Turns out that her roommate Sasha was having some kind of a heart attack last night, and when one of the girls tried to call an ambulance, their alky-boss prohibited her because ‘it would cost too much’.
Really, what a bitch!
‘She scared me so much, but luckily it didn’t end badly, I managed to find corvalol drops in one of the girls’ medical aid kits, and after some time Sasha’s chest pain calmed down and she fell asleep.’
‘Thank God she is fine.’ I fake my concern, thinking of my bed and how nice it would be to jump back in it for a few more hours.
‘Yes! She was fine,’ Lena continues with more indignation, ‘but not me! You know, seeing a fainting person is enough to make me faint myself…’
Oh yes, I do know…
It is not news that Lena is very wary and panicky. On top of that, sometimes she has cases of fainting for real. She would wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, feeling nauseous. She would get out of bed to go to the bathroom, and on the way there, she would zonk out and fall onto the floor. A few times, she smashed her face badly. That’s why she had to learn to control herself and not to jump out of bed whenever she woke up feeling groggy. Instead, she would just slide off the bed and crawl into the bathroom, so that if she did faint, she would already be near the floor, avoiding a dangerous fall.
There is no particular reason for these incidents; at least the doctors couldn’t find one. But most of the time it happens when she drinks or eats to excess – even just a little, which most of us would still consider to be moderation.
‘I couldn’t make myself sleep at all last night…’ her voice right now is full of so much irritating drama that I want to just flick her forehead.
‘But don’t worry, Jul. It’s all okay now.’
‘Good, Len. I am glad you both are well now…’
I was not worried at all, although I felt sorry for Lena. Of the three of us, the drinking-a-lot situation was the most difficult for her. But I know she was somehow managing, keeping her ‘moderation’ in the safe levels. After a few incidents in Luxembourg, during her first contract already, Lena also learnt how to drink without drinking. Every time she had more than two glasses of champagne, she’d go to the toilet, carefully put two fingers down her throat and eject the contents of her stomach. The only things she had to remember were to keep it quiet, not to forget the make-up bag to touch up after the procedure, and, of course, a mint or chewing gum.
Phew… yuck!
This may seem like a good solution for our problem of having to drink a lot every day, but only at first glance. Believe me: imagine forcing yourself to throw up several times a night, which wouldn’t be a big deal if you were bulimic and vomiting food, but I am talking about puking pure acid out of your stomach, mixed with sour champagne. Aside from the cocktail being extremely nasty, it also burns your throat and gullet.
The girls like me, who can tolerate big amounts of alcohol and other stuff, try never to use this option.
As I try hard not to fall asleep sitting right there in the café, I notice that my sister is, regardless her weariness, unusually twitchy, and that her eyes sparkle oddly.
Something is going on with her… and I don’t like it…
After the waiter brings us another two cappuccinos, this time decaf, Lena cradles her cup with both hands and smiles at me.
‘Jul, there is something else I wanted to talk to you about.’
No fucking way you are pregnant again! I think, but say only, ‘What is it?’
‘There is this customer I met a few weeks ago,’ Lena goes on. ‘Michel. He is from Paris, handsome, fit, 43 years old and not married.’ She pauses, looks inside her cup and adds, ‘At least, that is what he told me. But I believe him, Jul. Why would he lie?’
He would lie for the same reason as all your previous boyfriends did. Because this is what you want to hear, my hopelessly child-like sister.
‘On the first night,’ she continues, ‘he bought six bottles of Dom Perignon and didn’t even touch me. We spent all night talking about love and life. He kept looking into my eyes, saying that I was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.’
‘Wow! Six bottles?’ I whisper, counting in my head how much my sister made that night.
‘You would not believe it, but a week later Michel came back! He asked if I would like to join him for dinner. Of course I said yes. He paid the club the fine for my absence, and took me to a fine restaurant. Then he suggested that we go to his suite in the five star hotel, to continue the night…’ She looks down and bites her lip. ‘You know, strawberries and champagne in a beautiful hotel room with a gorgeous view and a handsome man who adores you… it was an amazing night… like a dream, Jul. A fairy tale!’
I sigh with admiration. ‘You are definitely one lucky bitch, Len!’
She sighs too. ‘But there is something else…’ Her voice drops and she falls silent in hesitation. I can see she is struggling to find the courage to say what she wants to say.
Oh no! You are definitely knocked up! goes through my head and I lean over the table and ask, trying to hide the irritation, ‘What, Len?’
‘The only little thing–’ she stops and looks down again ‘–is… hmmm… he wore red fishnet stockings under his €3,000 suit; he didn’t take them off until we’d finished making love.’
‘No way! Len, are you serious?’ I start laughing and my sister goes as red as the bright cashmere sweater she is wearing.
‘Stop laughing!’ she exclaims. ‘I think I love him.’ When I notice the tears in her eyes I cover my face with my hands and try to cease my laughter. I know what ‘I love him’ means in Lena’s interpretation – ‘I am ready to marry him and have kids…’ And that if she is not knocked up yet, she is going to be soon.
‘Come on Len, what do you want me to say? He is a perfect customer! I know you’ve already dreamt about you two getting married, but don’t freak out straight away. Sometimes absolutely abnormal things can, with time, become surprisingly normal. So what? Stockings? He seems like a nice guy to me anyway. What you should do is wear stockings yourself next time too.’ And we burst into laughter, together this time.
I walk her to the bus station and we talk more about her new admirer. Then Lena suddenly shoots, ‘Natalia told me you were fighting a lot lately.’
‘Never mind,’ I brush her off. ‘You know Natalia.’
But Lena isn’t going to let go. ‘You know, Jul, you must talk to somebody, get help, besides you know we are always there for you.’ She says this as if she is my therapist and I am some kind of mental patient.
Now I don’t even try to suppress my irritation. ‘I am fine, Lena, just smoking dope sometimes. Not a big deal! It’s not like I am some kind of junkie! Relax! Stop listening to Natalia! And just make sure you use condoms, so you don’t repeat your previous mistakes.’
15
It is a few months since we left Ukraine, but it only took me a few hours – not even days – to adapt to the grown-up world. I feel so cool and easy. I enjoy my financial freedom; I guess that is the first thing that changes any child into an adult. I love the fact that I am in charge. The unknown future and its responsibilities infect me with a bit of fear and rash excitement.
The only paradox that can’t stop stirring in my head is why on earth am I so morally comfortable with what I am doing? I do not feel ashamed or dirty because I am a pro.
Don’t get me wrong: I am not trying to promote this job, even though it can be the best recipe for many women for how to find the damn G-spot. We all know that practice makes perfect. I am not going to be insincere either and tell you that I fuck for money because I love sex. I do love sex, but the clientele does not come from my imaginary perfect world. The guys who are more often part of my reality are ugly, fat, smelly or sweaty. Hookers usually aren’t in a position to be picky, because they have already made their choice – the money. What’s more, this trade wouldn’t be my first choice if there were other well-paid jobs available. Trust me, if teachers earned the same as sex traders, I would not hesitate to change my clientele from adults to the under-aged.