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

by Holly Bourne

  Never, ever, bring it up first.

  That goes for lots of things by the way. Do not say ‘I love you’ first. Do not want to move in. Do not want to know ‘where things are going’. Why are you so needy like that? Don’t put pressure on him. He’s your boyfriend! That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Why is it never enough for you? GOD! So ensure that every single step forward in the relationship is totally his idea. Pretend you’ve never thought about it. Be casual. You can be casual, can’t you? I’ll tell you who can be casual – people made out of fucking Wife Material, that’s who. Wait for him. Just enjoy it. I mean, it’s a huge massive test cluttered with landmines where the rules always change and, if you fuck it up, then you’ll probably die alone or have to freeze your eggs, and you don’t have the money to freeze them, and even if you did, it only has a twenty-six per cent success rate, but definitely don’t let him know that you know that, but anyway, yes, it’s really really important that you don’t fuck up this giant test, but ENJOY IT OK? I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY YOU’RE NOT ENJOYING IT.

  Also, don’t nag*. Nobody wants a nagging whiny controlling bitch for a girlfriend. How dare you reward his generosity of committing to you with nagging? Back off and show some fucking gratitude.

  * * *

  Punch the bag, punch the bag. Let it out, let it out, let it all out.

  I picture Ryan’s face.

  I kick and grunt. I sweat. I jab.

  Why why why why why? Me me me me me?

  Punch punch punch.

  Why why why.

  Kick kick kick.

  Me me me.

  My forehead has its own tap of sweat. I look uglier than I’ve ever looked in my whole life but I don’t care. I thrust my body into the sack. It never gives. Ever. It can take every punch I throw at it.

  Why me why me why me?

  It isn’t fair it isn’t fair it isn’t fair.

  I’m a good person and I don’t deserve any of what happened, but happened it did and it’s NOT FAIR.

  Punch punch punch.

  ‘Whoa, April, it’s OK,’ Charlotte takes the bag. Stopping it swinging. Stopping me. She hugs me. ‘I know,’ she says, this woman I’ve only met twice. ‘I know, I know.’

  ‘It’s not fair,’ I whisper into the moisture of her sweaty shoulder.

  ‘It isn’t. It really isn’t. It’s OK,’ she says rubbing my back, my hair. ‘It’s going to be OK.’

  Joshua: Hello girlfriend of mine. How was boxing? x

  Gretel: Yeah, it was great! Such a laugh x

  From: ChrissyHartley123@gmail.com

  To: AprilS1987@gmail.com

  Subject: This weekend

  OH MY GOD APRIL I CAN’T BELIEVE IT’S TOMORROW. What is HAPPENING to my life? Anyway, thanks for sending the money. Can’t wait to see you babe. Xxx

  *

  Megan: I can’t believe you’re leaving me here in my bed of pain to go on a hen do of all things.

  Megan: Who am I going to judge Dawson with?

  Megan: HE IS SO EASY TO JUDGE.

  Megan: Do you think Malcolm has a new girlfriend?

  Megan: WHY AREN’T YOU HERE TAKING MY PHONE AWAY SO I STOP STALKING HIM?

  April: Sorry, train was in a tunnel. Don’t. Stalk. Him. You are NOT that person.

  Megan: Well I just stalked him so I totally am that person.

  Megan: No signs of a new gf tho so it’s all good.

  Megan: Though he did go to Sushi Samba without me when I thought that was OUR place.

  Megan: I meant nothing to him at all, did I?

  April: Oh hon xxx

  Brighton’s a teeming cesspit of holiday makers, day trippers, sunseekers, and hen-and-stag-do goers. In fact, I feel like I’m stepping onto a bachelor party conveyor belt when I emerge in the stinking heat onto the platform. Clumps of women clutching almost-finished bottles of prosecco spill out of the crammed train carriages, the different groups only identifiable by their choice of sash. Some pink, some black, some decorated with cartoon penises. The brides-to-be hold court in their cheap veils, clopping along in inappropriate shoes, feeling the most special, marked out to ensure surrounding voyeurs know they are the most special too. Look at this cheap veil I’m wearing off Hendoswag.com. It means someone deemed me acceptable enough to marry. Someone in this world approves of me that much. Take it in, bitches. Take it all in. It’s all been leading up to this.

  I dodge past them and their ‘Team Bride’ temporary-tattoo-adorned bodies, feeling vaguely nostalgic for four years ago, and the many, many, nights I had the same tattoo emblazoned across my cheek. Those summers of back-to-back weddings are long behind me now, and funnily enough, I didn’t actually find them that hard back then. There was still so much time to assume ‘it would happen for me’. Which is exactly what was whispered at me during those hen dos, by swaying brides grabbing me by the shoulders, telling me how amazing and kind and beautiful and smart I was: ‘It definitely will, I have no doubt.’

  I use my phone to navigate my way to the restaurant where Chrissy’s sophisticated hen do is located, bumping my way past the sunburnt and flip-flopped people clogging the pavements. I’ve deliberately arrived late to make tonight as short and painless as possible. Chrissy’s an ‘anomaly’ friend, in that we’ve always been close but have literally no other friends in common. We met temping one summer as students and we just clicked and have stayed close since then. We convened several times a year throughout the rest of our uni years, the confuzzled mess of our early twenties, the quarter life crises of our mid-twenties, and the panic-stricken years of our late twenties. Chrissy’s always been super smart and is now a tip-top lawyer specialising in copyright. Yet she’s also always been a perpetual singleton – that is, until, she met Mark two years ago at a wedding. Anyway, suffice to say, I know nobody as I climb the steps to the top floor of the Greek restaurant and step into a room full of thirty-something hens.

  ‘April! Hello! You’re here!’ Chrissy clatters over in shoes she most definitely can’t walk in and envelops me in a tight hug. ‘Everyone, this is my friend, April,’ she announces, holding me out on her arm.

  I wave at everyone, and get passed around the room; names are exchanged that we won’t remember, but will be too embarrassed to ask for again. The tables have been arranged into a giant circle for maximum group-coherency with funny photos of Chrissy littered here and there to act as conversational prompts. But there’s no penis confetti, or novelty sashes. Chrissy’s bedecked in a tasteful veil, but Team Bride transfers are nowhere to be found. There’s a projector screen set up at the far end, and a sound system plays a carefully curated playlist of Chrissy’s favourite songs – mostly Jack Johnson.

  ‘Hi, I’m April,’ I repeat over and over. I shake hands, ask people how they know Chrissy. There’s the other-lawyers-from-work-clump, the uni-circle clump, the home-friends clump, and the awkward-friends-and-family-of-her-and-Mark clump.

  ‘Oh, so you’re Mark’s little sister? Mark’s great, isn’t he? Just great.’

  ‘You’re a lawyer too? Oh right, OK. In London? Of course. Yes, the train down wasn’t too bad actually, was it? Whereabouts in London do you live?’

  ‘So you grew up with Chrissy? Oh that’s funny, that you all call her Tina. No, she’s always been Chrissy to me. So what do you do? Oh, two kids you say? Yes, I’d love to see a picture. Oh, they are so cute. Congratulations.’

  ‘Oh me? No. Not married. No, no kids. Just me.’

  ‘Is that bottle of prosecco finished? No? Great. Yes, if you could pass it down.’

  ‘Shall we order another bottle?’

  I’ve never really liked prosecco, it’s always tasted like piss put through a soda stream, but it’s included in the deposit we put down for the meal so down the hatch it goes. I knock back a glass, then another. My teeth start to hurt from the sugar and I go for a wee I don’t need, just to collect myself.

  Megan: Is it bad?

  April: Sitting on the loo, weeing a wee I don’t need

  Meg
an: So it is bad

  April: Everyone is friendly. They’re just all … so grown up

  Megan: Fuck them

  Megan: Fuck them all

  Megan: Burn the fucking place down

  April: Are you OK?

  Megan: Quite clearly no

  Megan: But I’m also fine. Go have fun now Xx

  April: Doubtful

  Just as I’m wiping, I get a message from Josh.

  Joshua: Has the butler in the buff turned up yet? Hope you’re having a nice time x

  Gretel: A great time, thanks! No nudity yet, but it’s only seven thirty. Have a good night with Neil x

  The useful thing about sitting around mothers is that you only have to ask them a few choice questions and then you don’t have to talk or think any more for a good hour or so. I’m settled by the home-friends lot, all of whom have at least two kids that I’m shown on their phones.

  ‘So, do they sleep through the night?’ I ask, and low and behold, we have conversation filler right up until the starter arrives, and even a little after that too. We are all handed out three stuffed vine leaves arranged on a limp plate of lettuce scattered with shaved red onion. We pick up our knives and forks and pretend this is an adequate starter for the forty-quid-a-head price, while I hear all about the power of white-noise machines.

  ‘Wow, I’ve never heard of them before. Amazing. I’ll keep that in mind.’ I bite into the sour, soggy mush of my vine leaf, and listen to Chrissy’s friends talk about nursery places and how hard it’s been to have small children in this heat.

  ‘How’s it going over here?’ Chrissy’s doing the rounds between starter and main. Eyes frantic, talking in caps lock, checking to make sure we’re all having fun so determinedly that she doesn’t seem to be having much fun herself. She slots in beside me and I pour her a glass of prosecco.

  ‘Don’t! I’m already way too drunk.’

  ‘Yes. It’s your hen do.’ I top up my own glass. I must be on my fourth by now. I feel warm and like all my weird problems aren’t so bad and weird after all.

  ‘How are you?’ she asks, arm around my shoulder, fizzy wine on her breath. ‘April, it’s been forever.’

  ‘I know. I’m OK. Oh my God, Chrissy, you’re getting married.’

  She covers her face with her veil. ‘I know. It’s so fucking weird. Me, April. ME? Did you ever think you would see the day?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Even after Sven?’

  ‘Definitely after Sven. He was the rock bottom you needed to hit in order to find the portal to evolution.’

  It’s all hugs and squeezing and prosecco getting knocked over. ‘Oh, I love you. I’ve missed you! I’m so glad you came. How are you— Oh my God, ROCHELLE! How ARE you? How are the kids? I’m so happy you’re here.’ I’m shunted aside. Chrissy now has Rochelle-with-the-white-noise-machine in a squid-like vice and I’m left holding my glass, which is somehow empty again already.

  I sit staring at nothing for a moment, before taking a breath and swivelling to my other side to a woman whose name I’ve already forgotten. ‘So,’ I ask, smiling. ‘Have they started talking yet? Ball? They can say ball? Oh, yes, that’s so cute.’

  By eight thirty everyone is a little bit too drunk to fully appreciate the nouvelle cuisine of halloumi skewers on a tiny mound of gigantes plaki.

  ‘Halloumi!’ a sozzled lawyer yelps. ‘I just love halloumi.’

  ‘Me too. Isn’t it the best? I love how it squeaks.’

  The table’s united in our shared love of the cheese. We stuff it into our faces with our fingers, talking with our mouths full. Someone’s turned up the music so we shout to be heard. Nobody eats their beans. A waiter brings out a tray of prosecco bottles and we all applaud him. We’re all best friends by the time the sundaes are arranged in front of us; the clumps all united in how good cheese can be and do you want to try a bit of my ice cream. We swap seats and share stories about just how amazing Chrissy is. ‘So amazing, isn’t she?’ ‘Oh yeah, really amazing. Just the amazingest.’ The ice cream melts to soup in its glass bowls, until we’re snapped out of our tiddly haze by three assertive claps.

  ‘Right ladies.’ One of the lawyers-clump – I think her name is Janet – is standing by the projector screen on which is now a giant freeze-frame of Mark’s head. ‘Now that we’ve eaten, it’s time for the games. Mr and Mrs!’ Everyone starts cheering and whooping. ‘Chrissy, get your cute butt over here.’

  Chrissy saunters over in a flurry of netting and collapses into a chair, giggling. Her face is red with alcohol and happiness and I have a flashback to the Sven year and feel deep joy that she’s got here. Well, seems to have got here. Every time we meet up she does complain a bit about Mark and his lack of verbal affection, but still, he must feel vaguely affectionate if he’s agreed to marry her.

  ‘We asked the lovely Mark here some questions about our girl, Chrissy, and she has to guess what she thinks he’s going to say. If she gets it wrong, well then …’ Janet holds up a bottle of Sambuca with the top already off. ‘SHOT!’

  Chrissy laughs behind her hand while we stamp our feet. ‘I’m scared now.’

  ‘Come on, let’s play.’ Janet clicks the laptop attached to the screen and un-freezes Mark who waves at us all.

  ‘Hello girlies. I hope you’re all nice and drunk.’

  Raaahhh, waaa-heeyy! We are so excited with that. Mark’s set the camera at a weird angle so his chin looks massive. He’s not the most attractive of men, I find myself thinking. Not compared to Chrissy, who’s an auburn-haired goddess. Whereas Mark looks like he hasn’t had hair since Papa Roach were a thing, and his eyes look permanently sad.

  The first question floats up on screen in giant novelty balloon-font.

  ‘What were you both wearing on your first date?’

  Janet repeats it out loud and we crane to look at Chrissy who’s laughing hysterically from all the attention.

  ‘Well?’ Janet demands.

  Chrissy sips from her prosecco glass. ‘I’ll be surprised if he gets this right,’ she says. ‘Umm, he was wearing jeans and a Rick and Morty T-shirt, because I distinctly remember being put off by that.’ We find that way too funny what with all the alcohol. ‘And I was wearing my denim dress, with yellow shoes. My summer date outfit.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll remember that?’

  She shakes her head. ‘No chance. He’ll remember his own T-shirt though. He still loves that fucking T-shirt.’

  ‘Well, let’s see what he says.’

  Mark’s unpaused again. ‘She won’t think I’ll remember,’ he asserts. ‘I mean, of course we both remember my failsafe Rick and Morty T-shirt.’ Raaaaaaah Wheeeyyy woooooooh, we all yell. ‘But Chris was wearing this really nice blue dress. And some yellow shoes; I remember really liking those yellow shoes.’

  We howl. We point. We find ourselves chanting ‘CHUG CHUG CHUG’ as Chrissy screeches, ‘I can’t believe he remembered!’ before downing her shot compliantly.

  I watch her as she looks at the screen. It’s frozen again – Mark’s mouth slack and odd in the paused moment. ‘Oh, Marky,’ she whispers at the screen, and my eyes are not as dry as they were ten minutes ago when I hear her say that.

  They both remembered their first kiss at the number eight bus stop when Mark lunged first. Mark’s most disgusting habit is clipping his toenails into the loo and then not flushing it. Chrissy’s is picking her feet in bed. Mark does not know Chrissy’s bra size. ‘Umm, E?’ he stabs. We all hee-haw-hee-haw because Chrissy has never been more than a B her whole life. ‘I fucking WISH mate,’ she yells, getting up and slapping the projector screen. ‘CHUG CHUG CHUG.’ But he does know exactly how she likes her tea: white with two sugars. And how she will order her eggs when she goes to brunch: poached and on sourdough. And that her favourite movie is unashamedly Titanic. And that her favourite sexual position is on top. And they both correctly guess that her most annoying habit is using caps lock in messages. They both tell the proposal story in ex
actly the same way, including the bit where they had to smuggle the ring back through customs as Mark didn’t realise you had to declare it. As question bleeds into question, my throat tightens, my eyes prickle, emotion inflates my stomach. Mark’s chin doesn’t look so chubby now, his eyes not so sad. I picture him scheduling the filming of this into his diary, secretly liaising with Janet to pick a time when Chrissy was out of their flat. Chrissy’s equally bewitched. She reaches out at least twice to stroke the projection of her fiancé. She’s doing hardly any shots as they keep syncing answers.

  I cannot take any more of this.

  I impatiently wait for Chrissy to get one wrong and use the ‘CHUG CHUG CHUG’ excitement to make my exit, my stomach swirling, hands shaking. The restaurant corridor whirls as my drunkenness catches up with me, and I stumble, half holding the wall, into the toilets and lock myself in a cubicle.

  Here I try to digest the pure shameful envy it’s sparked in me. The longing in my gut that won’t leave, no matter how much I try to push it away. I sit with my knickers gathered around my ankles, peeing with my body bent forward so my head rests on my knees.

  It’s not that I’m not delighted for Chrissy – I am.