Scandalous (10 page)

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 already 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 minute 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.

14 January 2007

T
RUDGING 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.

Now that the time has come for the first test I'm really
worried. I run through the corridors to get to the
building where they're holding the exam. When I arrive
there's already a little gathering outside the amphitheatre.
When you've been running from the moment
you get up and then finally stop moving, you suddenly
realise just how tired you are. The only thing keeping me
on my feet is nervous energy.

I saw a customer two days ago. This time I decided to
keep part of my earnings for a little treat; I'm going to
do a bit of shopping. That's the problem with easy
money. You always want more.

I went to see this man then. All he was looking for was
someone to 'carry out household duties in her underwear'.
With exams looming, I was just as desperate for
money, but was so jittery I was even less inclined to let
anyone touch me. So I spent two hours at this man's
house, ironing his shirts in my bra and knickers, that's
all. He slipped me 100 euros.

In the Métro on the way to uni this recent escapade
came back to me and I suddenly felt dirtier than ever. I
know mid-term exams aren't the best time for developing
self-confidence, but I couldn't help loathing myself,
telling myself I'd never get through them. Prostitution
became a drug the minute my salary from the telesales
job wasn't enough. When I thought about all the money
I could make, I even contemplated giving up those phone
calls and 'devoting' myself entirely to prostitution. No
more crippling shift schedules, I could just work a few
hours a month and earn three times as much.

But, however boring and badly paid it may be, that
telesales job is the only thing – along with uni – which
keeps me grounded in reality, in real life. If I only
worked as a prostitute I think I'd very soon fall head first
into a prostitution ring with a pimp in control. He'd
make me give up uni and I'd become his goose laying
golden eggs for him full time.

Outside the amphitheatre the pressure's mounting by
the minute. I've got to calm down if I want to keep my
head for this exam. I try to reassure myself: it's completely
normal to feel like this, it's my first university exam
and I love my course so much that it feels like there's a
lot at stake. There are exams all through the week, I've
got to cope with the pressure. The only test I'm not
worried about is the oral because I've always found
expressing myself easy. I've just got to get through the
literature; once I've done that, I'll be more relaxed.

I rummage in my coat pocket for my tobacco. I've only
got a few crumbs left. So, as usual, I ask my friend if she
can let me have a cigarette. What a luxury, a real
cigarette before an exam – it must be a good sign!

The doors to the amphitheatre open and I go in,
determined to show what I'm capable of.