by Laura D
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.
When he stops after only a fifteen-minute journey, we're opposite some huge luxurious apartment blocks in a smart part of town. They're very modern, just on the edge of the town centre. The view from the top must be magnificent. Pierre gets out of the car, his slow footsteps making him seem older in spite of his dynamic business suit. The walk to his apartment is as long as it's agonising.
We get to his floor at last. The lavish corridors are clean cut, empty, spotless. Everything rich people like. We could easily be in a massive private home. Now we're outside his door and I realise we've got the whole ordeal of the key to get through. I feel like snatching it out of his hand and turning it in the lock myself. I'm fed up with him alre
ady and I can tell that time's going to pass very slowly while I'm with him.
Luckily, I'm momentarily distracted from this dismal thought when we finally get into the hall. Pierre the snail crawls in the vertical position towards the kitchen, leaving me to admire his apartment for a moment. The first room I can see is the living room: it's fantastically big and all in white, like a perfect cliché from a rapper's video. The sunshine really shows off his top-of-the-range furniture – the whole effect is minimalist and the few ornaments dotted about on shelves are African statuettes in ebony. Pretty good taste, I would say, and on a huge scale.
I'm torn between an inevitable feeling of modesty in the face of so much opulence and a strange kind of pride tinged with a hint of relief: he didn't lie, he makes a lot of money. All that matters right now is that I haven't ended up in an ambush surrounded by a gang of his debauched, lusting friends.
I don't have time to congratulate myself for my good luck – well, relatively speaking – before the sluglike Pierre appears with some things on a tray. He puts it down on the coffee table in the living room, then turns to me and says, 'There, I thought you might like a little something before . . .'
His unfinished sentence is left dangling. We both know how it ends. I have a look at the food on offer. He's brought me a glass of milk and a slice of gingerbread. Shit! He really thinks I'm a little girl. He's playing out the fantasy of the child-woman to the bitter end. I haven't really thought about the image I give off to customers. Or is it just him? Because of my girlish dress? So Pierre thinks of me as child, one he'd be more than happy to fondle. Something's wrong with this picture. I accept the snack without a word, quickly picking up the cake to soothe my hunger and drinking the glass of milk.
Pierre is standing with one hand on his hip in a position that looks completely unnatural. He watches me nibbling at the cake and smiles, proud of his child feeding herself to keep her strength up. I quickly drop the piece of cake when I see his expression.
I'm about to light a cigarette when he says, 'Ah, but you can't smoke in my apartment.'
My only reaction is to look him dead in the eye as I exhale the smoke. This upsets him and he doesn't know how to respond so he turns his attention to something else.
'Some music?' he says suddenly.
Armed with the remote control, he tries to start the music centre, which doesn't seem to want to obey him. For a minute he carries on irritably trying to get it to work before going and seeing what the problem is for himself. The height of absurdity: a rich businessman who buys things for the simple reason that they're expensive, but doesn't know how to use them. His attempts to create a sensuous atmosphere are pathetic. Everything he's been planning so minutely is falling flat. I've even stopped smiling, the man's so boring.
After several minutes of fussing, the music finally puts in an appearance. I recognise it straight away – Luz Casal. A singer with a celestial voice that's lulled me through my childhood and teens. She's my father's favourite singer. She's literally part of the family: we know all her albums, not just the ones that have made her famous recently. I've never wondered whether or not I like her music: her CDs are constantly playing at home. I was introduced to her at a time when you don't question your parents' taste: you like what they like because you love them. That's why Luz Casal naturally comes to mind when I think of home and my family.
Pierre couldn't have made a worse choice. I've had a very unusual relationship with this woman, an untouchable relationship that he mustn't be allowed to taint. Sitting cross-legged by the coffee table with my mouth full of gingerbread, I think it's outrageous that he can disturb the harmonious connection between Luz Casal and my family. Once again – and once too many times, I would say – my private life has become dangerously mixed up with my life as a prostitute. I know deep down that Pierre hasn't done it on purpose and, because he doesn't know me at all, he couldn't have guessed. But I still can't help hating him, right now, just for making me think.
My eyes must really be like daggers because he's been staring at me for a while trying to interpret my thoughts.
'I hate this woman,' I say sharply. 'Could you switch it off please?'
Surprised that I've suddenly broken my silence, Pierre obeys what sounds more like an order than a request for a favour. The room falls silent again.
Almost certainly to avoid conversation, he comes over to me – slowly, of course. As he gets closer I can tell he is getting aroused. The room stinks of sex with every step he takes. I don't move; I can't make up my mind to touch him of my own free will.
I watch him make his way over to me. When he reaches me, his crotch is literally on a level with my eyes. He stays like that for several seconds, obviously enjoying it. He unbuttons his suit trousers and slips them down his legs. The whole situation makes me feel sick. I know I've reached my limit today. I promise myself I won't give him anything. It's too late for him: right now I stupidly hold him responsible for my sad circumstances and my prostitution. So far this rendezvous hasn't gone at all as it should have. He's got everything wrong. Even the way he blinks is so lazy I find it exasperating.
Confronted with my passive response, he eventually reaches out his hand to lift me to my feet. Standing next to him, I realise how tall he is: the top of my head comes up to his mouth.
Pierre takes off my dress. I'm now standing in front of him in my underwear, my legs slithered into cheap stockings. It doesn't matter much to him, he likes what he sees; I can tell from his panting breath. He leads me to his room and pushes me gently down onto his enormous bed. While I'm lying down he takes off his shirt then leans towards me and, with one simple move, turns me over onto my stomach. I let him manhandle me like a blow-up doll.
'I'm going to give you a massage. Would you like that?'
'Mm . . . yes, yes . . .'
Pierre lies full length on top of me. I'm crushed beneath his weight. I free myself by bucking my hips upwards, startling him. Once free, I can breathe normally again. Then he lies alongside me and starts fondling me. He's left my bra on and I suspect that's because he doesn't know how to undo it. I feel like running away. I'm beginning to struggle with a new dilemma: maybe I should just leave after all, if this doesn't feel right. A glance at his clock radio tells me there's barely twenty minutes to go. The lure of the money helps me make up my mind. I'm prepared to wait, for the sake of this cash which I feel I've more than earned.
His hands are wandering over my body at the anticipated rate, no surprises there, too slowly to help pass the time. I'm completely motionless: if anyone came in now they might think I was dead.
For exactly eighteen minutes he rubs himself up against me without trying anything else. My stony silence must be too off-putting for him to venture further. He doesn't say anything, making do with this physical contact. I close my eyes; it's the best thing to do. When the red glow of his alarm clock finally announces that I'm saved, I jump out of bed without a word. Pierre gets up, docile to the last, not even sighing at my obvious haste to get away.
Still silently, I swivel my eyes at him to make him follow me to the living room. He puts his paternalistic hand into his wallet, like a daddy agreeing to give his little girl a few notes so she can go out and have fun with her friends. He takes out 150 euros, for two hours. Handsome dividends for what he took – hardly anything. All the same, I feel strongly that this money was hard earned and is well and truly owed to me.
Even though I've trusted him since I met him in the city centre, I know I'll never see Pierre again. He's too closely associated with a feeling of disgust. And, more particularly, with my parents' ill-timed appearance. Rationally, I know this could have happened to anyone but my mind is stubborn and can't help making the connection with him, holding him responsible. It's because of him that I went to the square today, because of him I had to lie to my family (although, for now, all I've done is 'fail to mention' something).
Pierre offers to drive me back but I decline: no chance of spending another minu
te with him. If it was two days' walk back to V I'd do it. I take the money, practically snatching it from his hands, and run for the door without another word. I leave Pierre on his own in his lavish castle. When I walk through the door I don't even turn round as I mutter an inaudible 'Goodbye.'
'We'll we be in touch soon then, Laura.'
'Um . . . Yes.'
I don't believe it for a minute. But I'd rather lie to avoid endless explanations and, more to the point, so he doesn't get annoyed with me. I know my lie is safe; the man's only got my email address, nothing else.
When I get outside the building, in the fresh air, I stop and look up at the sky. That's it now, I'm completely cornered. I'm going to have to lie to my parents when they ask me how I've spent my day, and turn down their invitation to supper to avoid accusing looks from my father – the one person who knows so much, who may have guessed everything.
I really feel I've prostituted myself now. On the game, that's what I am. Because I know I'll do it again; and that the Juliens, Joes and Pierres can't do anything to change that. I've become a prostitute because I've started banking on the money from my tricks to make ends meet. I'm the whore who, for a couple of hours, can forget the hands fingering her body. A part-time low life, a student tart, a computer hustler. In the outside air I get some colour back in my cheeks. Gently, with my heart pounding in my chest, I head over to the nearest bus stop.
Chapter 14
Nerves
14 January 2007
TRUDGING THROUGH THE COLD with my coat buttoned up to my chin, I have to run to make sure I'm on time for my first university exam. I'm stressed about today because it's a literature exam. Of course I've read all the books, but only at the last minute. I couldn't buy the things, given how prohibitively expensive they are, and had to wait till I could get them through the university library . . . which only happened last week, and I had to gobble down three books on the trot. I'd already learned the work on them which was stupid because, without knowing the books themselves, it obviously meant nothing. So last week was full of adrenaline. I kept dashing from work to revising to catching the Métro for uni, with the stress of exams on top.