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

by Holly Bourne

  ‘You’re not!’

  ‘I am.’ She puts her face into her palms, and wipes them back over her hair. When she looks up, her make-up is smeared in two lines from her eyes to her ears. She smiles meekly. ‘I’m going to get help,’ she says. ‘First thing tomorrow. I’m booking an appointment. I know I told you you need help but I’m starting to think I need it too.’

  ‘You don’t need help, you just—’

  ‘What? Need to never try with men ever again? Shut them out of my life?’

  I shrug.

  ‘It can’t hurt, can it? I don’t want to feel like this any more, and I don’t want to be in this pattern any more, and those are precisely the two things they say therapy is for. Even if I use the sessions just to figure out it’s better to be by myself, I still want to know I’ve made that decision from a healthy place.’

  I reach out for her glass and take a sip of her wine. ‘Well, if that’s what you want to do, I support you,’ I say. ‘And I’m so pleased the launch went well. I never doubted for a second that it would.’

  We stare at the blank television screen, passing her drink back and forth, taking it in turns to have some.

  ‘What about you, Gretel?’ she asks.

  ‘Please. Don’t.’

  ‘Is he here?’

  ‘He’s here. He’s asleep.’

  ‘Can I go and look at him?’

  ‘No!’ I laugh. ‘That would be weird.’

  ‘Oh, because nothing else about this situation is weird at all, Gretel.’

  ‘Don’t. Please.’ It’s my turn to put my head in my hands. ‘I’ve invited him to Chrissy’s wedding.’

  ‘What? What the hell are you doing, April?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, with total honesty. ‘I don’t know.’

  Reasons not to trust men

  • Every single man I’ve ever opened my heart to has damaged me

  • Even the good ones are still dysfunctional man-children who never check their privilege and want a medal for being ‘a good guy’ every hour of the day

  • Everything men have done

  Reasons to trust men

  • They are not all the same

  • You must believe the best in people

  • You will die alone if you don’t get over this

  • Barack Obama

  • Joshua???

  Our trainers squeak on the floor, our bodies pant with exertion. Sweat drips from the ceiling. Splosh splosh splosh.

  ‘Do you trust men?’ I ask Charlotte, through short gasps for air. It’s hard to be heard over Destiny’s Child. She runs sideways and throws me the squashy ball. I crab-run in front of her, and manage to catch it.

  ‘Now that’s a question and a half.’

  ‘Well? Do you?’ I throw the ball back. ‘And is it a good thing or a bad thing to do so?’

  We’re playing a game called ‘Emotional Labour’ where we have to run from one side of the hall to the other, chucking the ball of ‘fragile masculinity’ between us.

  ‘Be careful ladies,’ Gillian, our instructor calls. ‘Don’t drop it. Remember how fragile it is, it will definitely smash.’ We all giggle which is hard with my heart pumping so hard from the crazy cardio. Will this ever stop feeling amazing? This hour of class, followed by the hour in the pub afterwards is the only time in my life right now where I feel good.

  Charlotte holds on to our ball while she thinks of her reply. ‘I didn’t trust them for a really long time,’ she says. ‘I remember where you are so well. I didn’t trust any of them. Thought they were all the same.’

  ‘Aren’t they?’ I gasp.

  She throws the ball. I catch it. We run. I throw it. She catches it.

  She shakes her head. ‘No. I don’t think so.’ She throws it back. ‘Not all men do terrible things to women,’ she says. ‘I think there are some good ones. They’re not all abusive. At all. But …’

  ‘But?’ I say.

  ‘But they’re all still men, I guess. They may not be violent or controlling, but they are all a bit … rubbish. They can’t help it even.’

  ‘And take a breather,’ Gillian calls out, over the whirrs of multiple fans. I’ve since learnt that Gillian trained in kickboxing after her husband kicked her down the stairs, broke five of her ribs, told her she was crazy to accuse him of such a thing, and then, when she eventually left him with two black eyes, told the custody court that she was an unfit mother.

  Charlotte drops the fragile masculinity, and I bend over, hands on my knees, oxygen not getting into my lungs quick enough, my heart beserking its way through my chest. We heave in air together for a moment, like everyone else.

  ‘So, they’re rubbish,’ I try and clarify, ‘but you can trust them?’

  ‘Oh no.’ She lurches up. ‘You can’t trust them. I trust women, but I could never trust a man. But …’ she picks up the ball from the ground, ‘I do trust that they’re not all abusive wankers. That some of them are just nice and hopeless. Does that help?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  She stops, wipes the sweat off her forehead, and pats me. ‘I really feel for you,’ she says. ‘You’re only just starting to see a counsellor for this. I’m a few years ahead of you in recovery, and I remember your stage so well. It’s all still so raw, and you’re still questioning everything, and you don’t trust any of your instincts. It’s exhausting!’

  I well up a little.

  It is. So. Very. Exhausting.

  She pulls me in for a sweaty hug. ‘It does get better,’ she promises. ‘In time, you’ll learn to trust yourself again. And that’s the only person it’s important to trust. But it gets worse before it gets better. At least you’re getting it out.’

  I nod. I do feel some poison leaking out. I do feel like there’s a little bit less than there was. But I also feel totally overwhelmed by how much there still is, and how long it will take to drain, and whether it ever will, and how much of my life I’m going to mess up in the meantime.

  ‘It will get better,’ she repeats, before releasing me.

  Gillian turns the music off and claps her hands. She gleams with sweat. The air in here must be at least thirty degrees. My own sweat keeps dripping into my eyes. ‘Good work, ladies,’ she says. ‘Now, before we cool down, I think it’s time for an “It’s Not Your Fault” circle.’

  I send a questioning look to Charlotte who grins reassuringly. ‘Just wait. It’s actually exactly what you need.’

  ‘If you could put your balls back in the basket, and sit in a circle. Oldies, show the newbies.’

  There’s only one other new girl, Hannah, a short brunette who turned up last week and hasn’t spoken to anyone yet. Our eyes find one another as we’re singled out as the new kids. I manage a smile, plop my ball back, and join the circle forming on the ground. A mist of contentment seems to rise off it. All of us filled with exercise endorphins and the relaxed energy of being around people you don’t have to try with. I cross my legs beneath me and sit next to Hazel who smiles too.

  ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘Just wait.’

  Gillian sits down in a perfect lotus, completing the circle. ‘Everyone comfy?’ she asks. ‘And can everyone hear over the fans?’ We all nod. ‘Great. Now, most of you know the deal here, but for those of you who don’t, here’s all there is to it. We are going to close our eyes and take some deep breaths as a group. Then we’re going to sit in silence. If you feel moved to speak, speak. Say the things you need to say. I want you to get in touch with your pain, and really sit with it. I know it’s hard, but you’re safe here, and we’re all here with you.’ She pauses. ‘And, if someone else is speaking, know that what they say applies to you, too. We’re all in this together. Feel every word, know that it’s true, and know that you deserve to hear it.’ Nobody’s acting like this is strange, even though I have to say it sounds a bit strange.

  Gillian jumps up and turns some quiet meditative music on, the sort you shavasana to at the end of a yoga class, th
en she sits back down again. ‘Right everyone, close your eyes.’ I watch everyone close theirs without complaint before I do so myself. My eyelids lower, the universe goes dark. ‘OK, now I want you all to take three deep breaths. Breathe in …’ There’s a whistling noise as we all suck in oxygen. ‘And out … And in … and out. And in … and out.’ My ribcage inflates and softens. My shoulders drop slightly. ‘Now, this may feel hard, but I want you just to quickly think about what brought you to this class …’

  The white wall. White wall. Hurt. Pain. Shame. Too numb to move. Blame. No. Please. Don’t. I can’t believe this has happened to me. My eyes begin to prickle, even with them closed.

  ‘Now, locate where it hurts. Do a scan, find the part of your body that holds this pain.’ I don’t even have to scan. I locate it right in my guts. It’s like my small intestine is made of cast iron. Wow. I’ve never noticed it before.

  ‘What shape is the pain? Can you find the edges of it? Sit with it. Don’t push it away.’ There is a big lump of pain in my gut that I didn’t know I’d been carrying. I feel it now. It’s about the size of an oversized banana, and spiky, pointing into me, hurting whenever I turn. I don’t resist it. I try and soften its edges. I breathe into it, and notice how it moves as my ribs move. It really hurts. Tears leak down my face from behind my closed lids. There is pain. So much pain. In me every day and nowhere for it to go, and I’m not sure I’ll ever feel right again. The only way to get through is to pretend it’s not there and hope things get better and hope I don’t make the same mistakes again, but then this pain catches up with me and knocks me down and, no, I don’t think I’ll trust myself ever again, let alone a man and … I begin to weep quietly, feeling ever so desperate, like I always do when …

  ‘It’s not your fault.’ Gillian’s voice. Calm. Loud. Authoritative. ‘What happened to you. It wasn’t your fault,’ she says.

  My stomach twists, resisting the words. No. The pain can’t live under conditions such as this. It starts to argue with her, I start to argue with her. Maybe it was my fault, just a bit. Maybe if I’d fought back. Maybe I’m overreacting …

  ‘Don’t diminish your pain,’ another voice in the circle says. ‘Your pain is a totally appropriate response to what happened to you.’

  ‘I’m so sorry this happened to you,’ another voice says.

  ‘It shouldn’t have happened to you,’ says one more.

  I jolt. I clutch my stomach. I can’t figure out whose voice is whose any more. I hear a whimper. Someone else is crying. Maybe it’s me who made the sound. The iron in me hardens, rejects. But it did happen to you, it did. It can’t be undone. You will always be fucked up by this. So fucked up.

  ‘What happened to you doesn’t define who you are.’ It’s Gillian’s voice again, like she knows. I guess she must know. Because she’s been here too. I gulp, and I gulp again, because if I don’t, I will full-on sob. The tears keep on pouring. I keep my eyes shut, ears open, heart open.

  There was a white wall and I looked at it because it was all I could do. I got hurt and I buried the pain of it because, at that moment in time, it was all I could do. I just tried to survive. I’m trying to heal but it’s taking ages and it’s hard and feels impossible but I’m trying, and that’s all I can do.

  My mouth cracks open. Words spill out. ‘You will heal,’ my voice is saying. ‘I know it feels like you never will, but you will.’ It’s too much. All the emotion. Too much. I lose track of who is saying what, who is sobbing and who isn’t, what time of day it is.

  ‘It’s not your fault.’

  ‘You did the best you could.’

  ‘It won’t always hurt this much.’

  ‘You are so much stronger than you give yourself credit for.’

  ‘It could’ve happened to anyone.’

  ‘He is the broken one, not you.’

  ‘You will get through this.’

  ‘You will get through this.’

  ‘You will get through this,’ I whisper.

  And I know they’re the sort of clichéd sayings you see posted on inspirational backgrounds in swirly font. I know they’re just words, and words can’t take the pain away, can’t undo what was done, can’t make me the woman I was before, can’t make me forget, or forgive, or ever be the same again. But there’s something about these words being chanted by women who get it, who have been there and not deserved it either. Some much further ahead than me on this journey of putting yourself back together again, able to add a layer of authenticity to what they’re saying, because they’re on the same road, but they’re further along, and they can see the sun over the horizon, and they’re calling back to me, promising me that, if I can hold on a little longer, I’ll be able to see the sun rise too.

  ‘And that’s it,’ Gillian says. ‘Open your eyes when you feel able to.’

  It takes me half a minute or so. My chest is sore from releasing grief, not one part of my face is dry. The room full of fans comes into focus. We are all crying, all of us. Some harder than others. But we’re all smiling. My stomach feels the tiniest bit lighter. Like maybe I’ve soldered off the top layer of iron. I really am crying. Charlotte catches my eyes and sees how hard I’m sobbing, and she stands, pulls me up, and hugs me so tight. I hug her back, bawling into her shoulder. Howling and shedding tears all over her. She just hugs and hugs. Then there are more bodies and more hugs, and we all blend together. Arms mingling, breasts pushed together, ribs hurting as the entire class melts into a fused circle.

  From: Carol@FreshStart.com

  To: AprilS1987@gmail.com

  Subject: Your first appointment

  Dear April,

  I’m just confirming your appointment for an initial consultation for this Wednesday evening at 7 p.m. Obviously things are slightly different as we’ve already worked together at WeAreHere, but I still think it’s important to have a talk about what you’re hoping to achieve out of this process.

  Attached are the directions on how to find my office.

  Kindest regards

  Carol Knight

  Clinical psychologist

  *

  From: April@WeAreHere.com

  To: Mike@WeAreHere.com

  Subject: Official notice

  Dear Mike,

  As discussed in yesterday’s meeting, here is my formal notice of resignation for the role of Advisor. Thank you for being so understanding.

  April

  *

  From: Mike@WeAreHere.com

  To: April@WeAreHere.com

  Subject: RE: Official notice

  April,

  Thanks for this. Annoying legal formality, especially as it’s not like you’re leaving us!

  Anyway, I accept your notice and we’ve started advertising for someone to take over your shifts permanently. I know we spoke about it a lot on Thursday, but I do want to reiterate just how grateful we are that you took on this role and everything you gave to it. These front-line jobs do take a toll; they take a toll on anyone who does them. Please don’t chastise yourself for reaching your limit. You’ve given so much and helped so many people. I’m looking forward to continuing to work with you as a volunteer manager. Thanks for everything you gave us.

  Mike

  *

  Gretel: Crazy week! Sorry I’ve not seen you. Shall we meet at Vic at 11 tomorrow for the wedding?

  • And Happily Ever After … Gretel’s Guide on How to Keep Him

  * * *

  Oh, look how far you’ve come. Look at all you’ve achieved now you’ve learnt how to play the game. Aren’t you glad you’ve mastered the art of holding in all your totally appropriate responses? Remember how lonely you were back in those dark days of authenticity? But you made it. Well done. Let’s all be honest, I really didn’t think someone as pathetic as you would manage it, but you did. That’s how desperate you must’ve been. Enjoy your prize of a man. Enjoy society finally accepting you now that you’re not a lonely, pathetic singleton anymore. Enjoy the beautiful comfort of being i
n a loving, caring relationship with someone who truly adores you for who you are …

  Hang on, what do you fucking mean you’ve not been being yourself?

  Are you crazy?

  You mean, you’ve not been being you? This whole time? Are you dim? Do you not know the most basic rule of dating – IT ONLY WORKS IF YOU ARE YOURSELF!! I thought everyone knew that. Jeez. I can’t believe you’ve been lying to this poor guy from the start. How let down he’s going to feel when he realises that you’re actually a flawed human being, with needs and desires that may infringe on his own, and that you want to be loved despite all those repulsive flaws, which is totally unreasonable if you ask me. Yes yes yes, you need to be yourself. Duh. But, like, I thought you realised all of this wasn’t about hiding yourself, but changing yourself. Making yourself perfect. Like he deserves.

  Too late now. Can’t open up now. Otherwise he’ll claim false advertising and want his goddamned money back. Nope. If you don’t want to lose him, you’re just going to have to commit to keeping up this facade for the rest of your life. Just keep pretending. Every day. Fake it till you make it and all that. I mean, TRY to be yourself, but not too much. You don’t want to go back to square one again, do you? I mean, if he doesn’t love you for who you are then nobody else will. Life’s not that long to act like a complete fake. Men tend to die before women too, so you’ll get a few years when you’re eighty-six of being able to let yourself loose for a while. You can hang on until then, can’t you?

  * * *

  April: Gretel?

  Gretel: Yes, babes?

  April: I need to let you go.

  Gretel: Me? But I’m not the one with all the problems.

  April: Exactly.

  Gretel: Explain your rationale please.

  April: Gretel, you’re not real …

  Gretel: Well that’s true.