Scandalous (13 page)

Paul is there, behind the bar, wiping his hundredth
glass of the day. He sees me scramble in, cheeks pink
with cold, eyes shining. I don't intend to confide in him
with my problems (no one must ever know anything),
but I don't look my normal self so he won't believe me
if I say everything's fine. My face betrays seriously strong
emotions; the only way to get out of this is to claim that
they're positive.

'Laura? Is everything OK?' he asks as I sit on a
barstool.

'Yes, more than OK. Something incredible's just
happened to me!' Now there I'm not lying.
Think of
something, quick
. 'I've just won this laptop at work.
Would you believe it!'

A brilliant explanation! I've coped well. I display my
hard-won prize and privately award myself the pennant
for the best liar of the year. I order him a coffee and
don't even have to ask before he starts telling me all the
latest local gossip. Perfect – talking or thinking would
have been very hard work the way I'm feeling at the
moment.

After a few minutes I interrupt him: 'Hey, Paul, would
you mind if I took a shower?'

'No, not at all, make yourself at home.'

I can't sit here a minute longer with Joe's smell on my
skin, and now that I've got an opportunity to wash I
jump at the chance. I head towards the back of the bar
to go upstairs to the bathroom, with the laptop still
under my arm. I've got filth and shame deeply imbedded
in me, it will take a lot of scrubbing to get them out.

I let the water flow over me for a long time and use
half the bottle of shower gel. When I step out I still feel
just as dirty but suddenly everything changes: I see the
computer sitting in the corner of the room and something
extraordinary happens, something I could never have
anticipated a moment earlier – I smile. I'm just happy
knowing it's now mine. That happiness gets the upper
hand and all the fears I felt as I left the hotel flitter away.
I feel light and free, ready to face life again. And anyway,
it's my birthday and I don't want to ruin the day with
gloomy thoughts. I've got plenty of time to mope later. I
would never have guessed I'd be smiling this afternoon.

I gather up my things, wave goodbye to Paul and leave
the bar, apparently perfectly at ease with myself as I head
for work. I can't even see anything wrong with being
happy the laptop is mine.

Happy birthday, Laura.

March 2007

W
ITHOUT REACHING ANY
concrete agreement, Olivier
and I have gone on seeing each other alongside my
forbidden extra-curricular activities. We've been carried
along by our platonic relationship. At least, we're not
officially a couple. To calm my own impatience, I try to
persuade myself I prefer it like this. We're both afraid of
what might happen if we attempt a kiss. We meet up
after my work several times a week, very often in Paul's
bar where we first met.

I don't know how he makes his living because he
always seems to be free to see me and is often the one
who suggests we meet. I think he must be unemployed. I
can't help making comparisons with my ex-boyfriend
Manu. I've gone from someone tight-fisted to someone
who may not have much money but asks me out for
supper the minute he can afford it. Even before we've
taken the step of kissing, I know he's an important part
of my life.

We never talk about my clandestine profession as a
problem that needs solving. Olivier seems to have
accepted the idea that he's interested in a girl who sells
her body to pay her way through uni. I have to admit I
lost track long ago of exactly how I feel about that aspect
of my life. Olivier doesn't ask about it either. He's
probably got his own demons to overcome before he
feels up to tackling mine.

We spend whole days together, wandering round V, or
long evenings at my apartment, chatting till dawn. We get
along so easily. Sometimes we disagree but our relationship
is unbelievably compassionate: we'll always try to
understand what the other is thinking before criticising.
We have a lot of fun too. I absolutely love his laugh:
seeing and hearing it. Just before he bursts out laughing I
can see it about to spring out of his mouth as he draws his
lips back into a grin and then succumbs completely. I sit
there watching and even forget to laugh myself because
I'm so captivated by the sight of him. He's not good-looking
but in my eyes he's fantastic. Far from perfect,
but that's exactly what gives him a sort of nobility. Then
he might stop joking and laughing just to look at me, and
we sit in silence together, a beautiful comfortable silence.

I still can't get over how quickly we became so close.
I don't waste time looking for explanations, you can't
always explain life or how it throws people together. I've
often done this, letting events carry me along, taking
them in my stride and trying my best not to complain.

One evening he calls to invite me to supper at his
house. I accept gladly because being with him is becoming
a more and more essential part of my life; I literally
miss him the minute we're apart.

We spend a fun, happy evening, nothing unusual about
that. We're glad to be together again even though we
only saw each other the day before. The conversation
follows its usual meandering course through noisy joking
and nonsense interspersed with more meaningful subjects.
Then, at the end of the meal, Olivier picks up his
glass of red wine and clinks his knife on the side of his
plate to call for silence. He looks quite serious and I
haven't really seen him like this before so I straighten
slightly in my chair.

'Laura . . .'

He's still piecing his words together. Is that a good
thing? I don't say anything, no point.

'Laura . . .'

Then he gets up and gently kisses me. It's the most
beautiful declaration of love I've ever had. The last few
months I've heard my own name distorted by the furious
urges of total strangers so many times . . . I've even
wished I'd never hear it again because it's pushing my
schizophrenia to such heights, forcing me to juggle with
my new imaginary friend, the room-mate inside my head:
Laura the prostitute.

But right now my whole identity is back in its usual
place, being who it's meant to be. To him, I'm not a tart,
I'm Laura. That kiss confirms the thing we haven't been
able to admit to ourselves all these weeks: we're passionately
in love. After Manu I would never have guessed I
could fall in love again so quickly, bearing in mind my
hidden life. Obviously I don't have any feelings for my
customers so it's as if I've become hermetically sealed
against emotion. Olivier is proving me wrong this
evening. With that kiss, which might seem insignificant
to other people, I feel I'm coming back to life, I can
accept myself as a living, loving human being and not
just an object at the disposal of strangers.

The next few weeks are the most intense of my short
life. Olivier and I are inseparable now, we take life on
together, not stopping to think about the future. I carry
on seeing customers for the simple reason that I still need
money. I've become increasingly demanding in my own
way of life, treating myself to things I would never have
dreamed of having six months ago.

The first time we make love something very telling
happens. In the heat of the action Olivier stops and looks
right at me with those green eyes. He breaks the silence
and says, 'Laura . . .' He swallows hard, as if summoning
the courage to speak. 'Laura, what are you doing?'

'Um, I'm here with you. We're making love.'

'No, Laura. What you're doing is letting me fuck you,
it's not the same thing.'

I recoil for a moment.

'
I
'm not fucking
you
, Laura. I'm making love to you.'

I stop completely to think about what Olivier's said for
a moment. After months of having no sex life except
with customers, I haven't noticed that I've developed
various reflexes to protect myself. Waiting, not moving,
closing my eyes: obviously none of that is compatible
with a lover.

Olivier holds me in his arms for a long time and I fall
into a deep, peaceful, serene sleep. The next morning we
make love wonderfully gently.

Olivier doesn't turn a blind eye to my forbidden life,
quite the opposite. Over the weeks he's become my
appointments diary: I always tell him where and when
I'm meeting someone in case something happens to me.
I never stop to think how bizarre this relationship is.
He's literally giving me permission to cheat on him and,
worse than that, helping me organise it. We don't
mention a rendezvous again afterwards because he
doesn't need to hear what's happened. I don't think of
him as being masochistic and don't see myself as sadistic.
We just want to share everything and if that means he
needs to know my customers' names and when I'm
meeting them then I'm prepared to talk to him about
them.

One day I arrange to meet a new customer near the
station towards the end of the afternoon. Before going to
the rendezvous, Olivier and I nip into Paul's bar for a
coffee. As I take the first scalding mouthful of coffee my
mobile rings. It's the man in question on the phone.

'Laura? I'd rather meet you at the car park in front of
the station at about nine this evening, is that OK? I know
that's later than planned, but something's come up this
afternoon.'

'In front of the station? I'm not sure,' I say, sensing
something suspicious about the guy now. 'I'm really not
sure. I can't say I'm happy about meeting there at that
time of night.'

Olivier has looked up and is listening to the conversation.

'No, no, don't worry, Laura. I'll be in a car. I'll pick
you up and we'll drive off straight away. We won't spend
the evening there.'

I need to end this conversation right away and cancel
this rendezvous. There's no way I'm meeting a stranger
in a car by the station that late in the evening.

'I'm going to have to cancel, I'm not free then.'

I cut him off without waiting for a reply. Olivier hasn't
stopped looking at me, but I avoid catching his eye. He
can tell something's not right.

'Is everything OK?' he asks eventually.

'Yes, everything's fine. I've cancelled a customer.'

He doesn't even have time to smile before my mobile
rings again. I should have expected this, the weirdo
won't give up that easily. We contemplate the shrill ring
tone. We know who's calling and, for the first time in our
relationship, I can tell that my illegal activities have come
between us.

I pick up. Him again.

'Laura, why did you hang up? I'm sure we can meet
up later, or another day. I mean, we can come to some
arrangement, can't we?'

I mumble that I'm not free and snap my mobile shut
again. Olivier's eyes are glowing with rage, he's about to
explode. I take both his hands and cover them with
kisses. We both feel the pressure of the situation, waiting
for the phone to ring again inevitably.

And yes, the silence is broken a few minutes later.
With an incredibly violent swipe, Olivier snatches the
phone, flips it open and barks 'Hello!' furiously.

I have no idea what the customer says. I imagine he's
frightened to hear the loathing in this male voice. All I
can do is watch Olivier bellowing at the guy never to call
me again, and saying he personally will track him down
if he tries to contact me again.

I realise that we've overstepped our boundaries. By
getting carried away and shouting and losing track of
what he's saying, Olivier has unleashed the anger he's
been accumulating – unconsciously or not – over the last
weeks.

After several seconds of insults he slams the phone
down on the wooden table. He looks at me for a split
second then looks away and concentrates on his coffee.
We never discuss the subject again and I keep my
prostitution a secret. No more diary keeping, no more
joint scheduling, I'm back to being his girlfriend and he
decides to turn a blind eye once more on things he should
never have known.

Our passionate relationship is very soon soured by this
episode. Olivier can't pretend any longer, while I just
can't stop now: I always want more money. At this point
in my life losing Olivier would be the scariest thing in the
world but I still go on seeing customers. Prostitution is
part of my daily life now and I persuade myself I'd never
cope financially without it.

One morning I wake up in his apartment and find his
side of the bed empty. The sheets are still warm and it's
very early in the morning. Olivier is in the kitchen,
standing by the window deep in thought. He's drinking
his coffee slowly, his expression blank.

I tiptoe over to him and put my hand over his back
lovingly. He doesn't react. Then the thing I've been
dreading for several days happens.

'Laura . . .'

Always that same 'Laura', the same as when he
declared his love for me and helped me find my own
identity again. But this time it sounds horribly different.
This 'Laura' is a full stop, this 'Laura' brings an end to
our relationship, here in this gloomy kitchen in the dawn
light.

That's it. I leave the same day, packing away my stuff
scattered about in the pandemonium of his apartment. I
only let the tears flow when I'm outside. For once I don't
even try to wipe them away, they deserve to be there.

25 March 2007

I
'M LEANING UP AT
the counter in Paul's bar, making
easy, superficial chit-chat. I haven't been back since
splitting up with Olivier a week ago. And he's making a
point of avoiding the place too.

For the first time in my life I feel alone in the world. I
made a choice a few months ago to share my weighty
secret and now it's like I no longer have the strength to
bury it deep inside me like I did before. It weighs too
heavily on me.

Paul is tactful enough not to mention Olivier: perhaps
out of respect for our unspoken suffering. Perhaps also
because he couldn't care less. So we've reverted quite
spontaneously to easygoing meaningless conversations.

This afternoon I've made up my mind to come out
after spending a week mulling over my pain alone in my
apartment, buried in coursework. I know I've got to
forget and move on but it's much harder that I thought.
I owe it to myself to get back to my 'normal' life, even
though I can't bring myself to see it like that.

All of a sudden the door opens. It's not a very big bar
and when people come in they can't help being eyed by
customers inside.

I recognise him straight away. My blood runs cold, I'm
terrified. He's with his girlfriend, who may well be his
wife and, horror of horrors, his child's here too. A
smiley blond little boy with big blue eyes and gorgeous
curls. I give his wife a quick glance – I can't resist it, I
need to see what she looks like. She's quite tall,
dark-haired, a bit chubby but very elegant. She's holding
the child's hand and smiling at him. She must be a good
mother.

I turn back to the bar quickly, with my back to the
door. I can't think what to do.

'Hello there, Paul,' says the man.

'Hello, Mathias! How are you? It's been ages and,
look, you've brought the whole family today.'

Shit, they know each other. What a nightmare! A
month ago this bloke contacted me for a 'massage' in a
seedy hotel. And here he is now in a bar,
my
bar. I don't
dare move from my barstool, mainly so I don't have to
face him, obviously, but also so I don't have to acknowledge
what's happening.

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.