Trafficked: The Terrifying True Story of a British Girl Forced into the Sex Trade Read Free Page B

back. But I knew who she meant. I’d noticed him almost as soon as we started dancing.
    The next time we went to the club, the same guy was there again with his friends, and as Serena and I danced, he kept trying to catch my eye. Whenever I looked in his direction, which I tried not to do, he smiled at me and I pretended I hadn’t seen him. He was there the next time too, and the time after that, and then one night, when the music stopped for a moment and Serena turned to talk to someone she knew, I looked up to find him standing beside me.
    â€˜Will you ever talk to me?’ he asked. The inflection in his voice – as well as his long-lashed, almost-black eyes – gave away the fact that he wasn’t English, which I’d already pretty much guessed. I shook my head and said, ‘No. No, I’m sorry. I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to talk to anyone.’ Then the music started again and I moved away from him and began to dance.
    Later, when I glanced towards the edge of the dance floor where he and his friends always stood, he was still watching me. This time, though, there was a hurt expression on his face that made me feel a bit guilty. And then I thought about my father and all the unhappiness falling in love had caused for my mother and I looked away without returning his rueful smile.
    A few days after that, I was alone in the store where I worked when I heard the familiar scraping sound the door to the street always made as it was pushed open and I looked up to see him standing in front of me. I could feel the heat of a blush rising into my cheeks and I turned awayfrom him quickly, hoping he hadn’t seen the flash of recognition I knew must have been visible in my eyes. Then, muttering ‘I’ll get someone to help you’, I scurried through the archway at the back of the store like a startled rabbit and hissed at one of the guys who was on his break, ‘I have to go to the office. Can you speak to the customer who’s just come in?’
    I must have looked like an idiot and ‘the customer’ must have felt so embarrassed. But I’d been taken by surprise when I’d seen him standing there and, for some reason, my instinct had been to get away from him. I knew he hadn’t opened the door by chance; there was absolutely no doubt in my mind that he’d come to see me. He came back two or three times after that and although I couldn’t help but feel flattered by his interest and persistence, I did exactly the same thing each time.
    Then, one evening, when Serena and I were at the club, the music stopped and he suddenly turned away from his friends, walked resolutely towards me, stood in front of me and said, ‘I am Kastriot. My friends call me Kas. Would you like to go for a drink with me?’
    I looked directly into his face for a moment and thought how kind his eyes were and how confident he seemed to be, particularly considering the fact that his previous attempts to talk to me had been so comprehensively rejected.
    â€˜No, thank you. I don’t drink,’ I answered, shifting my focus to a spot just above his left shoulder and prayingsilently that the conversation-stopping thud of music would start up again. But it seemed that God and the DJ weren’t on my side.
    â€˜All right,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll go for a coffee.’
    â€˜I don’t drink coffee either,’ I told him.
    â€˜Tea then,’ he persisted. ‘We will go together and drink tea. It is a well-known fact that everyone in England likes tea.’
    I glanced towards him and saw that his smile had become tentative and the expression in his eyes had lost some of its confidence. Once again I felt mean, but I couldn’t help myself from answering in a cold, unfriendly voice, ‘ I don’t.’
    â€˜Orange juice then?’ He looked confused and I felt my cheeks blush with shame.
    He spoke good English, with an