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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the balance, you’ll see how many times I had less than five quid in my account, cooking me and Connor crappy pasta and out of date tins of tomatoes for days on end.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?”
“So A LOT!” Dad says, but his words are weaker now. He puts his head in his hands, and his armour breaks. He wraps an arm around Mum’s shoulder and he cries along with her, and it’s too much for me. I let silent tears of my own roll free.
“I was going to tell you,” I say again. “I was going to tell you all about my life now, and share the truth. I hoped you’d be happy for me. I wanted to tell you the truth in person, and I wanted to give you the chance to understand.” I clear my throat, fighting back sobs. “But you know what? Pictures speak louder than words. Call up my photo gallery, Mum.”
She’s still gripping my phone.
“Mum, call up my photo gallery. Scroll through and see how much of a broken, exploited whore I look, holed up with my pimp, if that’s what you think he is.”
She does it, and thank God she does.
They’ve seen pictures of me with Josh before, but not many of them, and definitely not such a natural stream of the day to day.
I watch as she stares at the first picture, one of me in my PJs on the sofa, laughing as Josh took a snap of me in silly fluffy cat socks. Dad looks too, and they scroll. So many pictures of happiness. Selfies where I’m glowing, Josh grinning next to me. Snaps of us in London, travelling proud. Me posing before nights out, and capturing pictures of Josh smiling at me in pure adoration. Him in the kitchen making us coffees. Him cooking. Us eating a string of spaghetti between us like in Lady and the Tramp. Videos of us laughing. Joking. Me holding my sides, tears in my eyes because he’s set me off in crazy giggles.
Love.
