by Laura D
People start jumping to their feet the minute they hear him say, 'See you next week.' By force of habit, I sling my worksheets into my bag too. Then I stand up slowly, put on my jacket and walk out of the amphitheatre as if it was just an ordinary day.
Outside, I hug my friend who's going to send me her notes. She wishes me good luck with a hint of sympathy in her eyes. I've lied to her about why I'm leaving but I'm still entitled to her sympathy.
Deep down, I tell myself it's not weak of me to be leaving. Quite the opposite: it's a sensible decision, there are far too many risks in staying in V now. I don't really belong here any more. If I stay I'll never get out. If I leave I do have a chance to reinvent myself. Everything's become impossible here.
I give my friend a wink and head off towards the Métro, just like at the end of any other day.
Chapter 24
Beginnings
24 April 2007
IT'S UNBELIEVABLY HOT in Paris for April. I packed in such a panic I couldn't bring all my summery clothes. I don't really care. It's hot and I've achieved my goal – leaving V.
The struggle has started again straight away just as I predicted. My two aims are, first, to find work, then when I'm settled, an apartment. I'm giving myself two weeks to land a job, any sort of job. After that I'll have to accept that I've failed and go back to V. I can't abuse the hospitality offered by my mother's friend, Sandra.
Just the thought of having to set back to V sends a shiver through me and makes me even more motivated to find something as soon as possible. I haven't stopped for a whole week: armed with my CV, I've been through all the restaurants and small ads to find work . . . and fast, so there isn't time for that horrible solution to suggest itself again. So far I've been strong, carried along by the huge sense of hope that Paris is my 'land of exile' where no one knows me as a prostitute, where I can go back to square one and start a new life.
Living with Sandra is going well for now. She welcomed me with open arms, happy to have some company in her apartment. She was once very close to my mother and so was delighted to get to know her daughter. Now in her fifties, you can read all the suffering in her life on her face. She works all day as an accountant for an electrical appliance company and hates her job. She often comes home tired, fed up with her colleagues and the endless numbers she's had to sort out all day. Even so I think she's pretty, especially when she gets home from work and coils her highlighted hair up into a makeshift chignon. She lives a quiet little life, and doesn't want for anything but is far from rich. There's nothing luxurious about her apartment, most of the furniture is second hand, but she's managed to make the place nice with plenty of warm colours.
We often have supper together and she even helps me write covering letters with job applications. One evening she tells me she went through the same hard slog as me in the first few years after leaving university. I wonder whether she ever considered prostitution as a last resort. Weirdly, I would find it sort of comforting if she had, I would feel I wasn't the only one.
I feel happy with her, even though I miss my independent life in my own apartment. She's rearranged her living room so that I can sleep on the sofa bed. Every morning I politely pack it away, not wanting to disrupt her life any more than I have to.
Since I've been here I haven't really been able to concentrate on looking for an apartment. Because I don't have work, I can't provide any sort of guarantees to put my case forward so I'd be bound to be turned down. I'd rather do things in their own time, although I realise that's just what I don't have – time. In spite of everything, Sandra's kindness makes me not want to stay too long. I know from experience that the relationship between two people falls apart more quickly than you think in this sort of situation where one of them is indebted to the other. I feel uncomfortable enough being dependent on someone, I couldn't bear to make her feel uncomfortable about having me here.
I'm back to worrying. I'm alone in Paris, a long way away from friends and family, with no one to lean on for help and support. I need to reach a decision soon: should I go back to V and admit defeat or take action here in Paris? I opt for action. I can't bear the thought of going back to V. I've been through much worse than this in my life, I can keep going now.
So far no one's called me back about work. It's been a week now and I'm beginning to panic. My pockets are empty and I'm not sure I'll make it through this week with what little money I managed to bring with me.
My past is also catching up with me. Joe won't stop hassling me. He leaves me messages every day begging me to go back to V, saying he'll pay my train fare. He says he needs to see me again before he dies. He's offering such exorbitant amounts of money it's becoming unrealistic. I filter all his calls and avoid all his tricks: if my phone rings with a withheld number I just don't answer. I have to admit that, more than once, I've been tempted to give everything up and go sniffing after that money.
I so badly want to draw a line under my past but it's becoming more and more clear to me that I won't be able to without talking about it. I can't get to sleep at night, tossing and turning in bed with horrible images spooling through my head. I often cry, knowing I'm going to have to come to terms with these experiences for the rest of my life. Talk, yes, but who to? I trawl through internet forums devoted to student prostitutes, but never find the answers to my questions. In fact, some girls who use these sites have a go at me for daring to suggest that prostitution is a real scourge among students. I can't believe the things they say, their feelings are on such a different planet to mine that I soon don't even bother logging on, and I give up on these sites as a possible way of freeing myself psychologically.
During my bouts of insomnia I find my only refuge in writing and studying. My evenings and nights, when all is quiet, are devoted to telling my story and describing my emotions. I write for hours on end, not thinking about anything. I'm gradually realising that it's exorcising all the evil eating me up inside. The more I rattle away on my keyboard – on the laptop Joe gave me – the easier it is for me to take a step back from my life. I'm beginning to see a glimmer of hope, to believe I will extricate myself one day. Maybe I really will never be a whore again.
I'm also working harder than ever on my course, even more than when I was actually there in the amphitheatre in V. I don't want to ruin everything, my future seems so uncertain right now. This week I got the first set of notes through the post and they made me so happy. My friend from uni hasn't forgotten about me. I keep my hopes up as best I can: if I manage to find a good job in Paris, I'll put some money aside and enrol at a uni here. I'm sure I can do it. My turbulent life has made me all the more determined. I know what it's like to struggle and I don't want to slip back into that. Sometimes I also cry when I'm confronted with a difficult exercise or a text I just don't understand. I tell myself that my dad's right, I've never done things properly. Maybe not, but I've done my best with what I had, which was almost nothing. People may reprimand me and judge me but I can't turn the clock back. No, I've only ever lived for my future, I only turned to prostitution so that I could carry on studying. They may judge me, yes, but I've never given up.
I'm not going to let myself get depressed now, I've got too much to do and to get on with. Too many things to achieve.
Chapter 25
Dependence
May 2007
THIS LAST MONTH in Paris has been intense. My search for work bore fruit after two weeks, bang on the limit I'd given myself. In the end I managed to get a job as a waitress in a smart restaurant in the middle of Paris. I'm still living with Sandra and the commute to work is exhausting but at least I'm earning money. I make the most of the long Métro journeys to read the work I've put in my bag before setting off in the morning. I force myself to concentrate even though I can hardly keep my eyes open. My hours vary a lot and sometimes I finish late at night after the Métros have stopped running. The first time it happened I took a taxi. I didn't really have any choice. I don't know my colleagues well and co
uldn't see myself asking if anyone could put me up for the night. When I saw the price clocking up on the counter I promised myself I'd never do it again. It wouldn't make sense to spend all the money I earn on taxis to get home.
I'm confronted with a vicious circle again: I've got a job, yes, but I won't be able to hang on to it for long if I can't sort out these late nights. So I'm trawling through the small ads looking for somewhere to live. As far as prices go, I thought I'd seen how bad it can get in V but Paris is a whole different story. I can't find anything in my tiny price range, not even a miserable little room. Flat-shares can be more affordable but they want lots of guarantees, sometimes even more than for an apartment. I suppose landlords have to put more pressure on sharers to pay on time: the more tenants there are, the higher the risk of not getting their hands on their money.
In the early days Sandra kept saying, 'Just don't worry about it, you can stay here as long as you like, you're no trouble at all!' When she saw that I really needed to live near my work she started helping me as best she could. She asked friends and acquaintances if anyone had a room free. Nothing, not even a rabbit hutch!
Her kindness has gradually changed to ordinary politeness. As my efforts to find an apartment have failed, she's got more and more distant with me, which is only human. We don't eat together any more and she doesn't speak to me much. As predicted, she's beginning to find it a pain having me here. I can tell I'm disrupting her day-to-day life. Her apartment's not very big and the fact that I'm taking up the living room doesn't help much.
One evening I come home from work very late, as usual. I'm exhausted and there's only one thing I want: to go straight to bed. I find her in the living room with two friends, chatting over a glass of wine having had supper together. When she sees me Sandra pulls a face which says it all: she'd much rather I wasn't there so she could enjoy being with her friends. I feel terrible and try to make myself invisible, slipping off to the bathroom for a shower. When I get back out her friends have left.
'Have your friends gone home?'
'Yes, we couldn't go on chatting here because this is where you sleep.'
I've overstepped the limit of what she can tolerate. Without a word, I open out the sofa bed and get into it. I know that I'll have to leave tomorrow, before Sandra throws me out in exasperation.
At work I ask one of the other girls, who has a big apartment in central Paris, whether she can put me up. We get on well and I know she won't say no. I hate this sort of situation.
'Not for long, just till I find something suitable.'
She agrees with a smile. It's often like that at first, people say yes, glad that they won't be alone any more, but after a while they realise they're better off with their own creature comforts. And in Paris, where apartments are mostly very small, you're always getting under each other's feet. I know this is only a temporary solution and I'll have to find something else quickly. For her sake, but also for mine. I can't be and don't want to be dependent on other people any more.
I pack my bags when I get home that same evening. Sandra hugs me, surprised I've made a decision so soon. She probably feels sorry for me too, and might feel guilty. But I know that when I'm gone she'll do what she hasn't been free to do for a month: collapse on the sofa and enjoy having the place to herself.
My constant tail chasing often brings back my dark thoughts. What if I gave it all up? What if I accepted Joe's suggestions? I'd get out of this hell. I know deep down that isn't a solution, or only a temporary one. It shines out because of all that money on offer, but when you get closer it looks dirty and dangerous.
I call my friend from uni who sends me notes, to give her my new address. Once again, she doesn't question what I'm up to. Thank goodness, because there's no way I could come up with a new lie for her. She's right in the middle of revision and is beginning to stress about exams coming up.
'Laura, you are coming back to take your exams, aren't you? I could put you up if you like.'
I say of course I am, and thank her for her offer, which I'm going to have to accept because I haven't got anywhere else to go for our exam week in May.
So now I have to negotiate with my boss at the restaurant, and work twelve hours a day for a fortnight to compensate for the week I'll be away. With all the extra hours, I can take five days off. Exactly how long I need to sit my exams.
I let my mother know I'm coming back, but tell her I won't have time to go home and see her, or my father. I can tell she's very disappointed, but at the same time I know that in her heart she's proud of this daughter who never gives up and faces up to her responsibility.
The exam week finishes me off. There's just one thing I want: to lie down on a bed and sleep for hours and hours, and stop worrying about all this. Even so, I don't stop for a minute and work late into the night with my friend. We motivate each other. The human body is adaptable, and the fact that I know the university year will soon be over stops me dropping with exhaustion now. I so badly want to succeed this year, it would be too unfair – after everything I've been through – if I don't. I've done too much studying and too much revising to collapse in a heap at the last minute. I won't let it happen. I've given my all this year, even my own body. No way am I going to fail.
After the exams I say a huge thank you to my friend for taking me in and being so supportive, and I hop on a train for Paris. She didn't ask any questions, obviously feeling my private life was my own business.
I go straight back to work, still at the same hectic pace. I don't even have time to think about how the exams went or my results. I did my best, now all I can do is wait.
A couple of weeks later I'm sitting in front of my computer waiting for the results to come up. I've had today's date buzzing inside my head for a fortnight. I type in my student number; in a few seconds I'll be able to access my results. I'm shaking, I'm so stressed. What if I've failed? Maybe my essays weren't persuasive enough. The fact that I was so tired and fed up might have shown in the things I wrote . . .
All at once the result's there. I've passed, I've got a B+. I'm sitting in front of my computer with tears of happiness rolling down my face. Everything I've been through this year hasn't been in vain after all.
Chapter 26
Hope
5 September 2007
SO I PASSED MY FIRST YEAR exams and I'm still in Paris. I'm nineteen years old and it's the start of a new year. I've carried on working at the restaurant all through the summer, trying to put aside as much money as possible. I'm still living with my colleague and, contrary to expectations, it's going pretty well. I give her everything I can towards the rent which helps her out a bit with her expenses. Our flat-share is nothing like the arrangement I had with Manu. She's struggling too; she understands me.
I talk to my parents on the phone frequently: our relationship has changed a lot. I had to grow up much faster than most people last year, and it shows in the way I behave. I can tell I've got their support. I know from my mother that my father was impressed by my courage and the fact that I passed my exams. They've never understood why I left and I hope they never will. I also know they regret the fact that they still can't help me financially, but their moral support gives me a lift. They're now proving what I've known all along: that they'll always be there, whatever choices I make.
I'm still looking for somewhere to live though. I'm going to enrol for my second year of uni in Paris and I want the right sort of conditions to get on with my work. I don't want to go back to V. Everything's been mapped out in advance for me there, I know that. And I don't want to go on abusing my friend's kindness. The restaurant have offered me an open-ended contract for a part-time job, and I've accepted it. With that guaranteed salary I would imagine things will be easier.
But it's proving harder than I thought. Trailing round looking at studios and garret rooms, I soon realise my case doesn't hold much weight compared to other people's. I don't have any guarantors and, even with a work contract, landlords are happier handin
g over the keys of an apartment to someone who's got a back-up in case things go wrong. That's what I don't have. Apparently, my parents aren't making enough money. It's no joke.
My future is still uncertain then. I've got a head full of dreams but society keeps bringing me back to reality. I want to carry on with my course, I want to go on learning, but there are always obstacles in my way. Will I manage to find an apartment? Will I be able to combine work and studying? But, most importantly, will I be strong enough to resist slipping back into prostitution? Money from sex is too quick and there's too much of it for me not to think about it. I know what I want, but I also know it doesn't always fit in with the real world. Big hopes but small means.
Postface
Eva Clouet1
Student Prostitution
in the Internet Age
'In France nearly 40,000 students (of both sexes) turn to prostitution so that they can carry on with their studies.' This statistic was released by the SUD-Étudiant union in spring 2006 to counter a movement opposed to the 'equal opportunities' law, and was intended to draw the French government's attention to the realities of student life. Of all its arguments, this union has highlighted the difficult living conditions currently experienced by a certain proportion of students (the scarcity and costliness of accommodation, their very restricted budgets, the difficulties of combining salaried work with university courses, etc.), and it points out the contradictions in solutions suggested by state organisations to circumvent these problems.
In autumn 2006 the media (particularly the press and television) picked up on this information and brought the issue of students' precarious economic situations into the public eye in a new, vote-catching light. In the context of pre-electoral campaigning, that '40,000' was something of a cat among the pigeons. Curiosity, surprise, indignation, incomprehension, scepticism, fantasy . . . the subject of student prostitution stepped onto the public stage, provoking much debate and mixed reactions.
