by Holly Bourne
Maybe you are different, I think.
I wait for Gretel’s reply. Her warning. Her snark.
I get nothing.
Maybe you are different, I think again, as I lean over to kiss Joshua’s cheek – which could be the making or the undoing of me. I will not know for some time. I may never know at all.
Maybe you are different.
And it begins.
Whatever it is. It begins.
One year later
I hate some men.
And you know what? I don’t think that’s over the top, considering what some men do1. The ones who hurt and push, the ones who see you as decorations, the ones who are so sad and so messed up that they take and take and take and still feel empty. I hate that they refuse to admit that they hate women. I hate that they still blame it on us. I hate that so many of them seem so far beyond help, and all the damage they’re going to cause as a result of that. I hate the ones who laugh at our anger, who diminish our pain. Who want to keep their slimy hands tightly clutched on the reins of this world, riding the rest of us and whipping us like horses.
I hate the men that did the things to me that made me hate men. I think that’s appropriate. I believe only I am allowed to decide if forgiveness is something I’m willing to give them, and I choose not to. I will not turn the other cheek to the men who damaged me. I don’t owe them anything.
But I love some men. I love the men who try to be different. I love the men who listen more than they talk. I love the men brave enough to hear what we have to say. I love the men who then talk to other men about it, even though it goes against everything they have been taught not to do. I love the men who want to break the cycle. Who want to be different from their fathers, or their brothers, their friends or their colleagues. I love the men who can confront the uncomfortable truth that it is their fathers and brothers, friends and colleagues who are doing this to women. Who have to admit maybe women see a different side to them, one we are not lying about. I love the men who don’t need sisters and daughters and wives to make us human and not want us hurt. I love the men who cry.
I love a man.
I have managed to find a man who, for now, is worth loving. I love a man who has stopped and listened and tried to understand, even though he is a man so he can never truly understand. But he tries. The important thing is that he tries. I love a man who holds me when I cry and is there, but who is making me build myself back strong rather than letting me use him as my strength. I love a man who annoys me so much sometimes that I honestly, seriously, sometimes think I hate him too. I love a man who finds me equally annoying at times but who still chooses to love me anyway.
I love a man, and it has not solved all my problems. It has not made my entire life slot into place like I thought it would. It has not saved me from the huge amount of work I need to do to save myself from things that never should’ve happened to me. There is no ‘the end’ we can hide behind after we found out that we loved each other. There are still two complicated human lives to lead and no guarantee that we’ll make it.
Some days are pure magic, some days are pure hell. Some days I feel like we’re soulmates who perfectly fit, other days I wonder what the fuck we are doing together when we’re so incompatible. Sometimes he gets it, sometimes I can’t even handle how badly he doesn’t.
Some days I believe the hard work is worth it, and other days I don’t.
I’m starting to realise this is what love is. I do not know if it’s worth it. If it makes me any happier. If the pain and frustration of blending a life with another life is worth the gooey moments. I don’t know if the good days will outweigh the bad days.
I don’t know anything.
Yet I keep loving him anyway.
And he keeps loving me.
I’m starting to realise that’s what love is.
Enjoyed Pretending? Click here to review!
Footnote
• Gretel’s Guide to Becoming The Girlfriend and Staying The Girlfriend
* * *
* ‘To nag’ = Express distaste at any legitimately bad behaviour and ask politely if this behaviour can be changed because it’s making you hugely unhappy.
Acknowledgements
I’d just like to start by quickly thanking all women, everywhere. Whenever I think about this book, and everything I read, everyone I spoke to, every painful secret that was whispered to me, I tear up when I realise the sheer strength of us. If your story is anything like April’s story then I wish you peace, I wish you recovery, I wish you love. I hope I did her story justice. This story was partly inspired by the years I spent, like April, helping victims of sexual violence, and, like April, there came a time when it became too much and I had to stop. So thank you to everyone out there who continues to work for these services. It’s such vital, important, brutally-hard work and you are all my superheroes.
There are so many women in particular I’d like to thank too. To Maddy, as always, my own official dream-maker and powerhouse – and to her amazing team. To Kimberley, my editor, for pushing me to make this book everything that it is. And to everyone at Hodder in general for not batting an eyelid when I sent over the opening line ‘I hate men’. For getting it and believing in it, and championing it, and me, and the work I do. It means the world that I have a publisher who lets me tell these stories – thank you. Also a special shout-out to Becca, your passion and work ethic is as impeccable as your hair.
To my female friends – Rachel, Lisa, Emily, Ruth, Lucy, Ellie, Harriet, Jess, Christi, Non, Lisa, Lexi, Sara, Emma, Louie, Lizzie, Becky, Tanya, Katie, and so many more. Thank you for pulling me through this book, for always picking up the phone, for the insight and wisdom you give me, for the turn-taking we share in reassuring one another that we’re not crazy. To my incredible women in my family – Mum, Eryn, Willow.
And, unlike April, I am proud to say that I don’t hate men, and this is because of the wonderful collection of men in my life who challenge toxic concepts every day. Thanks to my father, to Josh, to all the great men I worked with at Youthnet. And to W, in particular – goodest of all the good eggs.
Finally, to anyone who needs further advice and support after reading this book, please do contact Women’s Aid or Rape Crisis. And to anyone inspired to donate to these causes by this story – please do. They are chronically underfunded considering the huge scale of the issue of violence against women.
For more information and advice for those affected by rape or sexual abuse, contact Rape Crisis or Women’s Aid – both of which are national organisations offering free and confidential support to those in need.
Rape Crisis
Helpline: 0808 802 9999
More information: rapecrisis.org.uk
Women’s Aid
More information: womensaid.org.uk
Did you love Pretending?
Turn over for an extract from How Do You Like Me Now?
Month One
Olivia Jessen
Six month bump alert. The belly has popped people, the belly has popped. #BumpSelfie #Blessed
81 likes
*
Harry Spears
I liked it so … I put a ring on it.
Harry Spears and Claire Rodgers are engaged.
332 likes
*
Andrea Simmons
Poo explosion! But look at that cheeky face …
52 likes
Comments:
Olivia Jessen: Oh no, Andrea. I’ve got all that to look forward to.
Andrea Simmons: I’ll give you a nose peg at your baby shower!
*
Event invite: Olivia Jessen’s super-secret baby shower.
16 attending
*
Tori’s WhoTheF*ckAmI? Official Fan Page
Alright my f*ckers! Who’s coming to the London show tonight? I can’t believe it’s sold out! I love and adore you all. See you at seven. I’ll be the one on stage with the microphone, wondering how the hell I got so lucky in
life.
2434 likes. 234 comments.
*
I look out at a sea of earnestness.
There are too many faces to make anyone out individually, but there is a collective look. A collective glow. Their eyes are dewy; their hands are clasped.
They hang on my every syllable.
I’m getting to the good bit. The bit I know they’ve been waiting for. The bit I’ve been building up to. I walk across the stage in my designer heels and smooth down my designer dress. I look exactly how a successful woman should look. Groomed, plucked, highlighted, contoured … but not in an obvious way. I look right out at them. At their anxious, eager faces. And I say:
‘That’s when I realised it.’ I raise one threaded eyebrow. ‘Sitting there, cross-legged in that fucking tent in Sedona. Chanting bollocks with a load of wankers, wearing a rosary necklace for God’s sake. That’s when it hit me …’
I pause.
The audience stills. You could float a boat on the expectation filling the air.
‘I was trying to find myself how everyone else finds themselves,’ I say. ‘I was having a nervous breakdown exactly how everyone else has a nervous breakdown and I was healing myself how everyone else tries to heal themselves. And I said to myself NO MORE.’ I hold out my hand like I’m signalling stop. I pause again, waiting for the beat. ‘“Just who the fuck am I?” I asked myself. “What do I want?” Because life isn’t a paint-by-numbers. You cannot find yourself along an identikit path. And, actually, even after my quarter-life crisis, even after this whole year of self-discovery, I was still twenty-five and doing exactly what had got me into this mess in the first place. I was doing what I thought I should be doing rather than what I fucking needed to be doing.’
A stray whoop. The audience softens into gentle laughter. I laugh, too, and it echoes around the walls, bounces out of the various speakers.
I nod. ‘Exactly.’ I pause to let them settle. I clop back to the other side of the stage. There is a hush. I blink slowly, trying to remember that moment. Trying to invoke the triumph I felt. Six years ago. On that day, that incredible day. The day where everything started going right for me.
‘So,’ I tell them. ‘I opened my eyes, I uncrossed my legs, and I walked out of that stupid meditation yurt and never looked back.’
The applause is overwhelming, like it always is. It takes about five minutes for them to calm down, like they always do. I make my own eyes go dewy to show my appreciation, like I always do. Then I get around to telling them the rest of my story. The story they all know already. Because all of them have my book clasped in their hands, waiting for me to sign it afterwards. Waiting to have their moment with me. To tell me about their own messy twenties, their own terrible boyfriends, their own shitty jobs, their own smacking disappointments. And to tell me how my book, my words, my story helped them through. Still helps them through.
It’s crazy really. I sometimes forget how crazy it is.
We don’t sell many books despite the queue that snakes around multiple corridors. They all already have their copies. Battered copies with crippled spines and Post-its to highlight their favourite parts. I sign for over three hours – my grin stapled on, trying to keep my energy up for all the women who’ve waited so long for this moment.
This moment with me.
Like I’m special or something.
So I smile and smile and I high-five them when they tell me of their own adventures. I hug them when they cry. I lean in and listen carefully as they whisper their secrets. My publicist hovers, twitchy, and asks if I’m OK. If I need a break. If I want some water. I smile at her and say no. I’m OK. I’m fine. I’m managing. But thank you.
Every single person asks the same questions:
‘So, when is your new book coming out?’
‘What are you working on now?’
‘Do you have a new project coming out soon?’
‘I’m so impatient. How long do I have to wait?’
My smile goes tight and I tap my nose and say, ‘Wait and see’ and ‘Watch this space.’
Then, of course, they also want to know:
‘So, are you still together?’
‘The guy you met at the end of the book? Are you still with him?’
‘Are you still in love?’
They ask the way a child asks their parents if Santa Claus is real – their eyes big, wide with a mixture of excitement and fear. I know why they’re excited and I know why they’re scared. They’re excited because if I can find him, they can find him. If I can make it work, they can make it work. If magic is real for me, it is real for them. I am the reflection of everything they want in their own lives. I’m essentially the Mirror of Erised.
They’re scared because I could also be their albatross. If I can’t make it work, who can? If magic doesn’t work for me, it most certainly won’t work for them.
I nod and simper and coo and look all bashful. I repeat the phrase over and over. ‘Yes, we’re still together. We live together now.’
Oh, how that makes them happy. They gasp. They demand photographs. They swoon, they sigh. Their eyes grow bigger and wetter and they are so relieved. It makes my own eyes water and I blink like crazy to stop it. Because they make me remember Us. The Us we were. The Us that we were when the story they clutch finishes. I can remember it so clearly – maybe because I’ve been forced to talk about it non-stop for six years …
‘Are you OK?’
‘Huh?’
I blink and look up at the face of a woman standing over me. Her entire body jolts with nerves; her fingers tremble on her copy of my book, which has over one hundred Post-its glued in.
‘Sorry.’ I smile and take the book off her. ‘Now, what’s your name?’
‘Rosie.’
‘Oh, that’s a lovely name,’ I say. It’s what I always say.
‘Thank you.’
I sign her book with the message I always write:
Dear Rosie,
Live the life you fucking need to live.
Love,
Tori xx
She’s crying.
‘Oh wow, thank you,’ she stutters through her sobs. ‘Can I … can I take a photo?’
I hand her book back. ‘Of course, of course. Are you OK?’
She laughs a little and says, ‘I’m fine, it’s just so amazing to meet you.’
I hold out both arms warmly. ‘Come here for a hug and a photo.’
Rosie hands her phone over to my publicist and is so overcome with emotion she forgets to even ask if it’s OK for her to take the picture. Then she clatters around to my side of the table and quivers next to me. I pull her in, putting my arm around her. She’s hot and sweaty. Her dampness sinks into the crisp fabric of my dress, but this moment is worth more than my dress.
‘Smile!’ my publicist says, holding up the phone.
I smile with my good side facing towards the camera – chin down to give me better jaw definition, eyebrows relaxed so my forehead wrinkles don’t show. There’s a flash and Rosie giggles and steps back to her side of the table, retrieving her phone and checking the photo.
‘Thanks so much for coming.’ I hand her book over.
‘No, thank you. Thank you so much for writing it. You don’t understand. When I was twenty-three, I was such a mess … then I found your book and … it changed my life … it really did.’
I am tired of smiling, but I need to smile at this because it’s important to her. ‘Wow, I’m so touched to hear that. How old are you now?’
‘Twenty-five.’
She’s only twenty-freaking-five. They just keep getting … younger.
‘Well I’m so glad you enjoyed it.’
I’m looking past her now, to the next person. Because it’s gone ten and I’ve got the wedding tomorrow. But, just as I reach out to take the book off the next shaking fan, Rosie discovers the courage to say one more thing.
‘Hey, sorry. But, can I just ask? Rock man? The man from the book? You are
still together, aren’t you?’
Rock man.
The man who found me on the rock. Who found me on top of a vortex in Sedona screaming ‘fuuuuuuuuuck’ and throwing my rosary beads off into the skyline, and somehow found that endearing.
Tom …
The man who could’ve been anywhere else in the world that day, but whom a thousand gusts of fate somehow blew to Arizona too. Sedona too. Climbing up to the vortex too.
My happily-ever-after.
The one you’re always rewarded with in stories where a character decides to be brave.
‘Yes,’ I confirm, feeling like my smile might snap. ‘We’re still together.’
She lets out a little squeal and a yelp, arms flailing in the air. Then she blushes. ‘Sorry. I’m fangirling.’
‘That’s fine.’
I’m looking past her again because, in the nicest possible way, she is taking too much time now. There are still at least fifty women waiting not-so patiently any more. Rosie doesn’t read my vibe. My response has only given her more confidence. She is conducting the conversation that she needs. In her head, we are friends now. Already great friends.
‘And you’re still blissfully happy?’
I close my eyes for a second longer than I should. When I open them, my smile is still there. It has to stay on. For the next fifty people it has to stay on. I give Rosie my dimples and my charm and my glowing, golden happiness. My wisdom. My serenity. Everything she expects. Everything she has paid for in her ticket price.
‘Of course,’ I tell her. ‘We’re still blissfully happy.’
*
The adrenaline starts to ooze out of me in the taxi home. I feel each muscle clenching and releasing. The cocktail of performance hormones steadily filtering out of my tight stomach, unravelling my intestines inch by inch. I lean my head against the blackened glass and watch London twinkle outside. This city just keeps getting taller, refusing to let anything stunt its growth – much like the people who live in its turrets.