Pretending: The brilliant new adult novel from Holly Bourne. Why be yourself when you can be perfect?(3)

I want a relationship because it’s a really normal and natural thing to want. And yet, it’s not been happening for me. It’s so exhaustingly hard. I don’t understand why it’s so hard …

But maybe it won’t be hard any more. Not with Simon.

God, I really, really like Simon.





I attempt to lose myself in my work. My important work in my important job in my independent life. I try to be better than this. Less needy than this. Less obsessed than this. It’s my shift answering the inbox this afternoon and that’s always a traumatic ball-ache, so I need to be efficient and get through my emails and be all the things I know I’m capable of being. I type up the notes from the meeting about safeguarding procedure. I plan next month’s buddy timetable and send it out to the volunteers. I go to another meeting about budget cuts, how to make it work on much less than we have and how we will probably get even less next year but we are positive that actually it will be OK. I’m hyper-aware of my phone in my top drawer, however. The unread message thumps through the oak like it’s the still-beating heart of a murdered body I’ve tried to bury, like the Poe story. I stare into nothingness for many a moment to obsess about the contents of the message. He won’t be cancelling tonight, will he? He seemed really up for it last night. He explicitly used the words ‘looking forward to seeing you’. He put a kiss on the end. But what if he’s changed his mind? What if his ex rang him randomly last night and told him she still loves him and they’ve been up all night rampantly shagging and he’s only just remembered he’s got a date tonight?

‘Whoops, I should probably let her know,’ I imagine Simon saying, laughing with carefree abandon as she wraps her arms around his neck. Her name is Gretel, I’ve decided. For some reason, whenever I fantasise about perfect women who behave perfectly in relationships, I always call them Gretel. Gretel kisses his face and says, ‘Well you can’t go now, can you? Not when we are about to elope to Gretna Green,’ and— OH MY GOD, WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? Why is this weird image of him and his ex in my head? I don’t know him, it’s only been five dates, and why am I doing this to myself? I have to open the message. He’s going to be cancelling. I know it, I know it. I should get over the disappointment now, rip off the plaster, give the wound oxygen to heal and …

The drawer is open. Phone retrieved, alongside a scattering of postcards that rain onto the grey carpet like shrapnel. I jab my finger on the scanner to unlock it, already wondering if my housemate Megan will be free tonight to commiserate-drink with me. I open the message.

Simon: Hey, are you having a nice Friday? Shall we meet at 7pm in Gordon’s Wine Bar? X

The usual knee-jerk of emotions scurry in. Euphoria! He messaged! He likes me! I like him! I’ve not imagined the attraction! Human beings can meet and like each other and make it into a thing and I can be one of those humans! I can do relationships! I can totally do them! There’s nothing wrong with me after all! Yes! Oh I like him so much! Gordon’s! What an idea! I love that place! I hate it normally but it’s so perfect now! Yes! Oh, he really is perfect! I think I’m going to fall in love with him and it will always be perfect! Silly me! Whoopsie! Silly, silly me for doubting this.

Hang on …

I just full-on hallucinated him having amazing make-up-sex with his ex-girlfriend. I even christened her ‘Gretel’.

That’s not normal, is it?

Bloody hell, that is so un-normal.

What is wrong with me?

HE CAN NEVER FIND OUT HOW UN-NORMAL I AM!

Matt glances over and sees my shaking hands clutching my phone. He takes his headphones off and gestures towards it. ‘All OK? You look like he’s sent you a death threat?’

I look up, flustered. ‘He wants to go to Gordon’s Wine Bar.’

‘Woah, even worse than a death threat.’ He ducks just before I jokingly thwack the top of his head. ‘It’s good that he wants to see you again though, isn’t it?’

‘I guess.’

‘Are you going to reply?’ He talks slowly, like a teacher would say to a child, ‘that’s a lovely painting, are you going to add a sun to the sky?’

‘I mean, that’s the obvious thing to do, isn’t it?’

‘Tends to be the pattern. They message. You message. So on and so forth.’ He goes to put his headphones back on, before pausing, holding them out either side of his ears.

‘Oh God, what is it?’ I ask. ‘You’re not about to give me some brilliant dating advice, are you? Like “if it’s right there’s nothing you can do to fuck it up, and if it’s wrong there’s nothing you can do to make it work” – because I did not have you down as the inspirational quote kind of guy.’

‘No, actually, I was going to talk to you about your shift.’

My heart stiffens. Vision smears. I know where this is going.

‘I had a look at the inbox and there’s a heavy one in there. I’m your buddy so I just thought I’d give you a heads-up and—’

I cut him off. ‘I know what you’re trying to say, but I’m OK.’

‘You sure?’

I smile through it, though I can recognise all the familiar triggers zing-zinging throughout my nervous system, setting everything off again. Turning all the switches on across my body. I’m in the dark dark dark of the worst that life can be. The white wallpaper dissolves behind my eyelids. The embossed pattern swirling. I’m here in the room and things have got out of hand and I’m not sure how because it all happened so very quickly you see, but the wallpaper and … No. I’m not there. I’m here, in an office. On a Friday. I’m totally safe.