Total pages in book: 184
Estimated words: 176002 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 880(@200wpm)___ 704(@250wpm)___ 587(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 176002 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 880(@200wpm)___ 704(@250wpm)___ 587(@300wpm)
“You’re coming back with us,” he says. “No arguments. You’re coming home with us.”
It takes all of my strength to look him in the eye.
“No. I’m not.”
He takes a breath, shakes his head. “Of course you’re coming home with us. We need to keep you safe.”
“Sorry, Dad, but I’m not. I’m happier – and safer, than I’ve ever been, and if you’d just give me a single second to speak, maybe you’d get another side of the fucking bullshit story.”
“ELLA!”
I point to the chair next to Mum across the table.
“Sit down, please.”
“NO! LISTEN!”
I’m not having another rant, so I get up from my chair, and pick up my bag.
“WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING?” he yells, yet again.
“Home,” I say. “Call me when you’re ready to speak and I’ll come straight back, but I don’t want that jackass Connor anywhere in sight.”
The pair of them look horrified, and it breaks my heart, but I can’t play the shrinking violet game anymore. I’m not being dragged backwards while I’m striding ahead.
“Ella!” Mum says, and I wish I could give her a hug.
“I love you both so much,” I say to them. “And I’m sorry Connor did this to you. I was going to tell you myself. I hope you call.”
I’m on my way, praying my legs are able to carry me to the door before I break down. I ignore the shouts of ELLA and hold up a hand. I don’t want to hear it.
Dad tries to charge after me, but I hear Mum intervene, with a TED! NO!
“ELLA, WAIT!” she screams. “DON’T WALK OUT! PLEASE! WE’LL LISTEN!”
I turn and look her right in the eyes. “You’ll listen?”
She nods, and wipes a fresh round of tears from her cheeks. I feel like the biggest bitch on the planet, my own tears springing up, but the first sign of weakness will only give them fuel, and I don’t want that.
I want to show them pride, not despair.
Not shame.
I take a seat back at the table, and Mum pulls Dad down into the chair next to her.
I thought I had my speech laid out, but it disappears into nothing. I shrug, with a wistful smile on my face.
“Yes, I’m a sex worker. Connor told the truth on that score.” Dad looks like he’s going to kick off again, but I hold a finger up. “BUT, I love my job. I’m happy with my job. I CHOOSE to do my job, I’m not FORCED, or coerced, or holed up in a shitty brothel somewhere like a cheap slut. I take the proposals I want, and I turn down the ones I don’t.”
I pull my phone from my handbag and call up my banking app. I log in, so the balance is showing clear on screen, and then I scoot it over to them.
“Does that look like a desperate, exploited girl’s bank account to you?”
My parents are in shock. Mum takes hold of my phone with trembling fingers, her other hand over her mouth.
“This isn’t about the money!” Dad says. “You’re still a prostitute!”
“Yeah, I am, but if I wasn’t, I’d likely be doing the same kind of stuff for free.” He glares, but I shrug. “I’m telling the truth. Connor would back it up, if he wasn’t such a lying piece of shit. Did you think I was an innocent virgin or something? Of course I wasn’t. I never wanted to be.”
“That’s none of our business,” Dad says, and I have to laugh.
“Yeah? Well, that should apply to the rest of it then, shouldn’t it?”
“HAVE YOU ANY IDEA HOW FUCKING WORRIED WE ARE?”
“Yeah, and I thank you for that, but it’s true.”
Mum is still staring at my phone in shock.
“Scroll back through the statements if you like,” I tell her. “Go on. Scroll back to last October, before I took my job. The job I WANTED. You want to see a desperate girl, scrawl through the balance, you’ll see how many times I had less than five quid in my account, cooking me and Connor crappy pasta and out of date tins of tomatoes for days on end. THAT’S when I should have asked for your help. THEN. And you know why I didn’t? PRIDE. Pride and Connor spewing bullshit and making me believe we were in it together. THAT’S when I was being used by a tosser. Not now. Definitely not now.”
Both of my parents stare at me, mute.
“Want my old postcode? Check it out on Streetview. Want to see the shithole we were living in?”
Mum shakes her head.
“I feel sick,” she says. “I just… I feel sick.”
“You’re not the only one,” I reply. “But I feel sick because I’ve hurt you, not because I’m ashamed, or embarrassed, or in danger. I’m more confident than I’ve ever been in my life. I’m more MYSELF than I ever thought I could be. And I fuck people for money. People WITH money. So what? Really, when it comes down to it, so what?”