“How long do you need?”
“Sixty minutes.”
“Twenty pounds, incall.”
“Okay. What about my car?”
“Wherever you feel comfortable, but payment first.”
“Sure.”
As his lips touched mine, he unhooked my bra. I held back the tears that threatened to spill. Never in my wildest nightmares had I imagined taking such desperate measures to survive in a foreign land.
Back in India, the immigration agents had painted a dreamlike picture of life in the UK. They assured me that a visitor visa would solve all my problems, promising employment opportunities that would allow me to send enough money home to provide my parents with proper meals—not the leftovers I brought from the hotel where I worked as a waitress. They said I could give my younger sister the joy of wearing new, branded clothes instead of the second-hand ones we could afford from charity shops. But their promises were nothing but smoke and mirrors.
The reality hit hard when I arrived. I had prepared myself for the biting cold weather, but nothing could have prepared me for the relentless hunger and uncertainty. My dreams of lifting my family out of poverty were quickly replaced by the harsh realization that survival alone would be a battle. I couldn’t bring myself to tell my family what I was enduring. How could I? To them, I was their shining hope in a foreign land. Yet hiding the truth weighed heavily on me.
Every morning, I left the homeless shelter determined to find a job. After two months and seventeen days of endless rejection, I finally secured work at a takeaway shop in Norton. The hours were long—2 PM to 11 PM, six days a week—and the pay was meager: twenty pounds a day. Eight pounds went to transportation, and six to the shelter, leaving me with only six pounds daily. Yet, the free meals provided by the shop ensured I wouldn’t go hungry.
By the end of the month, I managed to send a portion of my earnings home. Hearing my mother’s voice light up with pride and imagining my sister parading around in new clothes gave me a bittersweet sense of accomplishment. But the debts loomed, and my best friend’s support back home became a lifeline I clung to desperately.
Mohammed Rashid, my manager, initially seemed understanding. He overlooked my lack of legal documentation and was flexible with my occasional lateness. But over time, his demeanor changed. The once-kind gestures turned into lingering touches, which I brushed off, swallowing my discomfort for the sake of my job. Then came the night he grabbed me by the waist and whispered his proposition: one night with him in exchange for a higher wage.
The world seemed to tilt. My stomach churned as I realized I couldn’t stay there any longer. I left the shop that night, jacket forgotten in my haste, clutching the seventeen pounds I had left. Fear gripped me as I walked into the premier shop and bought a pocket knife. It wasn’t much, but it was the only protection I could afford.
I spent that night behind a McDonald’s, using my bag as a makeshift pillow. Hunger gnawed at my stomach as I imagined my family back home. My mother, no doubt, was boasting about my “success” in England, while my father worried about attracting the evil eye. My sister, blissfully unaware, might have been twirling in a new dress I’d bought her. The thought brought a flicker of comfort but also deepened my despair.
Days turned into weeks. My reflection became gaunt, my bones more pronounced under my pale skin. Employers turned me away, their eyes narrowing at my worn clothes and unwashed appearance. My hope dwindled, and phone calls to my family became less frequent. It was easier to let them believe I was too busy living a life of success.
Stealing became a necessity. Frozen sandwiches and peanut butter from high-end grocery stores became my sustenance until I was caught. A slap across my face knocked out two teeth, and the shame of a lifetime ban stung more than the physical pain. Yet, I didn’t cry. Guilt was a luxury I couldn’t afford anymore.
It was during one of these bleak days that I met Veronica.
“What are you doing out here by yourself? Are you lost?”
Her rough face and the small scar on her forehead made her seem oddly approachable. She smelled of cigarettes and sweat, her bright red lipstick smudged. Despite her British appearance, her accent hinted at Eastern European roots.
“Food,” I whispered, my voice hoarse. “Please, just food or water.”
She didn’t ask questions. She brought me a meal and watched me eat, silent but observant. After handing me her jacket, she disappeared into a waiting car. I knew what she was—an escort. The food she gave me came from the money she earned by selling her body. But at that moment, it didn’t matter. She had kept me alive.
Veronica let me stay at her house. At first, I hid under the covers as strange men came and went. Gradually, I adjusted. Her generosity extended to lending me money to send home, but I knew I couldn’t depend on her forever. Watching the parade of men visiting her no longer frightened me. Instead, it filled me with hope. Perhaps this was a way out.
Standing before the mirror in her room, I saw someone I barely recognized. My mother’s genetics had blessed me with delicate features. Veronica’s mini skirt hugged my hips, and the red lipstick on my lips added a boldness I didn’t feel. When I stepped into the streets that day, every gaze reminded me of what I had to offer.
The first client was a 60-year-old man. As he fumbled awkwardly in the back of his car, I focused on the branded clothes I could now send my sister and the warm meals my parents would eat. Shame would come later, I told myself. For now, I was their queen, the savior sending blessings from across the seas.
Each subsequent night felt less alien. The sense of guilt I’d once carried dulled under the necessity of survival. Veronica coached me on how to handle clients and shared her own stories of resilience. We bonded in our shared struggle, her presence a beacon in the darkness. Her home became more than just a shelter; it was a space where I began to rebuild.
Yet, as the days turned into months, I couldn’t shake the gnawing emptiness. I avoided mirrors, knowing the reflection would remind me of the compromises I’d made. Veronica’s kindness never faltered, but her warnings grew sharper. “This life is a trap,” she said one evening as we shared a meal. “Don’t lose yourself in it.”
Her words haunted me. I realized that while I was sending money home, I was drifting further from the person I had been. Determined to reclaim a semblance of control, I began saving in secret. I cut corners where I could, ate less, and stashed away any extra earnings. Veronica noticed but didn’t say a word. Perhaps she understood.
One cold morning, I took the first step toward a new beginning. Armed with a small envelope of savings and a resolve forged in hardship, I walked into a community center offering support for undocumented immigrants. The path ahead was uncertain, but I clung to the faint glimmer of hope. If I could survive everything so far, I could survive this too.
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