Authors: Laura D
19 April 2007
I
CAN'T SIT STILL
in front of my Spanish set text. It's five
o'clock and this is the last lecture I'll attend at V
University. Yesterday evening I bought my train ticket to
Paris. I'm leaving tomorrow on the 12.47 train and I'll
be in the capital two hours later.
Sitting here looking at my work I've got an unbearable
urge to cry. I can't believe it will all be over this evening.
In two hours' time I won't be a proper student any more,
I'll be running away. It doesn't matter how many times
I remind myself that, in my current circumstances, I
don't have any choice and I really have to leave, I still
feel I'm giving up and I see it as a failure. Once again, I
haven't seen a year's education through to the end; it
feels like my fate's catching up with me, like I'm not
designed to sit at a desk listening to someone teaching.
Not that my present situation is anything like my last
year at school, but I can't help it, I feel it's weak of me
to leave.
The ticket was expensive because I don't have a
student card, but if that's the price I have to pay to be
safe then I'm happy to break open the piggy bank. The
hardest thing of all is abandoning uni. I can't get used to
the idea. I like the day-to-day student life; I like going to
uni every day to learn. In spite of everything I've had to
do to be here, I've always felt right when I'm on campus.
Still, I'm not giving up my course. I'm determined to
finish this year whatever it takes, whether or not I'm
actually in attendance for lectures. I've never contemplated
giving it all up; I've gone to too many lengths this
year to fuck it up at the last minute. All those customers,
all that struggling and hard work was basically just so
that I could go on studying and not abandon ship.
I've had to find someone sensible and trustworthy to
send me their notes by post. One of my girlfriends from
uni came to mind straight away. I don't know her very
well, we're just on the same course. We automatically
seem to sit next to each other for virtually every lesson
and we get on quite well although we've never met up
off campus. I had to invent some half-cooked excuse to
explain why I was leaving, stuff about my family. That
seemed the most plausible to me. I didn't like lying to her
but I didn't have any choice about that either. For a cash
advance towards photocopying and postal expenses,
she's agreed to send me her notes.
Our homework doesn't count towards the final result
and, with my medical certificate, the tutors can't really
complain that I'm missing tutorials. Even though I know
I'm not actually giving up, I'm still sad. The whole life I
dreamed of back in September has fallen apart. I want to
cry because I feel like the victim of some miscarriage of
justice . . . and because all my hopes have crumbled. I'm
planning to carry on with my course by correspondence,
but will I manage it? Am I strong enough and disciplined
enough?
I handed in my notice at work yesterday. That made
me feel heavy-hearted too, not because I was walking out
on a job I liked – that definitely wasn't the issue! – but
because, in spite of everything, it had offered me a way
out. It meant I could get out of the apartment, bury
myself in work and stop thinking about my life. Mostly,
I got on well with my colleagues, they often helped me
when I didn't know how to do something. My boss
didn't really ask why I was leaving. He must see students
come and go by the dozen every year – nothing odd
about that then.
I don't know what lies in store in Paris. Maybe
nothing will be any better, maybe I won't last a fortnight
there on my own. I know the problems will start straight
away. I'll be running all over the place looking for work,
and I'm also going to have to get used to living with
someone else again – someone I don't know well, too.
Worst of all, there won't be anyone to help me and give
me support, or pick me up when I'm down. I'm ready to
take all that on because it'll be with a view to having a
healthier future, working towards something better. All
prostitution ever offered me was the worst.
I've been in touch with my mother's friend who I'm
staying with but she can't come to the station to pick me
up. She lives in the suburbs and she's told me which
Métro line to take to get to her. This is only temporary,
of course, she's just helping me out. I need to find a roof
over my head quickly: anything will do, a flat-share, a
scruffy little room under the eaves somewhere. Even
when I'm completely demoralised I can't believe anything
can be as hard as what I've been through here in V.
I'm still looking at my text, not listening to the lecture.
I should be making the most of my last moments in this
magnificent amphitheatre, but I've got so many dark
thoughts jostling inside my head. I'm thinking about this
evening and my packing, which I'll have to do all on my
own. About the work and books I'll have to take with
me so that I can carry on studying. They mean so much
to me that I wouldn't leave them behind for anything in
the world, even if my case weighed a ton. And, anyway,
clothes aren't as important, I've managed well enough
without new things this year. Since September I've had
to learn to prioritise more than ever.
I'm keeping my apartment till the end of the month,
because I've paid the rent. It'll be empty but never mind.
My father's going to come and pick up the furniture with
a friend later. When I let my landlady know I was leaving
she obviously wasn't overjoyed but I promised I'd try to
find another tenant for her straight away. She's never
much liked me and I can't say I blame her. I've often
been late with the rent despite all my efforts. I've put ads
at uni to say there's a studio available for rent. It
shouldn't be hard finding someone in V, even at this
stage in the year. Actually, I couldn't give a stuff. I've got
plenty of other things to worry about at the moment.
I've only got ten minutes of the lecture left. People are
getting restless, wanting to go home. I'd like to cling to
my seat and not have to leave. There's no way they'd
understand. They couldn't imagine for one second what
I've had to do this year to cope with my constant financial
problems. The general hubbub is masking the lecturer's
voice and, resigned to the fact, he decides to bring the
lecture to an end. Once it gets to this time of day, he must
know that students' brains become hermetically sealed to
all new information and they need to get some fresh air.
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.
24 April 2007
I
T'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.