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

by Holly Bourne

  ‘I had a really bad flashback the other day.’ I’m not sure why I’m blurting this out but I keep going. ‘They’re the worst. I’ve been signed off from work this week.’

  ‘That’s awful. I’m sorry you had to go through that.’ And, even though we don’t know each other, Jenny reaches over to squeeze my hand. ‘What brought you to the class? If you don’t mind me asking, of course?’

  ‘I don’t mind at all,’ I say. ‘I was in an abusive relationship with this guy for two years. He … he raped me.’ Saying it feels like pulling off a pair of pinching shoes at the end of a long day. I’ve hardly told anyone this. Only Megan, Carol, Matt, Katy and the odd badly-chosen romantic dalliance. I’ve not even told my mum. I twist my hands in my lap. ‘He only did it twice though.’

  Jenny shakes her head wryly. ‘Oh yes, only been raped the two times. That’s nothing.’

  I giggle at the ridiculousness of what I’ve just said. ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Unfortunately I do. We’re so good at diminishing it, aren’t we? When we really shouldn’t.’

  ‘I’m so sorry that happened to you,’ Hazel says, as I wipe under my eyes. ‘You’ve done the right thing, coming to this class. I was raped too … if you haven’t figured that out by now.’

  ‘Essentially we all were, in some way, somehow,’ Charlotte says, running a hand through her crop. ‘It’s what links us.’

  ‘It’s something that links many women,’ Hazel adds, picking up her wine and taking a big slurp. ‘Once I started coming here and talking about it, the more I realised it’s a case of who’s been lucky enough not to have this happen to them rather than the other way around.’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ Charlotte cheers the air.

  I’ve never felt more understood and less alone than I do in this precise moment. The world’s turned clear, like I’ve finally got the right prescription lenses with which to see it. There’s a happy sharpness to this pub. The colours are brighter, the voices louder, my heart softer.

  ‘Just nipping to the loo,’ I say. ‘Do you mind looking after my bag?’ I squeeze around the table and push through into the toilet which doesn’t have any paper left. It doesn’t matter, I don’t need to pee anyway. I lean over and grip the sink with both hands.

  There’s a table of women behind that door and they look normal and they sound normal but, like me, they spend every day applying the same veneer of normal over the huge struggle to get over what shouldn’t have happened to them. The endorphins from the exercise still pump through me. They mingle with this newfound feeling of … belonging. I smile as I stand up and look at myself in the mirror. My face is still red from too much exercise but it glows.

  I exude Gretel.

  I wave and she waves back at me. ‘We’re going to be late to meet Joshua,’ I tell her.

  She shrugs through the reflective glass.

  The sky belches an angry rumble of thunder as I drag myself away from the pub. ‘I will so be at the class next week, thank you, thank you.’

  I’m scrolling through my phone crammed with new numbers, grinning, when I’m interrupted by the noise. I look up to see the London skyline blanketed in a heavy dark-grey mass. The air has the iron tang of rain – I don’t dare hope.

  Gretel’s late but she’s told them she’s on her way and she’s sorry. Josh sends her a photo of the menu so they can get her order in.

  Joshua: I’ve had half of your beer xxx

  It’s a slightly pass-agg message which is appropriate for my lateness. Luckily I’m glowing with so much post-class joy, I reckon I can charm my way out of it. I fling myself out of the clammy Tube, and up the stairs of Kings Cross, taking the secret shortcut only Londoners know about. I skip up to Granary Square. The sky’s even darker now, practically black. Another attention-seeking clap of thunder shakes the sky and people stop and look up, like we’re at the start of an apocalypse movie. There’s a giant queue to get in to the restaurant and I slink past smugly, skipping the line of people all saying ‘do you think it will rain?’ and staring upwards.

  ‘Table for Neil?’ I ask at the front desk, checking I’ve got the booking name right on my phone.

  ‘Up the stairs and to the left.’ The concierge nods the direction and I turn and glide upwards, taking in the instagramness of the restaurant’s interior. It’s kitted out with sleek chequered floors and mahogany tables. Whirring overhead-fans push the flat air around fruitlessly but photogenically. I spot the back of Joshua’s head and my stomach lurches in a swell of unhelpful affection. He’s sitting at a table with three men and two women and hasn’t noticed me yet. He’s talking with his hands, as I’ve learnt he does a lot. I put on a friendly smile and hurry over.

  ‘Yeah, she works for this sex and relationships charity called We Are Here, it’s really great, though their CMS system sounds like a nightmare …’ He cranes his neck backwards, a big grin right there. ‘And here she is! Gretel, this is everyone. Everyone, this is Gretel.’

  I wave at the table widely, trying to make eye contact with each one. ‘It’s so great to meet you,’ I say. ‘I’m so so sorry I’m late. I was at this boxing thing and it ran over.’

  ‘Boxing thing?’ The man sitting to Joshua’s right is clearly the alpha of this group. I can tell by the way he’s sitting – legs astride. He’s tall, arms crossed, typically good-looking. He must be Neil.

  ‘Yes and it was in East London so the Tube was a pain. Anyway, hi, I’m Gretel.’

  They stand, one by one, to greet me, with an array of handshakes, cheek kisses, and an awkward hug from a slightly pudgy guy at the end of the table. If I’m guessing correctly, this must be Luke, their roommate from uni who’s never had a girlfriend though none of them are sure why. He seems the friendliest. ‘It’s lovely to meet you,’ he says mid-hug and slightly too loudly into my ear. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’

  I raise both eyebrows at Joshua over his shoulder. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘All good things, all good things,’ Josh reassures me as I sit next to him. He squeezes my hand under the table, and winks, giving me reassurance I don’t need. ‘You OK?’ he whispers.

  I can’t pretend I’m not touched by the gesture. ‘I’m fine.’ I kiss the side of his forehead. ‘Sorry again for being late. Hey, is that my beer?’

  He hands it over, looking right into my eyes. I point to the half-empty glass. ‘Still half-full,’ I say.

  ‘I knew you’d be a half-full person.’

  I take a knowing sip and brace myself for turning up Gretel’s megawatt charm. I lean over to Alpha Male, knowing he’s the one to impress. The most unlikeable is always the most important to impress. ‘So, tell me everything I need to know about Josh,’ I say. ‘You guys met on your course, right?’

  Neil nods and leans over, all the better to show off his biceps with. ‘Yes, we met in Freshers’ Week and were in the same halls.’

  ‘So, who here went to Leeds then?’

  He points them out. ‘Me and Lucy and Luke.’ The table listens in now their names have been mentioned.

  ‘And the rest of you know each other …?’ Gretel asks, so, so interested.

  ‘I’m Lucy’s husband,’ says a tall man sitting next to her called George.

  ‘And I’m Julia, Neil’s wife,’ the remaining woman says, who is very done up for a curry. She’s wearing false eyelashes and her hair is perfectly curled. She squeezes Neil’s arm and he sort of shrugs her off while also smiling.

  ‘So, what was Joshua like at uni?’ I take a poppadom from the pile in the middle and ping it in two to fit onto my side plate.

  ‘Just like I am now,’ Joshua replies, taking half of my poppadom. ‘Intimidatingly cool.’

  ‘Umm, yeah mate,’ Neil nods his head. ‘Very cool … Apart from trying to start a Coding Society that no one turned up to, and let’s not forget the cereal box business cards.’

  The table collapses into laughter while Joshua blushes slightly.

  ‘What business cards?’ I ask.


  Joshua shoots a ‘thanks mate’ glare at Neil before he explains. ‘So, on my first night of Freshers’ Week, I may have cut up a Kellogg’s Cornflakes box into small squares, written my name and email address onto them with biro, and handed them out to all the people I met.’

  Everyone chortles, sprays of poppadom crumbs falling from their mouths onto the tablecloth, while I play the part of surprised-but-delighted-at-the-cuteness-of-it girl. ‘I don’t know where to even begin with that one,’ I say. ‘I mean, why business cards? Why out of Kellogg’s? Why your email address? Why did you not just make friends the regular way?’

  Luke points to the air. ‘These are all very valid questions Joshua.’

  Joshua gets redder and nuzzles into my shoulder for support. I smell the sweet tang of too much beer on him. ‘In my head, having business cards would make me seem really suave,’ he says. ‘But, no. Not made out of cornflakes boxes anyway. I promise you I’m really, really cool now,’ he protests.

  ‘I mean, cool people always tell you how cool they are,’ Lucy quips while we laugh at Joshua again.

  ‘Well I think that’s adorable,’ I declare, patting him on the head while they all laugh harder.

  ‘Great. Adorable. Men just love being called adorable.’ Joshua puts his head face-first onto the table.

  ‘But it is adorable!’ I pull him up and give him a quick peck on the cheek. He squeezes my knee again, his reddened face curled up into such a smile. Gretel is doing well. I’m fitting in perfectly. Of course I am.

  ‘You’re adorable,’ he whispers, pulling me in for another quick kiss.

  And I wonder if he’d still think that if he’d been sitting at the pub earlier and hearing me share what I shared.

  The poppadoms are demolished. Loaded with chutneys, sprinkled with sliced onions, chomped down into, crumbs flailing onto the white tablecloth.

  ‘Oh my God, do you remember that time in the third year, Josh? When you were so determined to make us go to Alton Towers before we graduated. But it came the night after the Otley Run?’

  ‘Vomit. So much vomit.’

  ‘It was Air that did it.’

  ‘Hahahahahahaha,’ says Gretel.

  The mains arrive. Naans are torn apart and added to our tiny silver plates. We ask one another if they would like to try a bit of ours.

  ‘So, what are your plans this summer?’

  ‘Oh, George and I are going to stay in this villa in Crete with a bunch of his friends.’

  ‘Ooo, nice.’

  ‘Yes. I just can’t wait to have the time off work. How about you two?’

  ‘We’re diving in Indonesia. Trying to get our PADIs, aren’t we love?’

  ‘How about you, Josh?’

  ‘Working, I’m afraid. Used up all my annual leave climbing the mountain.’

  ‘I can’t believe you climbed a mountain, you’ve never mentioned that before.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Hahahahahahaha,’ says Gretel.

  ‘Don’t let him fool you, Gretel. He might act like an Iron Man but he has literally only climbed one mountain, and he hasn’t even walked up the left side of the Tube escalator since.’

  ‘Hahahahahahaha,’ says Gretel.

  ‘And you Gretel? What are you up to this summer?’

  ‘I want to go to Africa,’ Gretel says.

  They all nod. They all say, ‘Amazing. Isn’t Africa just amazing?’

  Another round of drinks. The men point to their beer glasses and nod. The girls pluck out the cocktail menu, pour over it as a means of bonding, discussing which one they are going to go for.

  ‘Mother’s Ruin sounds great,’ Gretel tells Lucy ‘I’ll get one too.’

  ‘Why is gin so delicious?’

  ‘Oh, I know. And, can I just say? I’ve been obsessing over your shoes all night.’

  ‘Oh, thank you! I was just thinking how nice your bag is.’

  ‘Oh, thank you!’

  Nobody orders pudding because nobody ever orders pudding at an Indian restaurant. We have another round instead. Josh is slippery with drink, his hand constantly reaching for mine under the table, sweaty, squeezing my fingers too tight. His craving for physical affection overwhelmingly constant. I listen a lot more than I talk. Neil speaks the most, the loudest, interrupting, but no one seems to mind. Reminiscing about university is clearly the group’s conversational safety blanket. They remember old lecturers, and pubs they used to love going to that aren’t there any more, and compare living in the north with living in the south.

  ‘A taxi home was only four quid, can you imagine now?’

  ‘Snakebite. A pound.’

  ‘We could sell our one-bed and buy a castle up there. Well, not quite a castle, but you know. Four-bed detached. A garden.’

  ‘Yeah, but you wouldn’t be in London.’

  ‘True, true.’

  Gretel’s doing well. I can feel she’s doing well. Julia has already nodded at Joshua when she didn’t realise I was looking.

  I tune out whenever they drift into nostalgia I can’t join in with and busy my brain with reliving the boxing. Punch punch, kick kick kick. I want time to hurry up so I can go back and do it all over again. I don’t think I’ve stopped grinning since I left, and it’s contagious. The table smile with me, reflect it back, catch my happiness like a summer cold.

  Eventually a waiter approaches the table with a bill. He’s sorry but they need the table now for the next booking. The air ripples with mild annoyance, no one wanting to leave the sanctuary of the table. Neil’s eyes flick to the queue below us, as if he’s trying to make out the group who dares expel us. He then picks up the bill and takes charge, calculating the amount we all owe.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get it,’ Joshua says to me as I’m rifling through my purse for my card and praying I’ve got enough to cover it. I can’t afford to be as independent a Gretel as I want to be right now. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’m the one who asked you to come.’ He pulls me in to kiss me on the cheek. ‘They like you, I can tell,’ he murmurs, the smell of beer on his warm breath.

  ‘I like them too.’ It’s true enough. I certainly don’t dislike them. They’re just like any other group of uni people who have all ended up in London, glad to have ties and roots in this relentlessly lonely city. Neil’s a bit of a dick but every friendship group has a bit of a dick that only an outsider can pick up on. We wait impatiently as the waiter hurries through all our respective card payments, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘It’s started to rain,’ he announces to no one in particular and nobody really takes it in. We’re all too busy collecting our bags and figuring out where to go next.

  Neil decides it’s best to stay here. ‘There’s a nice bar on the lower ground floor.’ His word is decision. We nod and clatter downstairs, walking through clouds of various aromas from different dishes carried past. My phone has a notification on it, telling me I’ve been added to a group chat called ‘Better Out Than In’ and my smile settles into my stomach.

  ‘You staying at mine later?’ Joshua asks, lips brushing my neck.

  ‘If you want me to?’ Gretel says, looking right at him innocently as we reach the ground floor. A grab of my arse indicates he does.

  The bar’s crowded but dying down enough that we’re able to cram ourselves onto a circular table.

  ‘Right. Shots! Shots?’ Neil says and everyone groans but accepts the challenge. He returns shortly with a tray of tequila and limes, and good old Gretel downs hers effortlessly, licking the salt and munching the citrus, the very definition of fun fun fun – aren’t I such fucking fun?

  We order more cocktails. I’m able to afford a round as Joshua paid for my meal. It costs seventy pounds. I check my phone while I wait for the cocktails to be made.

  Better Out Than In

  Charlotte: Welcome to the group, April! How are those endorphins treating you?

  April: WHY DOESN’T LIFE ALWAYS FEEL THIS WAY?

  Hazel: We
have a convert.

  Hazel: Oh my God, my butt.

  Hazel: Why did I kick so very hard? Must. Stop. Imagining. His. Face.

  Charlotte: The whole point is to imagine his face.

  Hazel: Shouldn’t I be over it by now?

  Charlotte: Yes, set a time limit on your trauma recovery. Very helpful.

  I wish I didn’t have to return to the table. I’d rather go home, shower properly, get into my pyjamas and spend all night sending messages to these women. I contemplate just leaving – vanishing – once again thinking I should just end whatever the hell this mess is that I’ve started. The need for revenge has quietened since just one boxing class. Carol must really be onto something. Yet I find myself staying put and carrying the tray of drinks back from the bar. ‘Ta-daaa!’ I say, plonking the tray down. Everyone thanks me, plucking their drinks off it, before returning their attention to Neil who’s waxing lyrical about something or other. I settle next to Josh, who pats my knee, and take a sip of my drink.

  I’m a little bit more than tipsy actually and finding it hard to sit up straight on my stool. I try to tune back into the group’s frequency – leaning forward to hear what Neil’s saying.

  ‘Did you see it in the news? It’s getting ridiculous. You can’t say anything if you’re a man these days. It’s a complete witch hunt.’

  My ears prickle. I sit up a bit straighter. I turn to Joshua who’s holding his head up with bunched fists under his chin. He’s blinking blearily, but nodding.

  ‘I loved him in Under the Apple Tree,’ Julia adds. ‘And he’s such a nice man. He’s clearly so in love with his wife.’

  A very determined chill settles across my skin as I realise who and what they’re talking about. I’ve been trying to avoid it in the news but it’s almost impossible. It’s everywhere. A famous actor’s been saying that the sexism backlash in Hollywood has gone too far. That some women have overreacted to minor incidents and the climate of fear is affecting how films are made. The phrase he’s coined that’s caused all the upset is ‘rape spectrum’.

  ‘I mean, I totally agree with what he’s saying. Why is there such a backlash?’ Neil continues. He leans forward, his strong arms bulging out as he re-postures. He speaks with the confidence of someone who’s never feared for his safety before.