by Laura D
I don't know how long I stay like this, with my head buried between my knees, but when I look up again the penises have gone. I look round frantically to make absolutely sure. This is so horrible. How long was I curled up like that feeling sorry for myself? Ten minutes? An hour? I can't even begin to make a guess.
Right now I really have to get out of this hellhole, but I'm worried the perverts are waiting outside for me and will throw themselves on me. Still, I can't stay in here for ever. After a moment's hesitation I carefully turn the lock.
To my huge relief, there's no one waiting outside except Joe. He's smiling and looks delighted – he was probably one of the peeping Toms peering at me in the cubicle.
'So, what did you think of it?'
I don't say anything: he knows exactly what I thought of it. I'm freezing and shivering with fear. The most absurd thing about the whole situation is unquestionably the fact that I'm completely dependent on him. There's absolutely no doubt that it was him who asked them to stop. I can see a glint of total power in his eye and there's something about his expression which hints at what's coming next. If I don't do something straight away I'm probably going to end up being taken by all of them. So, with all the energy of despair, I grab my things and try to make a run for it. Joe and the other men look so disappointed. He tries to talk to me but I'm not listening to a word. Half naked and with my things clamped under my arm, I can't get out of the sex shop fast enough.
Joe's behind me already. 'Calm down, Laura, I'll still give you 500 euros.'
I keep losing my balance as I walk, I think I'm going to faint. I feel drugged or drunk. I can't keep myself upright, my legs have given up. I don't have enough survival instinct left to grab the envelope.
We go back to the hotel in silence. I can still smell those men on my body. We don't exchange a single word. I know that if I talk I'll slap Joe or spit in his face. I hate myself for not realising he's just a filthy old man. I want to stop this once and for all. All I can think about now is taking my money and getting away, a long way away. I feel so dirty, I want to cry but I can't even manage that now.
When we get back to the room I tell him, 'I'm not staying. Give me my money now.'
'Go and have your shower. I'll leave the envelope on the bed. We could see each other again on Thursday, what do you think?'
After what he's put me through can he honestly believe I'll agree to see him on Thursday? Even if 500 euros isn't enough to leave for Paris, I never want to see him again. There's no way I'm planning another rendezvous with a perv like him. I'd better not tell him that though. We're alone in the room and, now that I know there are no limits to what he'll do, I don't want to provoke him. He's quite capable of hitting me.
'Yes, we can meet up on Thursday.'
I need to have a shower, I can't stand this smell any longer. Alone in the bathroom I don't give in to the urge to sit on the floor – I know I'd never get back up. I hear the door slam. Joe's left. After scrubbing my skin and hair manically under the burning hot water for quarter of an hour I get dressed again and come out of the bathroom.
There's an envelope waiting for me on the bed, as agreed. I open it, drawn by the money I'm so hoping will compensate for my misery, even just for a moment.
It's got 100 euros in it. I check: just 100 euros. There are 400 euros missing. He tricked me. Tears well up in my eyes, and my first sob turns into a loud wail. I pick up my phone like a banshee and, my eyes clouded with tears, punch out his number so quickly that I have to start again three times, which makes me even angrier. My hands are shaking, I'm screaming like a wild animal and thumping my little fist on the wall. His mobile's not switched on. He must be far away by now.
I turn the envelope upside down and shake it, still hoping to find what I'm owed. Nothing. I even move the desk and shake out the sheets violently. I look around, dazed, trying to convince myself he must have left the rest of my money somewhere in this dump of a room. Absolutely nothing. Instead, there's a letter which he must have put under the envelope before he left.
It's been scribbled down hastily, almost certainly while I was showering.
Laura, as you will have seen, there are only 100 euros in the envelope instead of the 500 I mentioned. I just wanted to be sure I would see you again before you leave for Paris. Trust me, you'll get your money. Enjoy the rest of your day, Laura.
I throw the letter on the floor in a furious temper. I've lost Paris, lost my new life; I'm going to have to stay here. I'll never find a way out, I'm stuck in a rut of prostitution for ever.
The roles are reversed now. Now I'm the one who's been taken for a ride.
Chapter 21
Runaway
12 April 2007
IT'S THURSDAY, I'M BACK outside the hotel, scarcely believing it myself. Needless to say, Joe hasn't shown up. I'm still just as angry, and after half an hour I'm quivering with rage and insulting him under my breath. Passers-by turn to look but I don't notice them; I can only think about one thing at the moment: getting my money.
When I get home I leave an explosive message on his phone which still isn't responding, screaming at him that he'd better call me back to give me my dosh. Not a dickie bird for three days. Three days that I spend moping about my fate, and crying the minute I think of Paris. The Eiffel Tower and all my wonderful plans are collapsing around me.
Finally, my phone rings.
'Laura?'
I recognise his voice straight away. My heart misses a beat.
'Fuck it, Joe, you really pissed me around. I want you to bring me my money right now!' I'm screaming into the phone. Luckily there's no one else in the apartment.
'I know, Laura, I know. Just wait, let me explain –'
'Explain what? You're just a fuckwit. You'd better give me my money straight away.'
'Laura, I'm not at home at the moment. I've had a heart attack, I'm convalescing in the South of France, near Perpignan.'
I interrupt my flow of insults for a minute.
'I wanted to write you a cheque but my wife's frozen my account. I think she suspects something.'
The old Laura would have believed him without a moment's hesitation. The new Laura who was born the day she was caught out, won't fall for this web of lies.
'I don't believe you, Joe, that's not good enough. Give me my money.'
'Laura, I'm telling you the truth, I'm really ill, I've got cancer. I haven't got long to live.'
Those words chill me to the bone. I have to admit I feel a tinge of sadness at the news, despite everything he's done to me. The feeling doesn't last long, though, I hate him again already.
'Listen, Laura,' he goes on, 'I'm leaving here tomorrow. We must see each other again, so I can give you your money. I will give it to you, I promise. And I really want to see you again, too.'
I hang up. I don't believe anything he says now. I'll never believe him again.
Chapter 22
Intrusion
17 April 2007
TWO DAYS AFTER the whole Joe episode, I come home with my arms full of shopping. Just the once won't hurt and I've had enough of scrimping. There's another reason, though: I'm putting up a friend in my apartment and we've decided to treat ourselves to a real feast – tandoori chicken and wild rice. I'd much rather he didn't notice I haven't got any food in the cupboards. We're going to have such a good meal and I'm already drooling at the thought of it. I'm in a really good mood, singing to myself as I struggle with the heavy plastic bags.
When I get in I offload the food in the kitchen and go to find my temporary flatmate.
As we start preparing the meal, he says, 'Oh, by the way, someone tried to get hold of you on the landline a bit earlier. I told him to call back later.'
'Did he give his name?'
'No. Well, he said he was an old friend. Apparently he hasn't heard from you for a long time, so he wanted to know how you were.'
'Well, if it's important he'll call back.'
An hour later, right in the middle of our
meal, the phone rings again. I get up to answer it. I recognise his voice straight away. Pierre. The limp businessman. The James Bond in slippers.
'Laura, it's Pierre.'
I take the phone out into the hall. 'How did you get this number?' I ask curtly.
It all suddenly comes back to me: having something to eat, me smoking a cigarette, my bag left open and easy to get into. No need to look for further explanations or try to find out why he's waited so long to get in touch: the net result is he's got my landline number which implies he also has my address. Panic rises up inside me, making my voice sound nervous and laden with threat: 'Don't you ever call me on this number again, do you understand?'
'Yes, but it's your fault. You said you'd get back in touch but you didn't. I want to see you again, Laura.'
The man's mad and I can now see he's been obsessed with me all these months. I completely lose the plot: he could be downstairs right now as we're talking, he might be calling from my street, from inside my building . . .
'Listen, it's very simple: if you don't leave me alone, I'll ring your work and take great pleasure in telling them how partial you are to nineteen-year-old prostitutes. You dare call me again and I'll mess up your life.'
The threat does the trick. There's complete silence on the line, and I hang up before he has a chance to say anything else.
Over the next few days I'm constantly terrified I'll find him downstairs when I go out. I keep turning to look at people in the street, convinced I've seen him in the crowd. I know he hasn't given up because every time I check my answering machine the robotic voice announces how many calls he's made, for example: 'This number has tried to contact you twenty-six times today without leaving a message.' Twenty-six times! What a loser!
One day, when my answering machine has told me for the umpteenth time that Nutcase Pierre has been at it again, I decide to call back the last incoming number. I get some girl who tells me Pierre Thingamebob isn't there and I should ring again in the morning. That means he's making all these calls from work, and now that I know his surname I'm pretty determined to make things difficult for him. Stupid of him. He probably thinks I wouldn't dare pick a fight.
So the next day I calmly dial the number. I have a plan. I get straight through to him. I can feel his face falling apart at the sound of my voice.
'Now you listen to me, Pierre. I just wanted to warn you that if you ever, ever try to contact me again, I'll get in touch with the police straight away.'
'Why would you do that?'
'Because when you got hold of my full name you should have checked I wasn't a minor.'
That's knocked the breath out of him. I can hear him saying a stifled 'Shit.' He starts stammering and wheedling, 'Oh, I'm so sorry, Laura, but I just wanted to see you again.'
I've had enough. I've been tricked out of a huge amount of money by Joe and my moving to Paris has suffered for it: I really don't need some stupid jerk of an apathetic businessman pissing me off into the bargain. I start screaming down the phone, pouring out all the hate inside me: 'I'm going to lodge a complaint against you for harassment! I've got your address and your phone number. I know everything about you and I'm going to use it if you try to get to me again!'
'But you're a whore, Laura.'
Fuckwit. He's asked for it, the threats obviously aren't enough. I decide to put my plan into action.
'You don't know prostitutes are protected by the police, then?' I say sardonically.
This isn't actually true of student prostitutes but that doesn't matter, Pierre is far too frightened to check.
'So never again, do you understand, you never call me or email me again, you get out of my life just like you came into it: quickly.'
I hang up on him. I really don't need to wait for his guarantees before ending the conversation. I know I've got rid of him. That's it now: with or without money, I promise myself I'm leaving this place as soon as possible.
Chapter 23
Exile
19 April 2007
I CAN'T SIT STILL in front of my Spanish set text. It's five o'clock and this is the last lecture I'll attend at V University. Yesterday evening I bought my train ticket to Paris. I'm leaving tomorrow on the 12.47 train and I'll be in the capital two hours later.
Sitting here looking at my work I've got an unbearable urge to cry. I can't believe it will all be over this evening. In two hours' time I won't be a proper student any more, I'll be running away. It doesn't matter how many times I remind myself that, in my current circumstances, I don't have any choice and I really have to leave, I still feel I'm giving up and I see it as a failure. Once again, I haven't seen a year's education through to the end; it feels like my fate's catching up with me, like I'm not designed to sit at a desk listening to someone teaching. Not that my present situation is anything like my last year at school, but I can't help it, I feel it's weak of me to leave.
The ticket was expensive because I don't have a student card, but if that's the price I have to pay to be safe then I'm happy to break open the piggy bank. The hardest thing of all is abandoning uni. I can't get used to the idea. I like the day-to-day student life; I like going to uni every day to learn. In spite of everything I've had to do to be here, I've always felt right when I'm on campus. Still, I'm not giving up my course. I'm determined to finish this year whatever it takes, whether or not I'm actually in attendance for lectures. I've never contemplated giving it all up; I've gone to too many lengths this year to fuck it up at the last minute. All those customers, all that struggling and hard work was basically just so that I could go on studying and not abandon ship.
I've had to find someone sensible and trustworthy to send me their notes by post. One of my girlfriends from uni came to mind straight away. I don't know her very well, we're just on the same course. We automatically seem to sit next to each other for virtually every lesson and we get on quite well although we've never met up off campus. I had to invent some half-cooked excuse to explain why I was leaving, stuff about my family. That seemed the most plausible to me. I didn't like lying to her but I didn't have any choice about that either. For a cash advance towards photocopying and postal expenses, she's agreed to send me her notes.
Our homework doesn't count towards the final result and, with my medical certificate, the tutors can't really complain that I'm missing tutorials. Even though I know I'm not actually giving up, I'm still sad. The whole life I dreamed of back in September has fallen apart. I want to cry because I feel like the victim of some miscarriage of justice . . . and because all my hopes have crumbled. I'm planning to carry on with my course by correspondence, but will I manage it? Am I strong enough and disciplined enough?
I handed in my notice at work yesterday. That made me feel heavy-hearted too, not because I was walking out on a job I liked – that definitely wasn't the issue! – but because, in spite of everything, it had offered me a way out. It meant I could get out of the apartment, bury myself in work and stop thinking about my life. Mostly, I got on well with my colleagues, they often helped me when I didn't know how to do something. My boss didn't really ask why I was leaving. He must see students come and go by the dozen every year – nothing odd about that then.
I don't know what lies in store in Paris. Maybe nothing will be any better, maybe I won't last a fortnight there on my own. I know the problems will start straight away. I'll be running all over the place looking for work, and I'm also going to have to get used to living with someone else again – someone I don't know well, too. Worst of all, there won't be anyone to help me and give me support, or pick me up when I'm down. I'm ready to take all that on because it'll be with a view to having a healthier future, working towards something better. All prostitution ever offered me was the worst.
I've been in touch with my mother's friend who I'm staying with but she can't come to the station to pick me up. She lives in the suburbs and she's told me which Métro line to take to get to her. This is only temporary, of course, she's just helping me out. I
need to find a roof over my head quickly: anything will do, a flat-share, a scruffy little room under the eaves somewhere. Even when I'm completely demoralised I can't believe anything can be as hard as what I've been through here in V.
I'm still looking at my text, not listening to the lecture. I should be making the most of my last moments in this magnificent amphitheatre, but I've got so many dark thoughts jostling inside my head. I'm thinking about this evening and my packing, which I'll have to do all on my own. About the work and books I'll have to take with me so that I can carry on studying. They mean so much to me that I wouldn't leave them behind for anything in the world, even if my case weighed a ton. And, anyway, clothes aren't as important, I've managed well enough without new things this year. Since September I've had to learn to prioritise more than ever.
I'm keeping my apartment till the end of the month, because I've paid the rent. It'll be empty but never mind. My father's going to come and pick up the furniture with a friend later. When I let my landlady know I was leaving she obviously wasn't overjoyed but I promised I'd try to find another tenant for her straight away. She's never much liked me and I can't say I blame her. I've often been late with the rent despite all my efforts. I've put ads at uni to say there's a studio available for rent. It shouldn't be hard finding someone in V, even at this stage in the year. Actually, I couldn't give a stuff. I've got plenty of other things to worry about at the moment.
I've only got ten minutes of the lecture left. People are getting restless, wanting to go home. I'd like to cling to my seat and not have to leave. There's no way they'd understand. They couldn't imagine for one second what I've had to do this year to cope with my constant financial problems. The general hubbub is masking the lecturer's voice and, resigned to the fact, he decides to bring the lecture to an end. Once it gets to this time of day, he must know that students' brains become hermetically sealed to all new information and they need to get some fresh air.