‘It was lovely,’ I said to him.
And to my utter horror, he started to cry.
He’s just left. After he cried, we lay curled up together on the bed. Then he got up, got dressed and left.
God knows what that’s all about!
I’m a bit worried that he’s not going to live up to his end of the bargain and let me go in three days. I’m scared that he’s going to tell me he’s in love with me or something and then I’ll be done for. Because I can’t force him to give me the money and, to be honest, I don’t want his love. Whether he gets no affection or not, he is still being unfaithful to his wife. I can’t get involved with someone like that – even if I was capable of loving him. And I couldn’t be a kept woman, either.
Earning my own money, relying on myself, is the only thing that I’ve got going for me.
Urgh! Why has he done this? I could be wrong, but this changes everything and not for the better. Will just have to see how the next few days pan out.
Stupid Me
29th June 1996
He’s offered me another forty-five thousand if we keep the arrangement going for another three months. That, I wasn’t expecting.
Part of me wants to go for it because the last three months haven’t been that bad at all. But part of me doesn’t want to get his hopes up or to hurt him. I said as much when he made the offer.
‘You won’t hurt me, Honey,’ he said, with conviction. ‘The other night I was a bit … upset about my wife. That’s what she said the first time we became intimate. It was the first time for both of us and your words brought back the bittersweet memories of that time. I like your company, Honey, and what you have done for me, how you have brought me back to life, I cannot begin to describe, but I recognise now that anything I think I feel for you is what I feel for my wife. I’m so sad that our relationship is no longer physically intimate. I think that’s why I want to keep this arrangement going – it is like having a little bit of my original relationship with my wife here. If you understand?’
I nodded, and felt a little better. But still …
I don’t know why I’m writing this as if there’s still a decision to be made. We talked and talked and talked and finally I agreed. He’s going to show me the money in his account for me tomorrow, and then we’re going to continue with our arrangement.
I might be mad, but if it’s anything like the last three months, it really won’t be any kind of hardship.
13th July 1996
On my grave, it will probably say Eve Quennox, The Most Stupid Woman on Earth. Or something shorter, snappier, and easier to chisel into stone.
That is what they call gallows humour.
But there was nothing humorous about last night. I just have to put it into context so that I do not go into the kitchen and take a knife and plunge it into my chest. Or start to scrape away at the top layer of my skin until the filth that is my body is changed for ever.
Last night, Caesar came over with a friend of his that I had met a few times on those business meetings I attended. We had barely spoken and he seemed a nice enough man, a little bumbling, a little foolish but not unpleasant. I was a little surprised because he hadn’t mentioned on the phone that he was bringing anyone with him, but I led the way to the living room and they both sat on the sofa while I played the perfect hostess and made drinks, asked them if they would like to eat, sat in the armchair waiting for instructions from Caesar as to what to do next.
Like the men do when I go to their meetings, they mostly ignored me as they sat and talked and smoked cigars and drank the whisky I kept for Caesar. Then Arnold got up, asked for directions to the bathroom and then left us to it. Caesar sat in his armchair, holding his cigar in one hand and his short whisky glass in the other, ignoring me. This was not the man I had got to know over the last few months and it was unsettling.
‘Come and sit on the sofa, there’s a good girl,’ he said suddenly, not looking at me, but at the table in the middle of the room.
I did as I was told, the uneasy feeling growing inside. He had sounded so cold and removed when he said that, I did not understand why. I did not understand what I had done wrong. Hadn’t I been welcoming enough, had I somehow offended him?
When Arnold returned from the bathroom, he came back to the sofa and sat so close to me that our thighs were pressed up against each other. I instantly looked to Caesar, to see his reaction, if he had noticed what had happened. He was sitting watching me, watching us. He was still watching as Arnold reached out and put his hand on my knee, resting it there as though it was a piece of furniture he had just happened to lay his hand upon, not the knee of a person.
I looked at Arnold’s hand: chubby and short, the tips of his fingers stained yellow. The palm of his hand was moist against my skin. My eyes flew up to Caesar again, expecting some sort of reaction from him now. Nothing except to lean back in the seat, raise his glass to his lips and stare down his nose at me.
Arnold’s hand left a damp trail as he moved it under my dress, then he forced it between my thighs. I had a flashback to the way my mother’s boyfriend would try and touch me, the way his hand had been unwelcome and disgusting on my skin back then. Arnold’s hand was just as unwelcome, even though I had been touched there by so many men in the last few years.
Arnold clumsily moved his thumb up and down in his pathetic attempt at a caress. He leaned in close to me. ‘I’ve been waiting to get close to you ever since you walked into that restaurant that night,’ he said, his breath rancid and slurred with alcohol, as well as the whisky, and the cigar he had smoked. I locked gazes with Caesar, his eyes hard and unyielding, cold and expressionless. He was telling me, by his lack of reaction, what was expected of me.
I had not said this was out of the question in the agreement, had I? I had not said he couldn’t invite anyone over whenever he felt like it and let them have a go. ‘You wanted it, too, didn’t you?’ Arnold said, his grip on my thigh tightening, his thumb rubbing hard enough to leave friction marks.
Swallowing in one go the bile pool in my mouth and the disgust shivering through my body, I forced myself to focus on the man in front of me. I compelled my hand to reach out for the second button on his shirt; I made my face become a smile; I willed my body to unclench enough to do this; I forced my heart to stop crying.
‘You want me to give it to you, don’t you?’ Arnold said not far enough under his breath for it to sound seductive. It sounded pathetic. Like he was. Like I was for going through with this.
Stop thinking, I told myself, stop feeling, start being her again. Start being Honey, start being the woman who can do this.
‘I think we’ll be a lot more comfortable in the bedroom,’ I said, in Honey’s voice. I had her make-up on, I had her clothes on, I had just forgotten to switch her persona on. I felt the smile deepen on my face. I stood up, taking my time, stretching my body so he could see. I took Arnold’s hand and I ignored the man who stood also to follow us out of the room, down the corridor and to the bedroom door. Still holding his whisky and his cigar, Caesar stood in the bedroom doorway, as if watching something on television.
‘Take off your clothes,’ I said in Honey’s husky, sexy voice, ‘and lie on the bed. I’ll be with you in just a minute.’
Drunk and overtly desperate, Arnold was tearing at his clothes in seconds. I knew his sort well: he talked a good game about the young women who’d been begging him to fuck them, but he had clearly never been with anyone apart from his wife. Either that, or he was the type who had got away with sexually harassing a few secretaries in his time and thought that counted as being a ‘ladies’ man’.
I turned my back on him for a second, put my hand on the doorhandle and stared right at the man in the doorway. He was nothing to do with this.
I shut the door with a determined click, and then turned the key in the lock.
Then I spun back to Arnold, lying naked on the bed, his chubby, flabby-looking body pale and pasty, but strangely solid and
unmoving, his face a picture of eagerness, his penis erect and ready.
He still wore his black socks and, from the way they were up to his shins, had probably pulled them up just before he lay on the bed.
Honey would find this one so easy.
But Eve was the one who was here. She was using Honey’s voice, and she was using Honey’s smile, but it was Eve who walked over to the bed and began to undress for work.
14th July 1996
Had to stop writing yesterday because I was reliving it all over again and I got scared that I would actually harm myself.
Caesar left two hours ago, and he came to tell me that I would do that with whoever he wanted me to, whenever he wanted me to. Or there would be no money, and he would not pay next month’s rent and he would hunt me down wherever I went and kill me. ‘At the end of the six months – and yes, it is now six months – I will review the situation, see if I want to release you from your contract or not.’
There was something in his eyes that told me that he was not making idle threats; there was something in his cool, languid body language that reassured me that he would think nothing of carrying out his promise. He was certainly rich enough and powerful enough to do it, to kill me.
I looked at the man on my sofa and saw the shadow of a premature death all prostitutes knew stalked them, and I said nothing. What could I say? He has not given me the forty-five thousand from before – it was going to be a lump sum at the end – and I have nowhere to run to. I doubt the police would take me seriously, and my savings are very depleted from the months I spent looking for a proper job before I started escorting again.
‘Is that understood?’ he said to me.
I stared at him. By understood he meant, of course: you are going to accept those terms.
‘I do not appreciate the silent treatment,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘For your sake, I am glad you’ve accepted.’
And then … then he showed me what he was really like. That clumsy, amateurish man pining for his lost relationship with his wife, who cried after that first and only time, is a lie. He does not exist.
Caesar is nothing like that. The real Caesar has left so many bruises on my body I can barely move. He has made me feel so degraded, I can barely think. The real Caesar is the devil incarnate. And I have made a pact with him.
Must go to sleep now, am hoping my body feels better tomorrow. It may recover quickly but what am I going to do about my mind?
Me
30th July 1996
They’re not all like Arnold, although I have had to ‘see’ him again.
Most of them are a lot worse than Arnold. A couple are as pathetic as him, but the rest …
You know, the worst part of all of this is that Honey has gone. She has left. I cannot access her any more; the mask does not stay in place. It’s me doing these things. Always me. Eve.
I spend so much time in the bath, in the shower, crying, changing my clothes and changing the already-clean bedding. I don’t sleep in the main bedroom, any more, either. I sleep in the smaller second room, so that I do not wake to be surrounded by the memories, the images that are almost solid, the feelings of what I have experienced.
Dawn told me to avoid pimps like the plague. ‘They’ll always bleed you dry, take everything you’ve got, then find someone else. Always.’
Look at me: not only do I have a pimp, I have probably the classiest, poshest pimp in town, who is bleeding me dry, but probably not looking for anyone else.
chapter sixteen
libby
‘Now you listen to me, Butch, we both know that Jack walked you this morning, so if you’re thinking I’m taking you out right now, you’ve got another think coming.’
Butch whines at me from his place by the door with his lead in his mouth, his big black eyes staring sorrowfully at me.
‘Are you trying to emotionally blackmail me?’ I ask him.
Another whine, this one longer, softer and more pathetic than the last, his head cocks even further to one side, his eyes become even larger.
‘You are a disgrace,’ I tell him. ‘No one’s going to fall for this.’
He whines in reply. Of course I’m going to fall for it. I fall for it all the time. Whenever he’s done something bad and goes to hide under the kitchen table he’ll then whine and simper until I forgive him.
‘You see, the thing is, I haven’t actually been out of the house since I came back from that counselling session. I’ve had no reason to go out and I don’t like being out there. I feel safer in the house and people don’t stare at me in here.’
He lays down and rests his head on his paws, his blue and silver lead clattering as it hits the wooden floor.
I can’t believe this. I am being made to feel guilty by a dog. And it’s not even my dog!
Butch sighs, rather dramatically for a little dog, I feel, but still it’s had its desired effect: ‘Come then,’ I tell him. ‘We’ll head out the back door so I can brace myself for going out there again.’
He takes his time to get up, as if he’s not sure if I really mean it. But then I know, as I go into my bedroom to change into jeans and to find a hat, that he’s probably doing a little victory dance in the corridor.
I’ve made it to the side entrance of the house without any problem but here, at the threshold where the house meets the pavement, I am having trouble moving my foot from the boundaries of the house to the outside.
Obviously Butch has no such worries and sits on the pavement, his head cocked, staring at me. My hand is resting against the rough, cream render of the house as I hold myself up, the air I keep trying to get into my body is rushing in and out too quickly for me to breathe.
I can do this, I tell myself. I can do this.
My body will not move, though. My right foot will not lift itself off the ground and move forwards. My chest is rising and falling even faster than before.
I can do this. I can do this.
I force my gaze down, down to my trainered feet to see if they have somehow become welded to the concrete path. They haven’t.
I can do this. I’ve done it twice before, I can do it right now.
BANG! suddenly rocks my body and I feel it through every cell as I’m violently shaken. I look out into the street, looking for the noise, for what is making that noise and BANG! again. I can hear the screech of car tyres, I can feel my body being swept aside, I can see the wall and the lamppost heading towards—
I stumble back, waiting for the collision that isn’t going to happen, that happened nearly a month ago, that is in the past. But it feels like it is happening now and I feel myself hyperventilating.
Butch is sitting on the pavement watching me.
‘Come on, Butch,’ I manage to say. But I’m not making sounds. Like after the crash, I’m speaking with my mouth, but no sound is being produced. ‘Butch!’ I say. Nothing. Nothing. They called it Aphonia. I put my hand to my throat and then turn away, hoping that action will tell Butch to follow.
The pain that has been mainly under control is gripping at my middle again, and I clutch my arms around my body as I force myself to move, to shuffle back to the safety of the house. Butch is by my side, suddenly, walking with me and looking up constantly in something that would look like concern on a human face.
‘It’ll be all right,’ I tell him with my silent voice. ‘When we get inside, it’ll be all right.’
Once I shut the kitchen door behind me, my body unclenches. ‘Are you OK, Butch?’ I ask him. The sound of my voice is a sweetness that I did not know my ears would miss.
Butch barks in reply.
‘Good, that’s good.’ I move to the sink and turn on the cold water tap, splash water on my face, enjoying the chill of it on my skin as well as the ease with which oxygen is now filling my lungs.
‘I’m going to lie down,’ I tell him. ‘And take some painkillers.’ I’ve hardly needed them this past week or so, despite trying to get some more
from the GP. But I need them now. I need them to completely kill this pain and to let me sleep.
Silently, Butch follows me to my bedroom. He waits for me to take two tablets, then to lie down on the bed. Once I am settled, he hops up and curls in close to me. He’s been doing that almost every night since Jack started sleeping upstairs again. I should probably tell him to get down, to stop him getting used to the idea of sleeping on a human bed, but as the tablets take over and do their work I reach out and lazily stroke my fingers through his fur. The truth is, it looks like I am stuck in this house, and I feel so much better for having Butch here.
libby
Today, Eve is lying on her back with her eyes wide open, not moving. She looks as though the life has been sucked out of her. That there is nothing left to give.
‘I’m sorry this happened to you,’ I whisper to her.
And she turns to me and smiles. ‘It’s not your fault,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry for what’s happened to you, too.’ Then she returns her unblinking gaze to the ceiling, goes back to being almost dead.
eve
14th August 1996
I went out today to do one of my favourite things – reading on one of the walls that separates the sea from the promenade. It’s so wonderful to be able to spend as much time outdoors as I want during the daylight hours and I often lay back on the concrete, rest the book I’m reading on my chest and listen to the world go by.
It’s calming for the soul, it’s cleansing for the mind, and it is fortifying for the body. I always walk a little way down into Hove because there are less people there than Brighton.