by Laura D
Mathias hasn't actually noticed me yet and starts chatting to Paul while Goldilocks babbles away to his mother behind me. The man has only seen me once so it's perfectly legitimate for him not to recognise the back of my neck. After all, I'm just a pleasant mistake he soon forgot, but I remember them all. I know their faces by heart because I've had plenty of time to look at them. I recognise their voices and often turn round in the street when I think I hear one of them.
He's literally right next to me at the bar now, rubbing shoulders with me. I've got to get out of here, leave this bar as quickly as I can. I get off my stool with my head down and, as I put my feet to the ground, I nearly trip over my bag, which makes him look round.
Our eyes meet. He half opens his mouth. He knows he's seen me somewhere and, after racking his brain for a minute, remembers where. I can read the horror and panic in his eyes. We freeze for a split second but it feels like an eternity.
'Are you leaving already, Laura?' Paul asks when he sees me picking up my bag and heading for the door. 'You haven't even finished your coffee.'
'I've just remembered I'm meant to be somewhere, I've got to go,' I stammer, getting tangled in the strap of my bag.
'Hang on a minute. Here, this is Mathias, one of my best friends.'
No, I already know your friend . . . rather well, in fact. Paul can't possibly understand the turmoil I'm in at the moment. If he touched my clammy hands he'd know something strange was going on. Mathias, meanwhile, is frantically glancing at his beloved who's crouching behind him and – thank God – is far too preoccupied playing with her offspring.
'Hello, pleased to meet you, I'm Laura,' I say, holding out my hand for him to shake.
'Err, hi, err . . . Mathias, pleased to meet you.'
Oh Christ! Our fingers are stiff and wooden as they come together in a fleeting pretence of a handshake. Our eyes dart about anxiously looking for some sort of distraction. Paul notices our embarrassment.
'Are you OK, Laura? Don't you want to stay a bit longer?'
'No, I've got to go, sorry.'
And I really, really am sorry. Without another word I head for the door, mumbling an inaudible 'Goodbye.' I can see Paul watching me, baffled, then shrugging his shoulders and getting on with drying glasses.
For a couple of minutes I run without stopping to get the bar and the incident out of my mind. I come to a halt on a street corner and take a huge deep breath. This is too much: my two lives have now converged, my two personalities have met. Until now I've managed to keep things apart, but please don't push me too far. I've come face to face with Mathias's family: everything I refuse to picture when I'm with a customer has just materialised today through no fault of my own.
This can't go on any longer. Whatever happens I've got to get away from this city.
Chapter 20
Dispossessed
30 March 2007
I PROMISED MYSELF I'd never see Joe again, but he managed to appeal to me. I told him I was leaving for Paris, stupidly believing that he'd leave me alone then. Was I thinking straight?
'If you're off to Paris, you'll need money. You can't leave with empty pockets. Go on, just once more, it's such a little thing and it does us both a favour.'
He gave me his mobile number recently and he's got mine. I gave it to him under duress and I now realise it was a mistake. It would be lying to say he calls me regularly – he's literally hounding me! He really does like me, I seem to match his fantasy of a sexy flirtatious student.
He's now made a crazy suggestion: nothing less than a thousand euros for five hours. I can't deny it's very tempting, but five hours is a long time. What's he cooking up? I can't help thinking exactly how much money it is. I've never achieved that sort of rate, and a sum like that would certainly make going to Paris easier. I could take my time to find a respectable job I like, instead of grabbing the first offer in some tacky bar. I can't contemplate landing up in the same shit I'm in here. I'm well and truly running away from V. I don't want to have to hide and scheme and lie any more. In Paris I'll be a good girl.
We've arranged to meet at the same hotel as usual. To be honest, I find the place reassuring. In spite of everything and even though I admit it's stupid, I feel a sort of trust in Joe. Yes, he made me scream with pain and humiliation last time we met, but at least I know him and I don't think I'm risking my life by seeing him. I know that whatever he might do to me and however much it makes me cry when I'm alone in my bed afterwards, he won't strangle me or stab me. Basically, he's got me under his control. He pays well.
At first we kept in touch off and on by email. He was quite insistent about arranging to meet again and, reading between the lines, I could feel his raging desire. He constantly suggested times when we could meet and I kept saying I couldn't make it. To pretend I was making an effort, I suggested a meeting too but at a time I knew he wouldn't be free. I often wonder why I played that game, why I didn't just delete him from my mailbox. I can't help myself; I see him as a safety net, someone who can give me a bit of breathing space financially if I run out of money.
And right now that's exactly what's happened. I need money now that I've decided to exile myself, to run away, because I feel my life is toppling dangerously towards something I soon won't be able to control. Obviously, the main problem is still cash. I haven't got any, not even enough for my train ticket.
Mind you, I've got everything organised. A friend of my mother's is going to put me up until I find a job and an apartment. I've managed to get hold of a fake medical certificate giving me permission to skip tutorials at uni. One of my friends is going to copy all her notes for me, and I'll come and take the exams at the end of May. As for my job . . . Well, never mind, I wasn't planning to spend the rest of my life with a telesales company anyway. Friends and family know I'm leaving soon. My father just sighed, finding it easier to ignore me than bollock me. He feels as if he's reliving my last year of school when I walked out on lessons. But there's no way I'm giving up on my course, I'm carrying on by correspondence. Uni represents my only way out of all this, and I'm clinging so desperately to that idea that I'm more motivated than ever to do well.
Basically, this 'exile' is my last chance to break away from prostitution, from getting swamped by it. As soon as I've got the money for that sodding one-way ticket, I'll be off.
But I haven't got the money. Ironically, I need to see Joe again in order to escape my life as a prostitute. So I've given in to his suggestions and in one of my emails I asked him for his mobile number. After thinking it over for a few days I've called him.
'Joe, it's Laura.'
'Hello, Laura, how are you?'
I don't want any small talk so I cut the conversation short and get straight to why I'm calling.
'Five hours, Joe, and not a minute more. Five hours for a thousand euros.'
He must be surprised that I've got down to business right away, but is quick to reply, 'Err, that's perfect, Laura. Five hours is perfect, and a thousand euros is OK by me. Shall we meet at the hotel as usual? Shall we say one o'clock on Wednesday?'
'Yes, Wednesday's fine. I'll be there.'
'Don't forget to bring some sexy clothes.'
I hang up straight away. He always asks me to come equipped with skimpy provocative clothes because my jeans and T-shirts don't turn him on much, or not enough. What he wants is a student playing at being a grown-up in women's clothes. That's what he likes.
On Wednesday we meet outside the hotel and he asks me to go in first. I can tell he's dreamed up some scenario, and I imagine there's a letter waiting for me on the bed as usual.
Bingo, yes, there's a note on the bed:
Hello, Laura,
I'm very glad you've agreed to come. I'm sure today is going to be perfect.
As usual, I'd like you to take a shower first. Then you will go out of the room and come and knock at the door. When I answer, you can come in.
These are his normal requests: the shower, the knocking . . . nothing
new there, then. In a way I find it reassuring. I put the letter back down and go to the bathroom.
So I have my shower, letting the scalding water stream slowly over my body. I feel lethargic, I haven't got any energy. I don't think I've got the strength to answer back today.
When I've washed thoroughly I come back into the bedroom and find him lying on the bed. Without a word, I carry on following his instructions and leave the room. I knock and – again not giving him time to answer because I'm terrified at the thought of meeting someone in the corridor – I go back in.
He doesn't move and doesn't speak, just indicates I should pick up the letter where I left off.
Today we're going to stay in the room for about half an hour to talk, then we're going to a place I want to show you, very close to the hotel.
A place? What place? Even though this hotel reminds me of disgusting things, at least I know it. I don't know what other sort of places Joe might go to, they could be dangerous. Anyway, I really don't want to end up outside with him, where everyone can see us. I don't want to be exposed. My head is weighing things up: on the one hand it's screaming at me to leave, but on the other the 1,000 euros sit there glittering. This isn't looking good at all.
It's a sex shop I know well. We're going to have fun there and enjoy ourselves.
I look up at him, my eyes full of questions and unspoken fears.
'Here, come and sit next to me on the bed,' he says.
So this is what he calls 'talking'. He's going to trot out all his arguments to persuade me to go to that dismal place with him – I can picture it already.
'Listen, there's nothing wrong with the place, it really turns me on. It's just along the road from the hotel and no one's going to see us on the way there. It's very close by.'
'Joe, I really don't feel like doing this. There'll be people there and I don't want to be seen. I don't feel safe. I really, really don't like the idea. I'd rather stay here.'
'Come on, Laura, don't get upset. It's nice there, there's nothing to worry about, I promise you. No one will see you. There's a room at the back of the shop they keep for regulars. It's very dark in there, no one will see us, you can trust me on that. There are videos we can watch together. It's very exciting. I've been there lots of times with women and everything's always gone well.'
He knows he has to handle me carefully, that I'm bound to refuse. Obviously, I'm not familiar with places like that and the only impression I have of them is grim. I'm not sure what to expect and that's exactly the problem.
'Listen,' he says after several minutes' silence, 'let's go there and then we'll see. If you really don't feel comfortable we'll come back to the hotel. You know, I completely understand. I'm very shy and discreet too.'
I sigh but a voice inside me whispers, A thousand euros, Laura, then you can scram. You can leave all this shit behind. Without this money you'll never afford it.
'OK. But as soon as I want to, we come back,' I eventually agree.
So we head off for the sex shop which really is very near the hotel, on the corner of the street.
As we walk in the doorbell rings and I find myself face to face with the cashier. He's about twenty-five or thirty and so good-looking that I'm rooted to the spot for a minute. Wow! Out on the street, in different circumstances, I might have asked him for his phone number. But here, in this place, with Joe who could easily be my father, I blush furiously.
He's noticed me too. I can tell from his expression, just for a split second, that he likes me, but it soon changes to a look of disgust. He's judging me and must be thinking I'm just some little tart who comes to sex shops to get fucked. He's probably annoyed with himself for liking the look of me for a moment. And, even though I'm a strong character and nothing ever gets the better of me, I admit I feel I've fallen about as low as you can go. This bloke's showing me everything I refuse to see for myself: the image of Laura in her other life, Laura the prostitute who lets dirty old men support her financially. Yup, as far as he's concerned, I'm just a whore. But, hey, he works on the till in a sex shop!
Joe pays our entry, a tiny fee of a few euros, and heads quickly towards the room at the back hidden behind black curtains. Curtains again. They're always there, every time I'm with a customer, confirming that what I'm doing is wrong and dirty. I slip into the room, avoiding eye contact with the employee, who's stopped looking at me anyway.
It's very dark inside and it takes me a few seconds to adjust. The only thing I'm aware of straight away is a strong animal smell, a smell of human flesh. A shudder runs through me. When I eventually make out what's around me I see a big projector on the far side playing a porn film of a crude blonde shrieking with pleasure. About twenty chairs are arranged in rows in front of the screen. At a glance, I'd say there are around ten people in the room, all men, slumped on the chairs or standing masturbating. I have to suppress a groan of disgust. The room's quite big as far as I can make out and it's decorated entirely in black. The overall effect is a bit like a nightclub, and you can tell someone's made an effort to make it look cool, but the effect fails: as soon as you step into the place you know it's intended for dubious activities.
'Here, have a chair,' Joe says. 'We can watch the film together for a bit.'
I'm lost, I can't think what to do now. Sitting down next to these men would give them a chance to see who I am. What if I know one of them? I haven't got a single viable excuse. Being in a sex shop to choose a DVD just about works, it would give you a reputation as a slightly pervy flirt, but there's no alibi for being seen in this room.
Glum as a six-year-old, I listen to instructions from this man who always assumes a paternal role. I scan for empty spaces that aren't too close to the other men, and sit down in the second row. Joe stays a little way behind, still standing so he can see everything. He watches the other customers and keeps glancing up at the film. I can feel people starting to look at me. I'm the only woman here. They must all be thinking how lucky they are today; they might be able to act out their fantasies with a woman, a real one.
I force myself to watch the film and stop thinking about things, but I just can't. What with the blonde screaming up on the screen and moans of pleasure from these men, I can't shut out the sounds. I don't want to close my eyes. I want to stay in control of myself as much as I possibly can in the circumstances.
Joe comes over to me and, pointing to a man of about fifty, whispers in my ear, 'You can let him get closer. I've mentioned you to him. He won't hurt you, I know him. Him too, he's OK.'
This time he means another man of the same sort of age, sitting in the front row. He points at them quite openly; they're far too busy with their film anyway. So he knows them all and – worse than that – he's told them about me. I can feel a horrible trap closing around me. I was relying on Joe to protect me but he's responsible for my being here. I whisper a quick 'OK' and carry on looking round, as if trying to work out where danger's most likely to strike first.
'That's enough, we've seen enough pictures for today,' Joe says, as if dragging me away from something I love. Actually, given the circumstances, I'd definitely prefer to stay watching this sex film for five hours. I know that when I get up and follow him the serious business will begin. I'm shaking at the thought.
'Did you bring your clothes?' he asks.
'Yes,' I say pointing to the plastic bag I propped up against a wall when we came in.
'Well, go and get changed now. You can use one of those cubicles.'
He gestures towards a cubicle I hadn't noticed behind me. There are three exactly the same along the wall opposite the mini-cinema.
I pick up my things and go in. There's just room for one person, and an ordinary chair is the only furnishing. The white light blinds me slightly when I go in from the almost complete darkness of the main room. I take a skimpy low-cut black nightdress from my bag and change quickly, worried someone might come in and try to touch me. When I look up I realise the cubicle is dotted with little holes at differe
nt heights, but I don't grasp what they're for straight away.
I come back out with my arms crossed over my breasts to try to hide some of my flesh. Joe is waiting for me outside and seems rather impressed by what I'm wearing. I don't usually make much of an effort to bring sexy clothes with me.
'That's great, a very pretty nightie! Right, listen carefully now, you're going to go back into the cubicle and wait for a bit. When you see them you can do whatever you feel like.'
What does he mean 'them'? I don't understand what he's talking about. There's no time to try to work it out: Joe pushes me gently back into the cubicle and closes the door behind me. I sit down on the chair nervously. The next minute a man's penis pokes through one of the holes. So that's what they're for. They'll all be here soon, expecting me to touch them, and more. Where the hell have I landed? I feel so naive for thinking it would all be over quickly.
I can hear moans of pleasure outside. I recoil in disgust and quickly turn the catch on the cubicle door to lock myself in. As I step back, I feel something against my shoulder. Another penis. Then a third, then more. Even if I wanted to I couldn't touch them all, there are so many of them.
The whole absurd set-up suddenly turns my stomach. I put my head in my hands and curl up so I don't have to see them or feel them any more. I'm nothing now, just an object, a wanking machine. This is a nightmare, it can't really be happening. If this is the price I have to pay to get to Paris, then I don't want to go any more. I want to go home straight away.
I look up at the top of the cubicle and see a man's eyes watching me. Only now do I get the full perversity of this contraption. I look away to avoid meeting that probing eye, but come face to face with another. They're all watching me, all wanting me, impatient with longing, for the touch of my hand or my mouth.
I lower my face and wait, with my hands over my ears, shutting out the world. I'm screaming inside. I sing a song to myself in my head to blot out their moaning. I'm heading for a complete breakdown but I'm not even crying. I've got to a level of internal pain so deep that it's way beyond tears.