Scandalous

• Title
  
• Title Page
  
• Copyright Page
  
• Dedication
  
• Prologue Don't Close Your Eyes
  
• Chapter 1 Enrolling
  
• Chapter 2 A Stipulation
  
• Chapter 3 Term Time
  
• Chapter 4 Routine
  
• Chapter 5 Hunger
  
• Chapter 6 Shame
  
• Chapter 7 The End
  
• Chapter 8 The Mug
  
• Chapter 9 The Boyfriend
  
• Chapter 10 Loneliness
  
• Chapter 11 The Car Park
  
• Chapter 12 Appearances
  
• Chapter 13 Oppression
  
• Chapter 14 Nerves
  
• Chapter 15 A Meeting
  
• Chapter 16 Clambering
  
• Chapter 17 Falling
  
• Chapter 18 Love
  
• Chapter 19 Panic
  
• Chapter 20 Dispossessed
  
• Chapter 21 Runaway
  
• Chapter 22 Intrusion
  
• Chapter 23 Exile
  
• Chapter 24 Beginnings
  
• Chapter 25 Dependence
  
• Chapter 26 Hope
  
• Postface Eva Clouet Student Prostitution in the Internet Age
  
• Footnotes
  

SCANDALOUS

Laura D

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

ISBN 9780753520130

Version 1.0

www.randomhouse.co.uk

Published by Virgin Books 2009

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

Copyright © Laura D 2008

English Translation Copyright © Adriana Hunter 2009

Laura D has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
to be identified as the author of this work

This book is a work of non-fiction based on the life, experiences and recollections of
Laura D. In some limited cases names of people and places have been changed to
protect the privacy of others. The author has stated to the publishers that, except in such
minor respects not affecting the substantial accuracy of the work, the contents of this
book are true.

This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

First published in Great Britain in 2009 by
Virgin Books
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road
London SW1V 2SA

www.virginbooks.com

www.rbooks.co.uk

Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at:
www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm

ISBN: 9780753520130

Version 1.0

To my sister in the shadows . . .

'
One word written on this page, and the whole thing
starts . . . The fusion between ink and paper, between
you and me . . . Love, one person transcending another,
the other responding. The moment where the two
become 'one'; writing, our story, this book. This moment
that sends tremors through me. How real the words and
facts are, the horror set down in writing . . . the horror of
a quotient of students' time . . . A book, about Laura,
but Laura is more than one person . . . She's too many
people at the same time, we need to open our eyes and
react . . .
'

This book was written in collaboration with Marion
Kirat, aged 23, a translation student.

I
SLOWLY PUT THE LETTER DOWN
on the edge of the bed.
Without thinking I take off my top and, not waiting for
any reaction from him, slide my jeans down over my
thighs. I lower myself in what I hope is a slightly languid
movement to get them right off.

He can't take his eyes off me, his mouth is gaping. I can
see the beginnings of an erection beneath his jogging pants.

My bra, cotton knickers and stockings are now the
only things hiding my anatomy. I stand in front of him
with my hands behind my back, offering him all this
intimacy. I'm the child-woman, Nabokov's Lolita, and
he loves it. I'm completely disconnected from reality.
This is like torture for me but I dispel it with a giggle.
I've got so many complexes about my body, even though
it's so slim now, and I'm genuinely finding this situation
confusing. He doesn't move and hasn't said anything for
quarter of an hour.

He takes a deep breath and begins to open his lips. Go
on, say something.

'Wow!' he manages to exclaim quickly.

And that's it. One exclamation. No one could understand
how I suddenly feel. All at once my body is filled
with hope and a sort of happiness. With just one word
and in a fraction of a second, this man I've never met
before has succeeded where dozens of others have failed:
making me realise my body's attractive. Why did it have
to be him? I can't answer that, it's just inexplicable. All
I know is that it's the first time I've heard and accepted
a compliment. That's when I start thinking of him as a
man and not some great creep who wants to put his mitts
all over me. He must have seen strings and strings of girls
but he can still be impressed.

We give each other a knowing smile and something
oddly like trust is reached between us.

'This is exactly the sort of reason I don't like "professionals".
They can't have that innocent look you've got.'

My name is Laura, I'm nineteen. I'm a modern languages
student and I have to prostitute myself to pay my way
through uni.

I'm not the only one. Apparently there are 40,000
female students who do what I do. It all followed its own
peculiar logic, and I didn't even realise I was falling.

I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I've
never known luxury and wealth but until this year I've
not wanted for anything. My eagerness to learn and my
own convictions always persuaded me my student years
would be the best and most carefree of my life. I would
never have thought my first year at uni would turn into
a real-life nightmare and see me running away from my
own hometown.

At nineteen, you don't turn to prostitution for pocket
money. You don't sell your body just to treat yourself to
clothes or buy cups of coffee. You do it if you really have
to, convincing yourself it's only temporary, just until
you've paid the bills and the rent, and bought some food.
Student prostitutes aren't the ones you see in the street.
And they're not drug addicts, illegal immigrants or from
poor backgrounds. They may have white skin, be French
through and through and come from families on modest
incomes. All they have in common is the desire to pursue
their studies in a country where further education is
becoming more and more expensive. The story you are
about to read takes place in a large French city. I've called
it V to protect my parents. They mustn't know. Ever. I'm
their almost perfect little girl. Stubborn but not a slapper.

Of course you could criticise me for not holding down
some menial job to keep me out of debt. Most student
prostitutes – and this is true of me too – have a little job
on the side but still can't stay out of the red. Prostitution
and its mind-boggling rates are far too much of a
temptation when you're short of money and need some
in a hurry.

This is my story: it isn't easy for me to open up about
it but my main aim is to expose the hypocrisy surrounding
student prostitution. The precarious living conditions for
students – of both sexes – in this day and age shouldn't
be ignored any longer. At the moment too few people
know how terrible they are.

This is my testimony, and it is intended as a wake-up
call to bring about changes so that impoverished students
never have to sell their bodies to pay for their studies. So
that people aren't only shocked by stories of dubious
practices in
other
countries but also concentrate their
efforts on what is happening in France.

And, finally, so that this is never allowed to happen
again, so that people don't just close their eyes to it.

4 September 2006

I WALK CALMLY ACROSS
the campus of V University.
Today is no ordinary day because I'm enrolling in
modern languages: Spanish and Italian.

Two weeks ago I received a letter telling me I had to
be at the university's administrative office at 2.30 p.m.
without fail, to submit my application form and get my
student card. Filled with excitement, I quickly got
together all the documents I needed. There's a lot of
paperwork involved, but I managed in the end. The best
bit was writing down my grades for my Baccalaureate
because it marked the end of an era in a such a concrete
way. I also nipped down into the Métro to take some
photos – which show me wearing a big smile . . . a
triumphant smile.

When I got up this morning I studied my route on the
Métro to be sure I got to the university on time. I really
didn't want to miss the enrolment. I even cheated public
transport because I didn't have enough money for my
ticket. I promised myself I wouldn't do it again, and would
get myself a season ticket, however much it cost. I'm
convinced uni's going to make a lot of changes in my life.

I couldn't sit still on the Métro, too excited at the
thought of seeing the place where I'd be studying and
spending so much of my time. My MP3 player, which
I'm usually hooked up to, couldn't soothe my agitated
enthusiasm. I even checked three times that I'd got all the
papers for my enrolment. I couldn't bear to think of
getting there and being told: 'I'm sorry but your records
aren't complete. We can't give you your card. You'll
have to come back.' No, today was the day I would
become a student and that was that.

I was so nervous I very nearly missed my stop. A group
of teenagers laughing and talking woke me from my
daydreaming at the last minute. They were jostling to get
off which reminded me that I needed to get out there too.
I'm going to have to get used to my new status: I'm a
student now, not a schoolgirl. I'm eighteen and a half.

I arrived on the campus at bang on two o'clock. I
didn't really know where to go from the Métro station
so I followed the group of students. Now that I'm here
I've got some time to spare so I'm having a bit of a walk
round to explore the place. I find a map on a board and
have a look to find out exactly where I am so I don't get
lost. The campus is like a whole village, there are even
signposts indicating different buildings. On the map I
find the place I will have my lectures: 'Faculty of
Languages, Building F'. Building F, so that's where I'll be
for the year. Right now I can't wait to get to know it, to
go up and down the steps like an old hand, to know
which shortcuts to take to get there. I can't wait to be
part of that world.

I decide to have a quick look at the building before
enrolling. It wouldn't be right to go home without seeing
where I'm going to work on my degree over the next
three years. Once outside, I screw up my eyes in the
September sun, a memory of the summer that's just gone.
It's a pretty boring building, but I don't care. It looks like
the beginning of the rest of my life to me.

I have to admit I chose modern languages a bit by
default. I wanted to focus on marketing and go to a
college that would give me the best possible education.
I've always had a lot of get-up-and-go and I like
responsibility. I like constant stimulation and the challenge
of sales. I also think I wanted the quickest route to
having a clear idea of the world of work. I wanted to be
really well prepared for my future job. I needed a
complete break from the school environment, which was
an ordeal for me with its nannying and childishness.
And, let's be honest, it can prove much easier finding
work after going through business school than university.
Work that pays well too.

But that dream's out of reach at the moment. Business
school is far too expensive for me. And taking out a loan
means making a commitment over several years, which I
can't afford. Deep down, I don't think they would even
have accepted my application. On top of the overall
reimbursement, I can't even make monthly payments
regularly right now. So I've given up on that idea and
made the strategic move of launching myself into modern
languages. I'm still convinced that, with my degree in
Spanish and Italian, I could change tack and go to
business school where modern languages are vital. Especially
as the Latin American economy has expanded so
quickly in the last few years and, with my Spanish and
Italian, I'd hit the ground running. And, who knows, I
might overtake all the others with my cultural baggage
as an extra. Standing outside Building F, I've got a head
full of dreams.

No one needs to feel sorry for me. I've always had
clothes on my back and food on my plate. But I don't
know what it's like not to have to think about money.
My father works in a factory and my mother's a nurse.
They both earn bang on the minimum wage, with two
children to bring up. Just enough to make ends meet but
never any surplus. I'm not entitled to a grant because I'm
one of the countless students who fall between two
stools: a long way from what could be called rich, but
not poor enough to get student funding. After adding
together my parents' two incomes, the State deems that
they can support my needs. No way out: I'll have to
make do with what we haven't got.

I cut my walk short because I really want to get to the
office on time. I can't wait any longer, I want my student
card in my hand. I'm almost running.

When I get there I'm confronted with a queue of
people which winds its way outside the building. I join it
patiently, like the good newcomer I am. But they did say
2.30 p.m.
without fail
. This is my first glimpse of student
life, which can so often be boiled down to queuing up at
some admin desk for hours.

Just as I'm taking my place in the queue, two girls in
different coloured T-shirts literally throw themselves at
me.

'Hi, are you a first year?'

'Yes, how about you?' I say with a rather surprised
smile.

One of the girls looks at me oddly. That wasn't the
reply she was expecting and she apparently has no
intention of having a conversation with me. Still, she
very soon smiles back: I'm going to be easy prey.

The only reason they approached me was to get me to
subscribe to a student payment scheme. I quickly gather
from their patter that they're doing this job before the
term begins and are paid on commission. They're clearly
in competition – if not at war – because, although not
actually violent, they keep interrupting each other and
almost pushing each other over in their efforts to get my
attention. I'm not really sure what I should do, this is all
new to me. They're talking so quickly and confusingly
I'm only getting every other word. They're both so keen
to make the most convincing pitch that they've become
completely incomprehensible. I just enjoy the surreal
spectacle, although I do feel sorry for them. They're
doing this to make a bit of money and I bet they're sweet
as pie in everyday life.

'So, have you chosen then?'

The two wrestlers stand looking at me. The bout is
over and they now want my judgement to decide the
outcome. I haven't listened to a word.

'Umm . . . it's just . . . I've already got a payment
scheme.'

Yes, obviously, that's a good excuse. One of them,
clearly disappointed and reckoning she shouldn't waste
any more time on me, walks off straight away. The other
gives up on me a few minutes later, still trying one last
time to persuade me that, sometimes, two policies are
better than one, and the one I have isn't the best and
so
if you'd like to reconsider your choice for a moment,
you'd soon realise
. . . blah blah blah.

Faced with an argument so devoid of common sense,
I move away to get back in line. It's two thirty, the
exact time of my appointment, but I'm sure it wouldn't
be right to jump the queue to get to the office, however
convincing my explanations. So I decide to wait meekly,
taking up my place behind a hugely tall boy. I peer at
his appointment card which is just like mine. The words
'2 o'clock' are written in red felt-tip right in the middle
of the page. Two o'clock! How long has he been here,
then?

To one side I can hear the voice of experience from
some old hands in their fourth or fifth year, grumbling
about how slowly the queue's moving. It must be the
same every year. But who cares! I haven't got the urge or
the energy to get wound up today. So I don't throw a fit
or join in the general complaining.

After half an hour, though, I do wonder whether I've
been forgotten. I spot a man wearing a badge with the
official university logo on it, and grab him as he passes.

'I'm sorry to disturb you, but I had an appointment at
two thirty. I've been waiting nearly half an hour.' As I
speak I wave my letter at him.

'Yes,' he says contemptuously, not even looking at it,
'like everyone else.'

'So? Should I go on waiting? Will I really get in there
today?'

'We're doing what we can.'

We're doing what we can
. . . That's not much of a
reply, is it? I've just had my first confrontation with the
university's admin department and it's not really a
victory, or a relief.

Faced with such an evasive reply, I make up my mind
to carry on waiting. I'm annoyed with myself for not
bringing a book; I could have spent the time intelligently.
I rummage through my bag, but find nothing, not even a
newspaper or a stupid leaflet to read. I regret sending
those two girls packing so quickly; I could at least have
taken one of their brochures, it would have kept me busy
for five minutes.

Stupidly, I've dressed up for today. I've put on very old
high-heel shoes, as if I were going to an important
interview. But standing here in the queue I hate myself
for choosing them. If I dared, I'd take them off and go
barefoot.

After waiting an hour and a half I finally get to the
office. I look at all the windows to see which one is free
first. I mutter to myself, fed up with today. I'm not in a
good mood any more; I just want to pick up my card and
go.

A young woman waves me over at last. I launch myself
at her with a smile on my face, glad it will soon be over.
She looks at me as if I've just made a pathetic joke and
no one's laughing but me. Not really helpful for getting
your spirits back up.

We come to the delicate question of my payment.

'Are you paying by cheque?'

Yes, my mother made the cheque out last week. A
blank cheque. I can still hear her words: 'Now, be
careful, Laura, make sure you don't lose it! Just imagine
if someone found it!' I've always had a feel for money
and, as soon as that cheque was in my hand, I gauged
how powerful it was. I put it carefully into a wallet and
put that into a drawer of my desk which locks with a
key. I'm the only person who can open it and, even
though I do trust my boyfriend who I live with, I'd rather
take every precaution. You never know.

'Yes, by cheque.'

'So, as you don't have a grant but you do have a
student payment scheme, that makes a total of 404.60
euros.'

What a ridiculous total! I hand her the cheque, trying
to hide my smirk. Without a word, she stamps my
papers, scribbles signs all over them, and points to the
booth for student cards. The whole thing is over in two
minutes.

The man in charge of cards is no more friendly than
her, and practically snatches my school attendance
certificate from my hand. In one mechanically regulated
move, he prints my student card onto plastic, hands it to
me and snatches the next certificate.

I couldn't care less now, I've got my student card at
last. This is it, a new chapter of my life is beginning. I
feel confident and serene, holding my future in my own
two hands, on this stupid bit of plastic.

Laura D. First year of Modern Languages Spanish.

Classy.

I head back to the Métro, relieved.