by Laura D
He just looks at me rather sheepishly, perfectly aware of how I feel. But, yet again, he seems to like the situation. Looking at my red, bloodshot eyes, he says, 'What's the matter? I thought that was what you liked, being submissive.'
Even he doesn't believe it. I don't say anything but snatch up my clothes and start getting dressed as quickly as I can. Who knows what else he could do! I've seen enough for today. For ever, actually.
'Are you leaving? We agreed on two hours. You've still got another hour to spend with me.'
Afraid that he might get violent, I decide to invent an excuse. He probably won't believe it but who cares, I've got to get out of here. With shaking hands, I find the strength to mumble unintelligibly quickly, 'It's my birthday today so I'm not actually going to work. My friends are waiting for me in a café to celebrate over a drink. I'm halfway through exams as well, so I won't be able to spend long with them, because I've got to get home to revise afterwards.'
I spew out as many excuses as possible, thinking that in amongst all those lies there must be one that will do the job. I can feel my mind and body on the brink of a panic attack. I've got to get out quickly before I go mad in here, in this tacky hotel room. Money or no money, I'm getting out of the place.
Joe then uses the last argument that might mollify me enough to stay a bit longer. He plays the excuses card too. 'You mustn't take it like that, Laura. It was just a little fantasy.'
'A little fantasy? Well, it's absolutely not my idea of one.'
I stop at that, seeing no point in saying anything else. I'm now completely dressed and I'm just putting my coat on when Joe says, 'Aren't you going to shower?'
'No, I'm leaving,' I snap.
I've broken several of his instructions in one go and it's put him off his stride, he doesn't know how to react. I certainly don't want to give him time to think about it, I've already got my hand on the door handle. I retrace my steps for a moment, aware that I've forgotten something. Without even looking at him, I grab the laptop and put it under my arm before running out of the room as quickly as I can.
Joe catches up with me in the corridor.
'Here, Laura, you forgot this too,' he says, handing me an envelope. The same as last time. I open it . . . to find 400 euros inside. He brings his hand to my face as I look up at him. My features are more strained than ever.
'It was good,' he says stroking my hair, 'I liked it.'
He says it with a 'there's a good girl' intonation which makes me feel sick again. I basically rip the envelope from his hand and escape without a backward glance.
I run breathlessly out of the hotel. There are tears streaming down my cheeks and they almost turn to ice in the freezing winter air. I just can't be alone so I go straight to my favourite bar, the one that welcomed me that first time, all those weeks ago, when I didn't feel like going home.
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.
Chapter 18
Love
March 2007
WITHOUT 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.
Chapter 19
Panic
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: perh
aps 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.
