In an extract from her posthumous memoir, Virginia Roberts Giuffre remembers the day an ‘apex predator’ recruited her from Mar-a-Lago, aged just 16; how she was trafficked to a succession of wealthy and powerful men – and how everyone knew what was going on

I can still remember walking on to the manicured grounds of Mar-a-Lago for the first time. It was early morning – my dad’s shift began at 7am, and I’d caught a ride to work with him. Already the air was heavy and moist, and the club’s 20 acres of carefully landscaped greens and lawns seemed to shimmer.

My dad was responsible for maintaining the resort’s in-room air-conditioning units, not to mention its five championship tennis courts, so he knew his way around. I remember he gave me a brief tour before presenting me to the hiring manager, who agreed to take me on. That first day, I was given a uniform – a white polo shirt, emblazoned with the Mar-a-Lago crest, and a short white skirt – and a name tag that said JENNA in all capital letters. (Although I was called Virginia, everyone at home called me Jenna.)

After a few days, my dad said he wanted to introduce me to Mr Trump himself. They weren’t friends, exactly. But Dad worked hard, and Trump liked that – I’d seen photos of them posing together, shaking hands. So one day my father took me to Trump’s office. “This is my daughter,” Dad said, and his voice sounded proud. Trump couldn’t have been friendlier, telling me it was fantastic that I was there. “Do you like kids?” he asked. “Do you babysit at all?” He explained that he owned several houses next to the resort that he lent to friends. Soon I was making extra money a few nights a week, minding the children of the elite.

But it was my day job that gave me my first real vision of a better future. The spa, like the resort itself, was gilded, with luxe finishes and an immaculate, sparkling decor. There were giant gold bathtubs, like something a god would soak in. I marvelled at how peaceful everyone seemed to feel within its walls. My duties – making tea, tidying the bathrooms, restocking towels – kept me just outside the inner sanctum of the massage rooms, but I could see how relaxed clients looked when they emerged. I seized on the idea that, with the right training, I could eventually make a living by helping others reduce stress. Maybe, I thought, their healing would fuel my own.

Then one steaming hot day some weeks before my 17th birthday, I was walking toward the Mar-a-Lago spa, on my way to work, when a car slowed behind me. Inside was a British socialite named Ghislaine Maxwell and her driver, Juan Alessi, whom she insisted on calling “John”. Alessi would later testify under oath that on this day, when Maxwell spotted me – my long blond hair, my slim build, and what he called my notably “young” appearance – she commanded him from the back seat, “Stop, John, stop!”

Alessi did as he was told, and I found out later that Maxwell got out and followed me. I didn’t know it yet, but an apex predator was closing in.