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

by Holly Bourne

  The front rows start streaming out after the happy couple. I check the time on my phone. It’s two thirty. We have just under ten hours to get through without incident. It’s about as likely as getting the popular boy to kiss you at the disco. I have no idea what to do. Gretel would know what to do, but she’s not here.

  ‘You ready?’ Joshua holds out his arm for me to link. ‘There’s a bus to the reception right?’

  I thread my arm through his. ‘Super ready. Let’s go.’

  Here are some of the truly ludicrous thoughts I am having: you can get through an entire wedding without anyone calling you by name. You might be forgiven for lying to someone about what you’re called. You might be falling in love with the person you’ve been lying to. You can get through an entire wedding without anyone calling you by name …

  Have I already said that one? As I said, ludicrous.

  The usher was right – the reception really is in quite a nice conservatory. Light pours in even though the sky is a sallow grey. After a ten-minute lurching bus-journey, everyone spilled into it, clutch-bags held over their heads, and we are now congregating in groups, drinking flutes of champagne.

  ‘Sorry, I hope you’re not bored,’ I tell Joshua, as we stand in a clump of just us two, sharing a plate of pastry-wrapped-around-stuff. ‘I’m not very good at mingling.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘How’s the football?’

  ‘Oh it’s great. We’re playing well, which is a nice start to the year.’

  ‘I thought it was really fucking rude that you kept checking the score during the service.’

  I don’t actually say that. But I want to. ‘That’s good,’ I say instead. A waiter in a penguin suit passes and I grab two more flutes and hand one over to Joshua. ‘Cheers.’ I chink us and try to smile.

  ‘Cheers.’

  I chug down my drink, bubbles fizzing to my head. My brain feels like it’s burning. I miss Gretel. I miss feeling like I’m in charge.

  To pass the time before we’re tipsy enough to mingle, Joshua and I start grading the canapés in order of our favourites, hunting down the waiting staff that cradle our winners.

  ‘So the salmon thingamajig is definitely worth a second round.’

  ‘Good because I need something to take away the taste of the quail’s egg.’

  ‘I still can’t believe you spat that out into your napkin like an actual child.’

  Josh beams at me. ‘You mean, it didn’t impress you?’

  We both laugh and affection gurgles loudly in my pastry-laden stomach – my anger about the football forgotten. I reach over and squeeze his hand tenderly and he squeezes it back. The moment feels really warm and lovely until claps start to echo around us in a Mexican wave. Joshua nods behind me. ‘Oh look, it’s the happy couple.’

  I twist to see Chrissy and Mark arrive through the main doors. They’re holding hands, eyes wide from the shock of their own day, too many experiences to drink in all at one time. My stomach flip-flops for a second but I push it away – they’ll be swallowed by well-wishers and won’t really speak to me all day, especially as I’m an anomaly friend …

  But, for some reason, out of all the wedding guests in all the conservatories in all the world, Chrissy locks eye contact with me and decides to march Mark straight towards us. The crowd parts for them like they’re Moses, and I have no idea what to think or feel about any of this, only that it’s too late too late too late because now Chrissy is throwing open her arms and saying, ‘April! Oh my God, I’m married.’

  She gives me a giant hug as she ruins it all, pulling me into her silk gown, while I’m thinking fuck fuck fuck shit shit shit shit as everything disintegrates. My life is in tatters on the floor. With all the netting in my face, I can’t see him, can’t see his response. I hug her back limply, my heart pounding, wondering if I can pivot her … then she lets go so I can shake Mark’s hand and say congratulations. ‘And you must be Joshua,’ she says, dragging him into a hug too. ‘It’s so great to meet you.’

  I scan Joshua for signs of freaking out, my body completely soaked through with adrenaline. But he might’ve missed the ‘April’ because it’s not showing on his face. ‘Thanks for inviting me,’ he says, giving me hope as he’s released from the netting. ‘Congratulations. It was a beautiful service.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you. I still can’t believe it’s fucking raining though!’ She reaches up to readjust her veil, then shrugs. ‘Never mind. C’est la vie. At least this conservatory is really nice.’

  Mark and Joshua shake hands and Joshua congratulates him too. Mark’s not quite with us, his eyes darting behind our heads, looking at all the other people he needs to meet and greet. But Chrissy’s settling in. She summons a waiter and plucks herself a champagne flute.

  ‘So, Joshua, I was very excited to hear about you,’ she says, eyeing him over her glass, while my hand trembles on mine. I keep sipping and sipping and begging her not to say April again. ‘April is amazing.’ I flinch. ‘I hope you realise how lucky you are.’

  I close my eyes. That’s it. Game totally over. ‘Chrissy!’ I protest, though she doesn’t know the true meaning of my anguished yelp.

  ‘What? You are. Meeting you was totally worth that terrible summer scanning-in ASDA reward vouchers for £5.50 an hour. So, Joshua, what do you do?’

  Joshua certainly noticed the second one. His cheeks are red with confusion, his focus darting between Chrissy and me. The true horror of what I’ve done hits me in the stomach. I want to cry, scream, yell, run away – all the things it’s totally impossible to do at one of your best friend’s weddings. So I gulp the rest of my drink, tipping my neck back to ensure I get every last drop, and watch in awe as Josh acts as normal too.

  ‘I’m a coder. Which is much more exciting than it sounds.’ His social skills are impeccable considering the bombshell exploding in his face. His eyes flit between the two of us, like we’re a maths problem he needs to solve. ‘This is a lovely venue. Did you grow up around here?’

  Chrissy doesn’t notice his shock. Why would she? ‘Yes, I spent my teen years living here. Did you see the train station? It’s such a skank-hole. But my mum has MS so we didn’t want a wedding far away, did we Mark?’

  Mark jolts to attention. Looks at his new wife, and kisses her cheek. ‘No. It’s a nice find. Though I can’t take credit for any of it. Chrissy planned the whole day.’

  ‘Well, it’s gorgeous,’ I say. My voice is very shrill indeed. ‘You don’t notice the rain at all. Just perfect.’

  ‘Thanks love. Right, I better go and speak to everyone before dinner. Joshua, it was great to meet you. Take care of April here, won’t you?’

  Three times. Three times she has said my goddamned name. I close my eyes. Breathe. Open them.

  ‘Congratulations again,’ Joshua calls after her, as the newly-weds turn to a group of lawyers, congratulations raining down on them as hard as the rain outside.

  Joshua finally turns to me, his face unreadable.

  I turn to Joshua, bracing myself for impact.

  We look at one another honestly for the first time since we met. When he talks, his voice is polite, quiet. ‘Umm, Gretel?’ he asks, reaching up to scratch his neck. ‘Why did she keep calling you April?’

  There is no mic drop. There is no forgotten artichoke. There is no power. There is no winning. There is no time left pretending to be what I’m not. There is no explanation that can make sense to a reasonable person.

  There is no going back now.

  Josh looks me in the eye as he waits for my reply. Hopeful. Waiting to feel relieved by a simple explanation that I can’t give him. A strange calm descends on me like a lazy fog drifting across the sea. I return his gaze. ‘You’re basically the only person who calls me Gretel.’

  Josh’s entire face drains. ‘What?’

  ‘My name’s not Gretel,’ I say. ‘It’s April. As you’ve probably guessed.’

  Josh’s eyebrows furrow at the same time his mouth f
alls open. ‘What the hell? How come? What? I mean, why? What? I don’t understand.’

  I take a breath, preparing myself for the talk I’ve been planning in my head. My stomach sucks in under the netting of my dress. I’ve been rehearsing this all week since I decided to tell him, but now the words sit like sludge on my tongue, pleading with me to tell a lie instead, one that will make things easier. I blink slowly and Josh’s concerned face flickers in my vision. ‘Well,’ I start, ‘it’s sort of strange because—’

  But I do not get to say my prepared speech because there’s the dinging of a spoon on glass and the conservatory grinds to a silence.

  The usher is standing on a chair. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he claps, calling us to further attention, ‘please come through to the wedding breakfast.’ He points the way out of the conservatory down a short hallway filled with oil paintings.

  ‘Err,’ I say, as everyone starts moving towards the door. ‘Well you see …’ But there’s no time to explain as Joshua and I are pushed gently forward by the crowd, past the oil paintings, and through to the dining hall. I shrug as I don’t know what else to do, and try to take Josh’s hand to reassure him. He pulls it away though and my stomach plummets further.

  Our drama cannot stop the tidal wave of wedding convention, however, and we walk stiffly to the handmade sign explaining where we’re sitting. All the tables are named after trips Chrissy and Mark have taken together. We’ve been allocated ‘Aussie’ – decorated with photos of the couple’s trip there last year. As we approach in tense silence, I see Chrissy’s put us with her lawyer lot and I overestimated how drunk they all were at the hen because—

  ‘April! How are you?’ Janet asks, standing up to say hello like we’re the best of friends.

  April April April April. I watch as the word hits Joshua like a bullet. I want to reach out and shield him, but he takes the hit, sitting down like nothing has happened, though he’s gone paler than fresh snow, and pouring himself a giant glass of wine.

  ‘This is my husband, Jonathan.’

  ‘Hi, this is my, er, boyfriend, Joshua.’

  We all shake hands over the table decorated with the standard two bottles of white and two bottles of red. Joshua and I lie trapped in the strict social conditioning of appropriate wedding behaviour. I reach for a bottle of wine and he doesn’t help pass it to me, just pours his own glass down his gullet with shaking hands. I pour myself a generous glug.

  ‘Hi, nice to meet you. How do you know the couple? Where have you come from?’

  I tell everyone my name is April as we all reintroduce ourselves, and I watch as each time makes Josh flinch. I wonder how long he’ll make it through the meal. It’s insane he’s even sitting down and eaten his bread roll. Every time I introduce Joshua as my boyfriend, my heart stings, knowing this will be the last time I get to say that – which seems all the more painful considering this is really the first time I’ve ever been able to introduce him as my boyfriend. Joshua has already drained his glass and, not looking at me, he picks up the bottle of red and pours himself more.

  I try to catch his eye again but he’s determined to devour a second bread roll and we get lost in pointless small talk until the starters arrive, comparing who lives where in London.

  ‘Oh, Greenwich? Lovely.’

  ‘Herne Hill. Oh that’s just lovely.’

  ‘Hampstead? How lovely.’

  A line of teenage waiters appear, presenting each of us with a tiny plate of food that is more artfully-splattered ‘jus’ than food. The table quietens as the hungry lawyers and their partners tuck into their starters, giving us the chance to implode.

  ‘I still really don’t get the Gretel thing,’ Joshua whispers over his plate of mozzarella and tomato salad. ‘Look, I have to admit, I’m freaking out a bit.’

  ‘The thing is,’ I tell him, spearing a baby tomato onto my fork and speaking pretty rationally considering everything. ‘As I said, my name has never been Gretel.’

  ‘I don’t understand. I thought maybe April might just be a nickname or something …?’

  I shake my head. ‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s not that. I straight-up lied about my name.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘I didn’t want you to know my real name, so I said I was called Gretel.’

  There isn’t one single part of Joshua’s face that isn’t utterly horrified. I can’t stand that I’ve made someone hurt this much. The guilt arrives like a wrecking ball. I caused this. I made this person feel this awful. Me. April.

  ‘Why?’ he asks, shaking his head.

  ‘I told you it was Gretel and then, once I’d done it, I didn’t know how to undo it. And I got to know you and we kept seeing each other, and then it all got out of hand.’

  ‘But why the hell would you lie about something like that to begin with? I mean …’ He shakes his head faster, unable to complete the sentence. ‘You know what. No. I don’t care.’ His chair is scraped back. His body is leaving it. ‘Excuse me,’ Joshua says to the table. ‘I need a moment.’ He rushes off so quickly that the decorative basil leaf wafts off his plate and onto the floor.

  He crashes into a waiter collecting empty plates. I watch the back of his head weave through the tables and feel white-hot pain pulsate throughout my body at the sight of him leaving. Can I follow? Do I follow? How do I make this better? Will he come back? But the entire table is watching so, despite my inner unravelling, I smile at everyone around me like he’s just popped out.

  Janet gives me a thumbs-up. ‘He seems nice,’ she says, the ball of cherry tomato in her cheek like a hamster. ‘How long have you been going out?’

  ‘Only officially for a few weeks,’ I reply, thinking it’s funny how capable you can be of behaving normally when your life is so not in a normal place.

  Jonathan leans over, teeth already stained with red wine. He waggles his finger at me drunkenly. ‘Ooo, very new. Don’t freak him out by trying to catch the bouquet later.’ He laughs and winks, like he’s just given me the best piece of life advice in the universe.

  Don’t do this. Don’t do that. Don’t be too much. Don’t be too little. Don’t scare him off. Don’t make him feel like you don’t care. Don’t be too slutty. Don’t be too prudish. Don’t be too insecure. Don’t be too self-contained. Don’t be too fat. Don’t be too thin. Don’t be you. Never be you. You don’t want to die alone so don’t be fucking you.

  I look around at the sea of circular tables, dotted with couples. All holding membership cards to the club I long to inhabit. The Belonging Club. The antidote to loneliness. The safety net of someone essentially nodding at me and saying, ‘Yeah, you’ll do.’ That’s all I’ve ever wanted. To be sitting alongside someone at a table covered with white linen, feeling slightly bored by the story they’re telling the person on their right because I’ve heard it a thousand times before. All my life, I’ve wanted to be loved. I wanted to have someone pick me as their specialist. I wanted to feel safe in my being-lovedness. For someone to not be put off by the parts of me that were hard but that I couldn’t help. But I never got the chance.

  And so I wanted to be powerful, instead; to finally have the ball in my court. I wanted others to hurt the way I’ve been hurt. I wanted to have just one moment of feeling like I’ve won.

  But it turns out I don’t have it in me. I could’ve destroyed Joshua today. I could’ve laughed at him and his hope and his misguided faith. I could’ve revelled in the crackle of power that comes with holding someone’s heart in your palm. I could’ve hurt him and humiliated him like so many have hurt and humiliated me. But, even with everything I’ve been through, I don’t have it in me.

  I’ve hurt too much to hurt others.

  I like that I’m not Gretel.

  I like that I’m me.

  And I like that, despite everything, no matter how hard I’ve tried these last few months, I’ve found it impossible to run away from myself.

  In fact, I love that.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say, to the ta
ble full of couples who think I belong now. I get up from my tastefully-decorated chair. ‘I need the bathroom.’

  I dash in the direction Josh went, grinning like nothing is wrong when everything is. I don’t know what I’m going to say when I find him, but I need to find him. I dart around waiting staff who are refilling glasses and scooping up empty plates ready for the pork or chicken or goats-cheese tartlet main course. Chrissy’s laughing at the top table, her meal untouched, sharing a joke with her mum. I know I should stay and eat and pretend life is great for her, but the urge to find Joshua is too much. I feel ill at what I’ve done, the look on his face, at what I need to explain.

  He’s not in the hallway. He’s not in the conservatory. He’s not in the entrance hall where we left our wet umbrellas. My heart feels like it’s rehearsing for a full-on attack and I’m shivering even though it’s not that cold as I pace the stately home, dodging the glances of stressed staff. I wait outside the toilets for a while, listening to more well-mannered laughter from the dining room, but he doesn’t come out.

  He’s left, I realise. He has gone. And I can’t even blame him.

  The loss is more intolerable than I imagined. I head back into the empty conservatory and wilt into a chair, feeling tears itch my eyes, as the echoes of wedding thud down the hallway. I sniff and wipe my nose with the back of my hand. I sniff again. The rain beats against the glass in pitter-patters. I remember Josh coming to my house in the rain. I remember him saying sorry. I remember feeling in my guts that he meant it. I don’t remember ever feeling like that when a man has apologised to me before. I close my eyes. They’re wet when I open them. I look up at the glass ceiling, the dollops of grey rain hitting it. I wonder whether or not I should try to call him; if there’s any point. Another shriek of laughter ripples from the wedding and I turn my face out towards the rain-smudged view. The stately grounds are hiding in the deep-grey mist of the storm. I can just about make out a patio, a gravel walkway lined with topiary hedges and sodden benches. And, on one of them, I see the huddled figure of Joshua.