–?
–With me.
–You?
–Yes, me. Don’t look so surprised.
–You aren’t Richard. This is fiction. Everyone knows that.
–Most people assume a novel is based on the writer’s own experience.
–I can’t help it if uneducated readers think everything is autobiographical.
–You can. You don’t have to make him like me.
–You aren’t him.
–?
–Are you?
–?
–No point raising your eyebrows. This man has been seeing prostitutes for eight years and he—
–You could make him do some other job, such as . . .
–What?
–Oh, I don’t know. There are millions of jobs.
–Okay, give me one. Got to be professional.
–He’s a doctor.
–No good.
–A gynaecologist. Aha, that’s good. Helping women.
–No.
–A plastic surgeon. Helping women get the breasts they want.
–Dubious.
–How many breast surgeons do we know?
–It’s the image I don’t like. It stands for something uncomfortable. In any case, Richard being a breast surgeon wouldn’t work.
–Please, think of something else. Make him . . . I don’t know.
–Suffragette historian is perfect. I’ve got it all sorted out.
–What do you mean?
–The work side. The way he’s discovered. The meetings with his head of department.
–I hope he’s not called Bob.
–He is, but I can change that if you are worried your Bob might not like it—
–Might not like it! Haven’t you got any imagination? What about one of those baby name books? Look it up there.
–I will. This is work in progress.
–My colleagues read your books.
–I’m glad to hear it.
–No Bob under any circumstances.
–Okay. I’ll come up with something else. But it’s a pity. A good name for the character I have in mind. The head who’s a few years older than Richard, a good administrator but without much of an academic record. Richard’s CV, of course, is impeccable. I see this Bob as being embarrassed about the whole situation, reluctant to use the word prostitute, ashamed to say it aloud. He fumbles with papers, he speaks in a roundabout way. Richard finds him irritating, particularly his habit of not coming straight to the point on any issue.
–Don’t you understand how embarrassing this could be for me?
–This is a novel. Anyway, this head keeps saying those . . . those . . . and then he pauses, he doesn’t dare use the word prostitutes; eventually he says, those, those girls. Richard doesn’t understand what he means and then Bob comes up with those working girls. Richard is inflamed. Girls. At least call them women, he says. And you are preaching to me, he says, you with your sexist talk. Bob’s an old fool.
–Like mine. Please, no Bob.
–Okay. As an old fool, he doesn’t understand what all the fuss is all about. He feels that men have always been paying for sex. He has to quote another colleague, Myra, a woman who, as he says, has been going on about the politics of Richard’s actions. When he uses the word politics, Richard jumps up. Politics has nothing to do with this, he says. It’s between Anna and me. Does she know, Bob asks—
–Not Bob.
–Don’t worry. This is just a working name.
–As long as it doesn’t stick.
–It won’t.
–But it’s a good question.
–Which question?
–Does Anna know?
–Not as yet. He’s still thinking it can be hushed up and he would get away without having to speak to Anna.
–A bit of a long shot.
–I suppose so but Richard’s a desperate man at this point. He can’t think clearly. He can only hope. So Richard tells Bob—
–There’s no Bob.
–Right: Richard tells the man formerly known as Bob—
–Please, take it seriously. I’ve given in on so many other details, but not on this.
–Fine, so Richard says that’s none of his business, I mean none of the business of . . . his head of department, or anyone else, whether Anna knows or not. Then he adds: if you want to know, I paid those women what they asked for. They were lucky to have me rather than the Yorkshire Ripper.
–Why would he say that?
–In anger.
–Too cocky in the circumstances.
–In bad taste too. He shouldn’t have said it; no doubt about that. He immediately regrets it.
–Does his boss comment?
–He says: ‘Not for me to say.’ Idiot.
–How’s Richard discovered?
–A group of sociology students, post-graduates, go around and take photos of
men entering massage parlours and houses where sex workers operate. Their campaign is to shame the men, abolish prostitution.
–Revolutionary bra burners.
–They want to make prostitution illegal. They catch him entering a house of a woman in Chiswick. They take a snap of him coming out just over an hour later.
–Did you make that up or are there such groups?
–I haven’t come across one but if they don’t exist, they should. Perhaps a woman’s group might get the idea from the novel.
–Direct intervention. The novel changing reality.
–Why not?
–It’s only that you always say you don’t like that kind of fiction.
–It’s not that I don’t like it. What I mean is that, to my mind, changing the world isn’t the novel’s primary function. That’s not why I write.
–Still, it could be a powerful side effect. What do they do with the pictures?
–Don’t know. Maybe they are building an archive for some action later, some campaigning. Maybe they put it up on social media. Or, they could blackmail the men and build up a fund to help sex workers who want to get out.
–Blackmail is a crime.
–Okay. Just a thought. An amusing one: men financing the destruction of prostitution.
–They recognise Richard as they are looking at the photos.
–Exactly. They go to see the VC and threaten demos unless he’s sacked. Fearing bad publicity, the university has to act but at the same time they can’t sack him for seeing a prostitute. Bob—
–No Bob, please. There’s no Bob in this novel.
–Sorry, he arranges a sabbatical. Richard refuses to take it despite the fact that normally he would have welcomed a year off teaching. Eventually, they find out something else – not sure as yet what. He’s forced to resign.
–Wow. What now?
–What would you advise?
–I don’t know: he really is in the shit.
–In shit of his own making.
* * *
–Good day?
–So so.
–Oh. What about you?
–Not much to say. What has Richard done today?
–Nothing.
–Nothing?
–I worked on Tanya.
–Tanya?
–Yes, the young prostitute who comes to a consciousness-raising group Anna used to run with Sara why they were postgraduates.