In My Skin (33 page)

At home, life with my parents had settled. I scarcely saw them, with the hours I kept, but we had normal conversations when we passed in the kitchen. I drank coffee for breakfast, they were eating dinner. They seemed to have accepted the path I’d taken. ‘It’s not what we think you’d be best at,’ my mother said. ‘You have other talents. But if you’re happy, then that’s okay.’ I knew they told their friends what I did; they had resisted shame. That nearly made me cry, my parents’ bravery, their faith in me. Sometimes they even dropped me off at work.

‘Have a good night,’ said my father. He chuckled awkwardly. ‘Well, you know what I mean.’

Robbie had found himself lodgings, above a shop in Brunswick Street. The place was dingy but it was right above the major café strip and I sometimes stayed there. It was much nearer work than my place, and saved me a large taxi fare. We were still together; we hung out, we shopped, we spent hours musing over magazines and television and his new obsession, computers. The floor of his little room was always strewn with broken circuit-boards. We went to the chemist together every afternoon, wandered through the shops, and had a coffee in the same café; it became a second living room for us. I still gave him money. It wasn’t worth fighting about.

I had booked my ticket to Europe: straight to Rome, where I’d been before. I’d bash around Italy for a month, and then I’d set off to Paris and wherever else I liked. It was nearly ten years since I’d backpacked, and my world had been so narrow for so long. I was a little terrified of breaking out of it. I’d be so alone. Perhaps I would spend the first month crying. Hiding under a bed. How strong had I become? Strong enough to voyage even further from all who still loved me? But I was going. Leaving would solve all my troubles. It was a glowing portal on the horizon ahead of me. I scarcely believed it would ever actually be reached.

Helen looked bewildered when I said I would be leaving in September for a holiday. It did occasionally happen. Shelley had taken two months off, and returned. I said I didn’t know how long I’d be.

‘But you’ll be coming back?’ she insisted.

‘Sure,’ I said. I had nothing against working, but I was intending to go as long as my money held out.

It seemed the more respectable my life got, the more obligations I had. When I was a junkie on the streets I’d had no bills, no dentist appointments, no visits to the post office. Apart from the terrible burden of using, life had been almost simple. Now my book of lists was full of chores that all necessitated getting up after only a few hours’ sleep and trekking into the city. I had to organise travellers’ cheques; there was a phone bill to pay, a haircut to get. There was no use in explaining to receptionists that, to me, a ten o’clock appointment was like two in the morning to them. In my skewed schedule lunch-time was midnight. I simply had to stagger out of bed, dress and lurch out to take care of life before I started my twelve-hour shift. More and more I relied on speed to get me through, and the more I took, the more hectically I reeled through the day.

It was fraying my nerves and health. I began to lose weight; people commented on my gaunt face. While I was using heroin, I’d always looked fairly healthy; now I knew there were mutters behind my back.
She’s on something.

There were reserved bookings end-to-end and I started every shift late. The receptionists had to make excuses for me; I chattered on, glib in my confidence that I was a star girl and everyone would wait. It was winter, and the world was closing in with darkness. I thought,
I’ll be crawling onto that plane
.

As my methadone dose dropped, I felt the effects more and more. Only weeks before I was to leave, I reached the lowest levels of dosing; I was clammy and exhausted almost all the time. It seemed more than I could manage just to lie in bed and keep breathing; but I had things to do. And the end was in sight. For the first time in more than five years, I’d be free of chemicals. Anything I felt would be my own.

Something hard and purified came up inside me. I was driven by routine and responsibility. I
had
to get to work; I
had
to visit the doctor; I
had
to pay the bills on time. Ahead of me the thought of Europe was like north on a compass, drawing me closer. I lay on beds under grunting men and dreamed of peace.

Even after my very last dose, there was the backlash of the drug as it wrenched one last time at my shredded system. The next month, the month before I left, was the hardest. Every afternoon when I woke I felt I could have slept on for ever; lying there, willing strength into my muscles, I wondered how I could do it. Once up I was better, as long as I kept moving. But I was increasingly disorganised at work, or took nights off altogether. Helen called me into a bedroom at the start of my shift one evening.

‘What’s going on, Lucy?’ She wasn’t fierce, but she sat there with her hands folded in her lap and looked at me. ‘You’re late all the time, even worse than usual! And you look
dreadful
.’

Now was the time. I was sick of dissembling—after all these years, I was too tired to lie. My head pounded and my eyes were sticky with fever-heat. I had never known if she suspected I used drugs; she was a canny lady, but then again, she liked ‘types’, and I wasn’t the using ‘type’. ‘Helen, I’m having a hard time,’ I began. ‘I used to—I used to use heroin.’

She stared at me. She had a great poker-face, Helen.

‘I’ve been on methadone for two years now,’ I extended history to spare her the thought of me using while I worked for her. ‘I’ve just finished the program, I’ve done really well—been clean all this time. But it’s really hard, the finishing—it makes me tired and vague, it fucks up my head a bit—’

There was a pause. I stared at my knuckles.

Helen smiled, a sympathetic smile, concerned. ‘What do you need?’ she said. ‘I’ve got some valium, you can have that—I mean, if you’re a bit stressed, it’s marvellous for that. You do look awful.’

‘I was thinking—if I’m late, that’s why. If you can just be a bit patient with me…’

‘Well. It’s not fair on the other girls, to let you be late when they’re all ready at seven. But if you feel sick and you have to leave early, you just tell Bernadette or Maude, and they’ll make a note in the book.’ She stood up. ‘I’m glad you’re okay now, Lucy.’

She gave me a little hug. ‘Now, you’d better get ready. I think Gary is coming in for you in ten minutes.’

‘Okay.’ I went upstairs to put eyeshadow on my hollow eyes and powder to cover the sweat.

Business as usual, with man after man and happy conversations in the ladies’ lounge. I raved on and everyone grew used to my hyperactive rush and weirdly jolly moods. I wasn’t aware of how lax I was becoming, how carried away with the impression that I was perfectly charming until one young man said, ‘Do you think we could just concentrate a moment here?’ I hastened to put the condom on, forgotten in my hand as I made a point about the nature of capitalism.

In my high heels I could run up the stairs now. My lace panties grew frayed with the tugging on and off my hips. I knew sometimes I struck the wrong note, that I was too loud, or too brash. It felt good to be brash, to lead a room in jokes and walk into a conversation that opened up to let me in. I loved these women, so brave and so witty. In their company I felt loved.

‘I’ll be sad when you leave,’ Milla said. ‘I wish I could go overseas.’ She was fresh out of a stint in rehab, and quiet.

‘I’ll be back,’ I said, and nudged her.

Coral grinned at me. ‘You’ll go to Italy and fall in love with a gorgeous Italian hunk. That’s your type, isn’t it, Lucy?’

Bernadette put in, ‘Lucy likes the weird ones. She was all over that skinny little runt before—did you see him? Eyes like a bloody bug.’

‘I have lots of types,’ I said. ‘God knows, I’ve seen a few.’

I wondered how I would feel if I fell in love again. I wondered if I’d need to. At times it seemed that I already had enough of men. I could be besotted with them for an hour, cuddle and ravish them, and then watch them leave, before I welcomed another. I had my fill of adoration; now, when some man offered me a compliment, I turned it aside.

‘You’re too good to be here,’ said an adoring, round-bellied young Greek.

‘I don’t even know what that means,’ I said.

What more did I need? I had flesh, flattery and company. I had intimacy, if I allowed it; I had cock. Men waited hours for me. I thought it would have to be a pretty good offer for me to bestow my body on someone new for free.

And Robbie waited for me; when I got to his place I would slip into bed next to him and put my arms around him and he’d mumble something and pull me in tighter. When we walked down the street he held my hand. He listened to my grumbles and shared his own. Sometimes I was even still in love with him.

The thought of a new man, the right man, almost frightened me. How would I ever meet him, and how could I explain myself ? I had been a drug addict, I was a prostitute. These things didn’t shame me, but I had no illusions that they wouldn’t alarm a man from outside.

‘Outside’ was how it felt. This world was cosy, cloistered, and it was all I’d known for such a long time; I’d been subterranean. The dazzle of the world, in daylight, would blind me.

THE LAST DAYS CAME RUSHING up fast. There was much to do; I dashed around, meeting Douglas, Max and other friends for farewell coffees, arranging bills to be paid, buying luggage. My bones ached and I sweated, but I was taut with urgency and there was no stopping me now. Robbie walked too slowly for me; I charged along the streets. My energy was draining fast. I knew I’d only just make it onto that plane, and there was a lot to do before then. I felt my smiles grow manic.

At work I promised to come back, probably in a few months. My clients were mournful.

‘Who else will I stay with?’ they asked. I briskly suggested other girls. I didn’t want sentimentality; it cheapened the real sentiment I felt.

And then it was my last weekend at work. I’d given myself a week off before the flight; I’d finish on Sunday night, always my favourite. There was a list of pre-booked regulars—Philip, Mick, and others—ready to spend a last happy hour with me. Flowers arrived on Saturday from Samuel. I was looking forward to my last shift. Bernadette would be on, and some of my favourite girls; we’d have a good time.

Then, on Sunday morning, I turned my head on the pillow and pulled my neck. It hurt, and through the day—an afternoon picnic with Robbie—it grew worse, until I could barely move. I was dismayed: such a stupid little problem. I rang Helen.

‘I can’t come in. I mean, I can come in, but I can’t do sex,’ I said. ‘I can’t move my head.’

‘I’ve just about had it with you.’ Her voice was unexpectedly sharp. ‘It’s always some excuse or another.’

‘I was thinking, I could come on Monday, if I’m better—’

‘Look. This is ridiculous. You’ve been pulling tricks on me. All that sucking up to the receptionists, all that nosing around—and now this.’

It was like being fired from Indigo.

‘Don’t bother coming on Monday. I’ll just tell your clients you were sick. I can’t believe you, Lucy—’ She hung up.

Propped up on pillows, I stayed the night with Robbie, immobilised. Something as banal as a cricked neck had ruined everything. I couldn’t believe I wouldn’t see my regulars again. What would they think? The girls—I’d wanted to give them cards, and my number. Helen was just having a mood, surely she’d let me work one last shift. Her spite was stripping me of my right to leave graciously, as if I had been only one more casual girl who came and went, whose name no one remembered.

I went in on Tuesday evening, to see if Helen was there. Maude was on the desk. ‘Oh, Lucy, honey,’ she said. ‘What happened on Sunday? All your regulars were here, Bernadette didn’t know where you were, you should have called.’

‘I did!’

‘There was no message from you. Bernadette was so upset. She wanted to say goodbye.’

My lips pressed tight, I went to my locker, swung the door open: another girl’s stuff was inside. Maude came up behind me. ‘It’s all packed up in a bag for you, love.’

Someone had bundled my dresses and make-up into a rubbish bag and put it in the storage cupboard. Samuel’s roses were in there too, wilted. ‘Okay,’ I said. Maude looked at me. ‘We’ll miss you,’ she said. ‘Come back soon.’

There were some new girls in the lounge; I smiled at them awkwardly. Already the place was less familiar to me. But then I heard Jessie come clomping back from a booking. We hugged. ‘See you soon, darl!’ She rushed off to do her hair before the next client. The house was quiet, glowing, just as it always was.

‘Call me a taxi?’ I asked Maude.

On the plane to Europe I slept and slept. I was out of energy, and I’d wanted to depart without this bitterness. The disappointment curdled in me. But I was on my way somewhere else.

Robbie had been sad. Our late-blooming tenderness made him hard to leave, but I never once thought of not going. We made love a last time; sweetly we kissed goodbye on the street outside his place.

‘I’ll be back soon,’ I promised. How would he go on his own? So lonely, so struggling and brave.

‘I wonder if you will,’ he said, and walked around the corner.

My family was happy for me. They took me to the airport; they gave me long hugs.