Scandalous (15 page)

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.

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.

12 April 2007

I
T'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.

17 April 2007

T
WO 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.