Not So Secret Blog Of A Harlot

When all the wine in the world is not enough to quench your thirst, and all the company you keep leaves you hollow and alone, and the tears you cry in your sleep fill an ocean their own, pity not your filthy soul, but the innocents who have never known what you mourn.

It's a common fact that those who pitty themselves ache only for what they have lost, and drown in the swamp of their own desires, never attempting to reach for salvation, preferring instead to let the murk swallow them whole. So beaten black and blue, I walk home, head held high, secure in the knowledge that this will all be over soon. My indignity, humiliation and pain all serve a purpose; to raise me up from this pit to a better place where I can then help others who have never known the pleasures of my short life.

I graduate in 3 months, in 3 weeks my dissertation will be finished, 3 years from now I will be a fully qualified lawyer, and so help me I will find a way that no woman ever has to do what I have had to just to survive. So many times I could have given up, taken the easy way out and drowned. But I won't. If I quit now, it will all be a waste, and people like him will have won.

So what if I have bruises that won't heal for a week, they're a reminder of what has to be done. How would I feel if I gave in now, and D ended up in the same mess? So fuck the fuckers who think I'm their own private play thing, to be tossed and torn like a leaf on the wind. You'll get yours, when the time comes, I promise you.

Until then, I'll lie back, think of England, whatever.

'Rebecca! I'd recognise that skater's arse anywhere!'

Perfect, just the message I want to find in my inbox. Very few people can make my skin crawl, which considering what I do is mildly impressive. The majority I just feel pity for, but not P. I genuinely loath him, and usually ignore / block his messages, or change my profile whenever he surfaces. But he pays good money. Money I need to save for my conversion course next year, and that will feed us and keep D in nappies for another week.

'I'm coming to town tomorrow and was hoping you'd like to hook up? I always seem to miss you.'

Translation: 'Why are you ignoring me?'
Answer: Because you're a creepy old man, make my skin crawl and when I'm with you, and for a good few days afterwards, I hate myself. Do you have any idea how long it takes to wash that kind of dirt off?

Reply I sent: 'Hi P, sorry I've been a bit snowed under with coursework, but I have a bit of a lull now. If you like we could do dinner tomorrow night. Kisses, Rebecca xxx'

I knew exactly what I was letting myself in for on Monday when I sent that, but the student loan's already disappeared in the post xmas credit repayment and the rent's just gone up by 15%, something about interest rates, inflation, and the landlord being a twat.

Needless to say last night was nowhere near worth the £700 I payed in on my way back. I love Lebanese food, and Bayswater is a lovely area, but the company was hideous. Sitting in a restaurant wearing a school uniform (sans tie) and no underwear while a leacherous 50 something visually rapes you while dipping pittas in humous is not my idea of a dream date. Nor is 'accidentally' spilling white wine down my blouse and smiling coyly at the waiter while performing a quick Sharon Stone between leg flash.

I could feel everyone in the room looking at me, they all knew what I was. What he was. But I was the object of their contempt. Yet they would feel equal scorn for me if I didn't work and leached off the state and tax payer to support myself and D. Funny world, damned if you do, damned if you don't.

Having to fawn over that greasy sleaze bag really takes it out of me. I don't even want to remember the hotel. I'll block it out, same as I did the boat show and what he did then. But in my darkest moments it'll resurface, just to remind me what I had to do to survive.

What the header said. Was woken by a fuzzy Greenday rendition of Basket Case, too slow to answer the phone, but thirty seconds later had a text from A;

'gr8 nan in hosp w big C. goin bas. will pick u n D up'

Fun. Here I was, thinking I could have a well earned day off, but no such luck! D's great, great grandmother has cancer, some kind of gastro-intestinal variety, and since she hasn't seen the little one yet and the doctors have given her two weeks (she's already had one now), we have to endure an awkward trip to Basildon with her father.

We're still in touch, but the break up was, well, not messy, but strange. Not really clean. It's only been about a month, but it seems like we've had this arrangement for months, probably a result of A working four nights on, four off. Why did I deprive my daughter of a father? I didn't. He decided I wasn't enough. He needed something more to satisfy him, to make him feel confident about his body. To be wanted. Imagine a typical insecure teenage girl, obsessed with looks and desirability to the opposite sex and that's him. When the equivalent of a washed up thirty-something who couldn't find someone his own age to screw turned up, A jumped. Except this was his ex. Who is a psycho. And no, that's not me being bitter and catty, she really is. For the past three years or so she's been sending him messages of varying wierdness, up to the point where in September she threatened suicide.

While I was in hospital with severe post natal depression A finally snapped. He slept with her. At least three times. Something about she was the only person he could talk to about how he was feeling because all his friends are either self-absorbed or have just drifted away since he (well, we, until recently) moved out of London.

I do understand how he felt, and why he did it (and I do buy the sex addict excuse too, because he genuinely is addicted), but I just don't feel I can trust him anymore and it's far better to be apart and find a way to be happy, resolve things in our own time and possibly resume things, than to stay together for D's sake and become resentful.

Felt sick all the way to the hospital. Sitting in a car with people I know, but aren't related to on the way to see a critically ill woman I've never met is scary. I'm the outsider. Awkward silence didn't help much either. Well, what do you say in that situation? Is it really over with L, or are you lying, again?

It always amazes me how well (if that's the right word) terminal patients can look. A's great nan is the real-life version of Catherine Tate's 'nan'. She was 'being posh' because I was there and hadn't met her, but aspects of the character slipped through in her mannerisms and speech patterns.

Being together with everyone made me realise how much I miss being part of a family. Mine are miles away in Yorkshire, and I don't belong to that one anymore, I feel like sodding Annie. Except my Daddy Warbucks changes every night.

Speaking of which I need to get D to the sitter and go meet him. Day off ruined so might as well make it a work day.

Here I am. Another day, another dollar. And another rejection.
I'm 22, single, looking for a decent job to finance my degree and look after my baby, and life in this city is by no means a walk in the park.

Well, today it was. Regents Park. There's a promenade that runs from the St. John's Wood side to Marylebone Road, and about half way along there's a secluded garden area. Just a small mound with trees around the outside, so nobody can see in, flower beds and a bench. In the summer it's quite picturesque. In mid-January it is too, depending on the company. I didn't mind the near torrential rain, I had my boots on so my feet were dry, and a freshly water-proofed mac.

I've used that spot so many times. Mainly because no-one ever goes there, and if they do, I have plenty of back ups. S was late. That's normal though, the past two times we've hooked up he's been at least ten minutes late, I think it's because he's paranoid someone will notice him acting suspiciously. He's a sweet guy, if a little nervous, but now we know each other a little better he's beginning to relax. A little too much actually. Depending how things go we may only see each other another two times or so, he's starting to ask personal questions.

S has a thing for al fresco and high risk 'sports'. Our first date was in a cinema. We shared an ice cream. The next time he helped me change in Selfridges' changing rooms. Today it was rain and the park. Stockings, suspenders, an under-bust corset (by Velda Lauder no less, an Erotica '07 purchase), kinky boots and a mac. And a condom. Always protected, always safe.

He's wearing a charcoal pin-stripe suit, Boeteng, black leather brougues, Gucci, powder blue shirt, Lewin, red tie, M&S (a tie is, after all, just a tie) and black woolen overcoat, Armani. Like a sodding walking advert to pick-pockets; 'I have a blackberry, I know how to use it. The i-phone's in the pocket, no security settings. Oh, and my wallet, black Amex and Oyster are tucked away in my pants.' His satchel's either at the office or in the possession of the local pimps and dealers. God knows why he didn't bring a brolly, but whatever the reason, it's irrelevant, it would only get in the way. And he looked kind of cute with his hair all wet and slick, like Toby Maguire in Spiderman, cute, geeky, but somehow sexy. Another reason I won't be seeing him much longer.

It's always quick with S. He gets off on the danger more than the act. He rushes back to the office to snaffle a quick lunch at his desk. I trudge back to Gower Street to change, the toilets in the cloisters are nice and spacious, and more importantly warm. Plus I stashed my bag in there.

Three hours study in the library. Persian Empire on Monday will be a breeze. Source analysis. Simple. Collected D from nursery, she's happy to see me, as usual. She's started putting her arms out when she wants picking up. The tube stinks, as always. Hot, sweaty and rude. The sooner I can move back up to Yorkshire the better!

No work this evening, I want a break, it's the weekend and I deserve some time with my baby.

Bank Monday to deposit £250 for my sins.