Pretending: The brilliant new adult novel from Holly Bourne. Why be yourself when you can be perfect?(5)

I start to type.

‘Oh God,’ he says. ‘You’re actually googling it, aren’t you?’





Here are the ways that I think Simon is different and why I might therefore fall in love with him: he always messages back. He seems pleased to see me. His parents aren’t divorced. He has not declared I am the love of his life yet, which is appropriate, yet he seems to like me the more he sees me, which is also appropriate. He has a steady job and isn’t a failed musician or a failed novelist or a failed actor and only doing the steady job because he failed and is bitter and weird and depressed because of it. He volunteered for the homeless shelter that one time, which is where I met him, so he is not dead inside. He has a sister, which we all know helps things along. He is attractive, but not in a way that means he gets hit on all the time and is therefore too big-headed and likely to cheat. He makes me laugh, and I make him laugh. He is a really good kisser. When I stalked his ex-girlfriend online, she was roughly equally as pretty as I am, if not slightly uglier and, from what I can make out by the date-stamps of the photos, they’ve been broken up for one year and two months which is a good amount of time for him to emotionally recover. He seems really into me … so far.





I spot him before he spots me, so I get to enjoy that giddy thrill of watching a man wait for you. Oh Simon, I really do want to fall in love with you if I can possibly help it. He looks handsome in his work stuff – the sleeves of his blue shirt rolled up to show off his tanned arms. He’s already ordered a bottle of red – remembering I prefer red from last time. He’s managed to score us a tiny barrel table and two stools outside. He’s on his phone, scrolling with his thumb, oblivious to the loud weekend braying of everyone drinking around him. Then, sensing me, he glances up. His eyes crinkle as he smiles, which, according to the relationship expert Roald Dahl, means the smile is really genuine. I wave bashfully and smile back, also a Roald Dahl one. This is it, you know. This could really be it. A man doesn’t smile like that unless this could be something. I walk over, highly aware of myself, wishing I hadn’t had that second glass of wine at after-work drinks. I hadn’t meant to, but London’s been boasting a most unusual heatwave, and, determined not to waste a moment of it, we’d carted some wine to Regent’s Park around the corner. I wanted to soothe the lingering aftertaste of my shift. Plus, after googling it, I had the dawning realisation that maybe Simon would want to have sex tonight and promptly freaked the hell out. Wine has now diminished the fear that it won’t work or it will happen again. I just feel floaty and convinced it will all be fine, even though I’ve not used my vaginal trainers in ages.

We don’t quite know how to greet one another yet. The last time I saw him, we were pinned against some wall by the Tube station, kissing so hard it’s a miracle we weren’t arrested. I’m sure that’s in both of our minds now, yet we’re back to formal courtship.

‘Hello you.’ He kisses me on the cheek, while I sort of turn it into a hug.

‘You smell great,’ I find myself saying tipsily, as we pull apart. ‘We’d have totally genetically healthy children.’

I die inside for exactly two seconds until he snorts with laughter and my stomach relaxes again. He laughs widely, showing off at least three fillings which is still sexy to me because I’m off my tits on oxytocin.

He leans in and sniffs my neck. ‘Mmm, you smell like you came from a diverse gene pool.’

‘Our children won’t even need to get vaccinated.’

Then we’re kissing in a way I’m normally against people doing in public, mimicking the finale of our last date. Wiping away the polite greeting. The wine’s temporarily abandoned, the surrounding rah-rahing crowds of Friday drinkers fade into a Vaseline smear, and I’m tasting Simon’s mouth and really feeling quite certain this must be love.

I break off. ‘Please don’t sniff my butt like a dog though,’ I say.

He showcases his sexy oxytocin fillings again. ‘But that’s my best move.’

We settle into our bottle of red and the euphoric fizzing of connecting with another person you really fancy.

It’s all been worth it, I decide, as he picks up the bottle and drains the last of it into my glass. All of the heartache and the break-ups and the terrible dates, and the ringing various female friends, saying I’m exhausted and can’t do this any more, and the constant worrying of ‘will this ever happen to me’, and the crying until I choked, and that year after Ryan where all I did in my empty hours was google ways to kill myself that wouldn’t damage my mum too much when she found my body … it’s all been worth it because of now. Simon. This. The way we are slotting in together.

‘I’m not like the other guys who work in finance,’ he’s saying, sloshing his wine around his glass so it’s licking the rim but never quite splashing. ‘They’re all just in it for the money but I’m not. I’m an ombudsman; I’m just there to make sure they behave. You say you work in finance and everyone just assumes you’re a banker wanker, but someone’s got to keep them in line.’

I nod my head heavily, looking like I’m trying to understand some of the number nitty-gritty he’s now explaining to me when, really, I’m having the very terrible thought that he works in finance, and this means he earns good money, even if he’s not a banker, and that’s quite useful you know, because I work for a charity so I’m always broke. Maybe he has enough savings to buy a house? Then I can live in it? And then, if we get married, it will sort of be my house too? I mean, I like Simon for Simon – not for his money. But the money is useful. Hang on, what the hell is he talking about now? I blink away our three-bed Victorian conversion in Greenwich. ‘What was that?’ I ask.