Pretending: The brilliant new adult novel from Holly Bourne. Why be yourself when you can be perfect?

by Holly Bourne

  ‘I’m fine,’ I snap at Matt, as he loiters behind my chair.

  ‘Are you su—?’

  ‘I SAID I’M FINE, OK?’

  He and Katy glance at one another but neither of them say anything, and let me get back to my shift.

  I’m helping. It’s worth it because I’m helping.

  The afternoon passes. The sky gathers itself into a tight grey knot, rumbling softly every so often, like a stomach awaiting lunch. The air’s so humid you can stick your tongue out and drink from it. We have all the windows open, uselessly, and arguments have started about who has the best fan. At 3 p.m., in an attempt to be Friday and jovial, Mike goes down to the Tesco Express and comes back with a packet of already-half-melted Fabs.

  ‘Ice-cream party in the kitchen,’ he announces, more excitable than a children’s breakfast-TV presenter.

  Everyone lurches up like zombies and clugs themselves next to the kettle, reaching out and grabbing at the ice lollies. Matt sets up his speakers and a Spotify playlist and we’re forced to hang around, making small talk and bonding as an office.

  ‘What are your plans for the weekend?’ I’m asked a dozen times by the IT guys, the fundraisers and the one HR lady we can afford to keep on.

  Forcing myself to have potentially triggering sex for a weird vendetta against a man I’ve catfished, I think. I say, ‘Oh, no real plans. It’s hard to do anything in this heat. How about you?’

  Between slurps of the red bits of their lollies, they tell me about their plans to BBQ or to swim at the Lady’s Pond, their fingers sticky from the drips. Katy ends up next to me and gives me a wet wipe without asking.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, taking it, and using it to wash the goo off my hands.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asks again. ‘Your shift this afternoon …’

  ‘I told you I’m fine.’

  ‘I know, I know, I was just double-checking.’

  I want to snap at her, but, instead I force myself to smile. ‘Thank you but I really am fine.’

  ‘You sure it’s not a Ross-from-Friends “I’m fiiiiine”?’ she does the impression perfectly and I snort out an unexpected laugh.

  ‘I promise. Ta. Though I think I’m going to go back and do some work before Mike inevitably lets us go early.’

  ‘He’s such a soft touch.’

  I pick up another lolly and return to my computer, trying to work through the happy chattering and loud music and not think too much about later.

  Joshua wants me there at seven. So Gretel should turn up at around seven fifteen. I wonder if he wants us to have sex before, or after, dinner. I’d rather before, if I’m being honest with you. I still don’t understand how anyone can be in the mood with a full, swollen stomach digesting a hunk of beef or whatever it is he’s going to cook to impress me. I’m clenching my mouse so tightly that my entire hand is sweating, droplets of it pooling onto the mouse mat. I stare at my hand, like it isn’t my own, then somehow it is four thirty and Mike’s told us we can all go home early because it’s so hot, and the storm is coming and HAPPY FRIDAY!

  I’m one of those martyr arseholes who doesn’t leave though. As Matt and Katy pack their stuff around me, I just hold my mouse and look at my computer. People must think I’m working. If you just hold your mouse and look at the screen you can pretend so easily that you are working.

  ‘You staying here?’ Matt asks.

  I nod. ‘Yeah. I took a half day. I shouldn’t leave early.’

  ‘And you’re sure you’re—’

  ‘Please. Katy’s already triple-checked. I’m fine.’

  His eyebrows draw up. He doesn’t believe me. ‘If you’re sure,’ he says, doing up the buckle of his cycling helmet with a loud click.

  ‘Surer than sure!’

  Katy nods to confirm my mental health while packing up her bag. ‘She’s finer than Ross from Friends,’ she says. ‘Right, I’m off to enjoy having the flat to myself before Jimmy gets home. Have a good one guys.’ She shoves her basket bag over her shoulder and leaves with most of the rest of the office. Mike stays only an extra half an hour before, he too, gets up and starts packing his bag.

  ‘Don’t stay too late.’ He stands over my desk, where I have a volunteer spreadsheet open that I’ve not done anything with for two hours. ‘It’s Friday.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  I can’t anyway. I have to go and have sex with someone. I wonder what it must be like, to be a girl who looks forward to having sex with someone new. Who anticipates it because she’s so un-fucked-up about such things.

  I hate that girl.

  ‘Do you mind turning the fans off when you leave?’

  ‘Yep no probs.’

  I’m left. It’s only five. I have exactly one hour and twenty-seven minutes before I need to leave. Of course, Gretel would not be watching the clock. She’d be too busy working hard at her job, going out for after-work drinks and laughing with her head thrown back, mouth wide and open, her teeth white and clean and straight.

  ‘Hahahaha,’ says Gretel. She probably hasn’t even decided whether she’ll have sex tonight or not. She is the sort of person who ‘sees where the night takes her’. It’s only coincidence that her body is hair-free and moisturised, and that her underwear is matching. ‘How well did that work out?’ she’ll laugh gleefully afterwards, pointing to her perfectly groomed pubes, full of naked body confidence.

  I, meanwhile, pass the time by laying my head on the desk, my neck twisted to one side, staring at the blades of the fan whirring around.

  It’s fine, I mutter to myself. It’s just sex, stop being weird, April. Stop being so goddamned weird. You fucking fucked-up mess. Stop it.

  I go to the tiny bathroom with not enough natural light and make my face look pre-sex-ready. I brush my teeth so hard that a little speckle of blood splatters out into the sink when I spit. I use toilet roll as a flannel and wash under my armpits, wiping off the odour of the day. I use Citymapper to work out how to get to Joshua’s. My phone goes as I’m planning my route.

  Joshua: Just got in and cooking up a storm. Hope you like Mexican! X

  Joshua: PS: My door bell is a bit confusing. Press the button that says ‘7’ and make sure you’re already pushing the door when it buzzes. Any probs, I’ll come down and let you in x

  I wish he’d stop being so nice. It puts me on edge. Leaves slug trails of guilt glistening through my blood. I remind myself that he’s only being nice because he is dating an illusion of a woman rather than an actual woman. If I was being me – tired and too hot and not ready to have sex yet and likely to burst into tears at any given moment – well … he wouldn’t be so nice then, would he?

  I pack my bag, checking I have everything. I turn the fans off, one by one, till the air in the office is so still and muggy you could cut it into slices. Then I make my way to his.

  He greets me holding a giant mixing bowl filled with chopped vegetables. ‘Gretel! You managed to work the buzzer. Congratulations! That makes you infinitely smarter than most of my friends.’

  I am beaming with smiles, there is no insecurity inside this body of mine. Gretel is here and it’s Friday and what a wonderful adventure life is. I hold up a bottle of tequila. ‘You said we were having Mexican?’

  He leans in to kiss me on the cheek. The bowl clashes between us. ‘Tequila! You’re a legend.’ He kisses me again on the lips this time, slipping in a tiny bit of tongue. ‘Thank you. Right, come on in. Welcome to my flat!’

  He takes the bottle in one hand and returns to the kitchen with the bowl in the other. I take off my sandals and follow him, barefoot, trying to sneak glances around as I do. There isn’t a hint of female touch anywhere. The sofa is black and made from cheapish leather. The art’s nondescript – masculine lines hung in basic frames. The gadgets are all top-notch however, showing off his IT nerdery. The TV is massive, with all sorts of fancy wireless speaker set-ups. In the corner there’s a desk with a giant computer with two monitors and all the gear, plus a laptop. In
the kitchen, I see further gadgets littered around the place. Cooking thermometers, and a posh coffee-maker. Things with fiddly bits and instruction manuals that would need to be read properly in order to get them to work.

  ‘Margarita?’ Joshua asks, holding up a state-of-the-art blender.

  ‘Oh yes please!’

  ‘Coming right up.’

  He leans over to kiss me once more, before blasting the ice into submission. He pulls out two proper margarita glasses and tips the pale green slush into them. He decorates the rims with salt and everything, and I can’t help but be a little touched at the effort he’s made, even though it’s not for me but for Gretel. We ‘cheers’ and take a sip, keeping eye contact as we do. I raise an eyebrow, tell him that I know what he’s planning and I’m totally OK with that, and, without a word spoken, the tension rises in this one-bed new-build in an up and coming area. Joshua swallows too hard. ‘So, fajitas are OK with you?’

  ‘Totally OK with me. Can I do anything to help?’

  ‘Nope. Just sit down and delight me with your company, Gretel.’

  I perch on a black faux-leather stool and watch Joshua cook. I chug my margarita and he pours me out another one, deliberately brushing my hand as he gives me back my glass.

  ‘You make a mean margarita,’ I tell him.

  ‘What can I say? I’m a very talented man.’

  ‘I’m sure you are.’

  Another explosion of sexual tension. This one less daunting, what with the tequila whizzing through my bloodstream. In fact, I almost enjoy it. I sip and stare at Joshua over the rim of my glass, and he’s the first to look away, blushing. He returns to stirring his pan of sizzling beef, making the entire flat stink of seasoning because his extractor fan doesn’t work properly.

  Second cocktail down and he’s pulling a chair from under his circular glass dining-table. ‘I’ve given you the non-wobbly one, lucky girl.’

  ‘Wow. You really know how to treat a lady.’

  He puts down bowls of homemade guacamole, salsa, and sour cream. He brings our third margaritas over and puts them on coasters. Then, with an excitable ‘voila’, he produces the grill pan of sizzling meat and veg, placing it between us on a wooden chopping board.

  ‘This looks amazing.’

  ‘Thank you. Tuck in.’

  We pile things upon other things and wrap them into tortillas and then both find it difficult to bite into them delicately. The end of Joshua’s fajita spurts open and drips onto his plate. ‘Oh dear,’ he says, fingers covered with a hybrid of Mexican sauces. ‘I’m doing well, aren’t I?’

  Always make them feel safe and comfortable. Soothe their egos. Make them feel loved for exactly who they are.

  I bite into mine vigorously and the same thing happens. ‘Don’t worry, I just equalised.’ We laugh together and make more eye contact.

  ‘How was your day anyway?’ he asks.

  I remember the hour I spent lying with my head twisted to one side. ‘Yeah, it was great! Our CEO brought everyone ice cream this afternoon so we had a party in the office.’

  ‘What a man. This heat’s really something, isn’t it? They’re saying it’s going to rain.’

  I put down my fajita. ‘Finally. I love the rain. Sometimes I like to go out and just stand in it, like I’m in the last bit of Shawshank Redemption.’

  The second I say it, I feel weird. That was a slightly weird thing to say, I must be drunker than I thought. I wait to see Joshua’s disapproval, yet he’s somehow laughing.

  ‘I love that film,’ he says. ‘And I love Freeman’s voice. If I had all the money in the world, I’d use it to pay him to read me bedtime stories. Can you imagine?’

  April’s laughing too, picturing Joshua tucked up in his pjs with Morgan Freeman sitting at the edge of his bed, reading Goodnight Moon. ‘I can actually do quite a good impression of him,’ I say, ‘If you want a cut-price dream come true?’ I cough in announcement, lowering my chin. ‘You can either get busy living,’ I gravel. ‘Or get busy dying.’

  Joshua’s face falls into shock before he bursts into laughter and breaks into applause. ‘That is scarily accurate! Oh my God.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s a gift. I’ve always been weirdly good at doing accents. It’s saved me through many a conversational dead patch at parties.’

  His face is red and grinning. ‘How did I not know this about you? Hang on …’ Before I know it, he’s up and gone into his bedroom. I sip at my drink, the further tequila joining rank with the rest already in there – feeling happy and squiffy that I’ve been a bit like April and he seems to like it. Joshua returns with a book. His eyes are as red as his face, slightly unfocused. ‘Right, this is my current read,’ he holds out a crime thriller. ‘Come on Morgan, read to me.’

  I take the book from his hands and I can’t help but smile. ‘Well, you need to lie down first if I’m going to tell you a bedtime story properly,’ I instruct.

  Joshua takes my hand and leads me to the living room section of the flat, before he flops back onto the sofa. He folds his arms behind his head as a pillow. ‘I’m ready for Freeman.’

  ‘Is this weird?’ I ask. ‘It feels like things are getting weird.’

  ‘It’s definitely weird, but let’s go with it.’

  ‘OK.’ I sit by his feet and suppress a giggle. I open a page at random, cough again, and start reading it out loud in my best Morgan Freeman voice. It really is very good – it always used to be my party trick at university. Megan would sometimes get me to read back our lecture notes in the voice while we were revising.

  Joshua’s vibrating with laughter. I get down the page best I can, but I’m starting to laugh too. I manage a few more sentences before I lose it and we both shake with silly hysterics for a good thirty seconds until Joshua reaches out and pulls me on top of him, and the book slides to the floor. We laugh into one another’s mouths as we kiss. It’s a strange moment of total and utter happiness. For two seconds, I’m laughing as I kiss a very nice man who seems to like me and get my weird. It’s enough. For me, at least. One of life’s slivers of brilliant moments – the sort you wish you could suspend and bathe in. I’m lost in the connection throbbing between two humans. But then Joshua groans into my mouth. His hands slide up the back of my dress. The mood shifts. I can sense he’s been activated. A surge of panic gurgles in my throat. Suddenly all I can smell is the acrid scent of the fajitas we are supposed to have forgotten about. I feel like prey … like Joshua is gone. The bits of him that make him reasonable and trustworthy shut down with the power of his lust. A thousand small birds take flight in my stomach, flap through my limbs, and Joshua moans again.

  But Gretel wouldn’t feel like this. She’d be going with the flow. She’d be kissing back. Fajitas? What fajitas? She’s just so totally lost in the moment. She’s so like that with moments and getting lost in them. She enjoys the impact she has on men. It makes her feel strong, rather than vulnerable.

  And I’m Gretel now so I push my panic down and I kiss back. I lace my hands around Joshua’s head, threading his hair between the webs of my fingers, relaxing my body into his. If we could just stay kissing long enough, even April could probably get into this. If he could just stroke my face like he loves me, and take his time, and look at me adoringly, and kiss my neck for at least ten to fifteen minutes and ensure I feel totally comfortable and relaxed and ready then we could have incredible … oh, hang on, he’s pulling me up off the sofa and into his room.

  We stumble around, trying to find our way to his double bed – still attached by our groaning mouths. I open my eyes, keen to see what his room’s like. There’s a curious painting of Paris hanging over the bed.

  ‘You’re so sexy,’ Joshua mutters.

  ‘I know.’ It seems the sort of confident thing Gretel would say. And it works because he groans again as we fall back onto his bed with freshly made sheets. He lands on top of me, pinning me down, tongue fat and heavy and plunging into my mouth. I twist my head so he’s kissing my neck, an
d he takes the hint and stays there for a good while. I’m able to find peace in the moment again, in how good his lips feel on my skin. I close my eyes, to hone in on the blissful sensation. If I had the money, and if it wasn’t strange, I would totally just hire someone to come and kiss my neck for ten minutes every day. That is really strange actually. But it feels so good. I let out a sigh, and I don’t know if it was April or Gretel, but it reactivates Joshua, and, typically, rather than thinking ‘she’s sighing because this is really enjoyable, so it makes sense for me to carry on doing exactly what I’m doing,’ he instead thinks ‘hmm, that sigh has really turned me on, let me act on that and go back to what I want out of this foreplay.’ So he stops kissing my neck and starts fumbling to take off my dress. I take a deep breath in the moment the fabric’s pulled over my head, so I’m able to smile up at him when my head reappears. He grins back, his eyes lingering over my body, hungrily drinking me in. Then he kisses me with renewed vigour, taking my hand and guiding it to his erection in his jeans.

  Clothes come off.

  Mouths emit moans.

  Skin finds skin.

  I don’t even know this man’s favourite colour and yet he’s unwrapping a condom. While he is faffing about with putting it on, the stench of plastic itching my nose, I lower my head and take some more deep breaths to relax my muscles down there. Gretel would probably be putting the condom on with her mouth or something, but I forgot to google how to do that before I got here.

  He smiles.

  He kisses me.

  He leans me back.

  He pushes in.

  We’re having sex.

  Me and this man who doesn’t know my name. And I’m doing OK.

  It’s OK. It’s OK it’s OK it’s OK.

  Gretel, of course, is loving it. She’s letting out weird deep moans, even though he’s not touched my clitoris for at least ten minutes now. I’m careful to get the exact pitch and depth of moan right – enough for him to know I’m enjoying it and that he’s so good at sex and wow he can feel good about his ego right now, but not too much that he thinks I’m some loud, slutty porn person. I seem to have got the balance right. Josh’s moaning too. We’re in missionary, which is good actually. My favourite, although you’re never supposed to admit that, are you, because it’s boring. But the boredom of intimacy helps me feel safe. I put my face into his neck and smell him. A moment of being April, of needing this. I know my time allowed in this position is limited. Gretel will want to be on top probably and Joshua’s a man who’s grown up with porn, so it’s only a matter of minutes before he’ll try to get us to do doggy. But, right now, I bury my nose into just below his ear and wrap my legs around him, pulling him further into me. I try to freeze time and stay in this moment, this one moment where it feels intimate and connected and loving and how I wish sex could always feel. I pretend that he loves me, and will always love me. That it’s the one thing I’ll never have to worry about. That he respects me but also fancies me. That he cares for me while also knowing I’m able to take care of myself. That he’s strong enough to accept and work through his personal weaknesses. That he’ll hold me when I cry and never think the reason I’m crying is silly. That he will worship me but never in a co-dependent, suffocating way. And, strangely, lost in this weird trance of make-believe, fantasising about the love Joshua could have for me, I find I’m enjoying the sex. I’m gasping and clutching his back and can feel my body building towards it, which literally never happens to me during penetrative sex ever. Is this the secret they don’t tell you? Hallucinate your way to orgasm? Replace the actual man who is penetrating you with some Colin Firth rom-com character fantasy? They never told me that in Cosmo growing up.