Scandalous

by Laura D

  He looks right into my eyes with that hangdog expression for several seconds. I've damaged his ego and, however low he may have already fallen, he's finding it hard to accept. I certainly won't contemplate going home without my money after an evening like this.

  After a few minutes he says, 'I know a car park not far from here,' letting the words out with a sigh as if hoping not to need to say them again.

  In a flash he pays the bill, gets me into his car and, without a word, drives to the aforementioned supermarket car park. It's a very dark night and it's hard to make anything out at all. It makes me feel protected; no one will see us.

  Despite all the self-assurance he mustered when we left the restaurant, I can tell Julien feels very uncomfortable again when the time comes to cut the engine. He's rubbing his hands together nervously again and trying to create a diversion by fiddling with various knobs in the car. He's worried someone will find us here and I have to admit I feel the same.

  'Are you cold?' he asks me.

  It's the middle of winter and it is true that the chill of the night is beginning to catch up with us. It's a grim situation: the two of us, in a car in this car park, checking no one will see us fucking.

  'Yes, a bit.'

  'OK, I'll put some heating on.'

  I light a cigarette without asking whether he minds. He turns up the heating and goes on rubbing his hands together as the warmth spreads through the car. Confronted with his indecisiveness, I decide to launch myself. I put my hand on his jeans, by his crotch. He hasn't got an erection. I look up at his face, trying to find an explanation . . . which I already know.

  'I'm um . . . quite stressed,' he says, still looking just as miserable.

  To stop him rambling on again I start rubbing his jeans more firmly. Without any response. I carry on with my task for a good five minutes, still convinced that if he doesn't get what he wants he'll bring the whole thing to an end and not pay me. After the psychological ordeal of this evening, I can't leave without some compensation.

  Embarrassed not to be responding at all physically, he mumbles shyly, 'Maybe if you took all your clothes off . . .'

  First initiative! I'm surprised by this unexpected comment: it's completely at odds with his tone of voice and behaviour. All the same, I take off my clothes, here in this car, lost in the middle of the car park. Right now there's only one thing I'm worried about: someone finding us. Julien obviously feels exactly the same.

  After looking at my naked body for a few minutes he allows himself to touch it. I put my hand back on his jeans, in vain. First he touches my breasts and kneads them thoroughly. He clearly doesn't dare go further down and feels safer concentrating on my torso. He doesn't seem to be reacting to my hand rubbing his trousers. After a few minutes, desperate that the situation's drawing such a blank, he says, 'Hey, would you mind . . .'

  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.

  Chapter 12

  Appearances

  24 December 2006

  MY 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.

  Chapter 13

  Oppression

  7 January 2007

  UNFORTUNATELY, 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.