Pretending: The brilliant new adult novel from Holly Bourne. Why be yourself when you can be perfect?(7)

‘Whoa, all a bit heavy, isn’t it?’ he says, nose wrinkled.

I can taste the change of vibe in the air. I detect his discomfort and feel instantly self-conscious and stupid.

‘Do you want to go somewhere else?’ Simon very deliberately changes the subject, arms crossed in front of him. ‘Or,’ he says, raising one sly eyebrow and changing the vibe further, ‘we could just grab a drink at mine?’

I’m still emotional when he drops the sex hint, trying to locate how and when I messed up. I make myself smile, while I do the basic-level psychology needed to figure out what’s going on. ‘I guess we could head back to yours?’

I’m stressed that I’ve upset him, feeling like I’m wobbling backwards on the edge of a ledge, arms flailing to keep balance. But sex … sex always grounds you with them again. I now want to have sex with him, not because I’m horny, but to make things OK. Offer myself as an apology for being myself.

He stands quickly and puts his arm around my back as I scramble up. A crowd of drunken suit-wearers push past, claiming our table before I’ve even disentangled my handbag from my stool. I’m still mentally processing as we’re spat out onto the pavement next to Embankment, where a Big Issue seller mumbles a desperate plea for sales. I’m trying to get back into the good feeling. Have I just imagined our connection vanishing? Probably. Especially as …

There’s no time for further thinking. Simon has pulled me into him, moaning as our lips meet. We make out in front of the Big Issue vendor for twenty solid minutes, London blurring to nothingness. I forget how much kissing renders me incapable. I lose all sense of fear as biology takes over, flooding me with the druggy high of chemistry. Simon breaks off, takes my hand and drags me to the Tube station, all eyebrows raised and the-sex-is-going-to-happen-soon. I instruct myself to feel excited rather than tense.

There’s four minutes until the next Circle line train so we kiss again, breaking apart only to debate whether to change at Tower Hill.

‘It’ll save us two minutes,’ I say.

‘What’s two minutes?’ Simon replies, pulling me back into him.

The Tube hisses its arrival. We stagger onto the half-empty carriage. Under the glaring lights, we silently agree to shelve the PDAs, and sit opposite one another. The kiss escapism lasts a whole Tube stop before my anxiety shows up. I stare over at Simon and start oh-so-predictably freaking out about everything that’s happened and is about to happen. He’s pulled out his phone, scrolling through with a glazed expression. Why isn’t he staring over at me adoringly, like I am him? That’s the first twinge of angst. Then, just as we’re clattering past Monument: Why did he go all weird when I brought up my job? Was I too much? I’m always too much. Why haven’t I been practising with my trainers? Will it work? Will I be able to?

Don’t say anything, I instruct myself. Don’t bring it up. Enjoy this. Have the sex. Get the closeness back. You know how to have sex. You’ve done it before. Fall in love. This man clearly likes you. Look! He’s just looked up from BBC Sport and winked! A wink! What a lovely, romantic wink … oh, he’s gone back to looking at his phone now, but that’s OK. You can’t expect him to gaze at you adoringly the whole Tube journey. That’s asking too much. You’re asking too much, just like always.

But my mouth is open and the words are already out:

‘Simon? Is everything OK?’

He glances up from his screen and wrinkles his nose for the second time that evening. ‘Yes, why?’

Stop talking, stop talking, stop talking, stop talking.

‘I didn’t mean to go on about my job …’

‘Don’t worry about it. It was just a bit too much for a Friday, wasn’t it? Look! This is us!’ He reaches out to entwine fingers again and I step out onto the platform, feeling a little bit like I’ve been punched in the face, but also like it’s my fault and I’m the one who needs to make it better.

‘I cannot wait to get you back to mine,’ Simon whispers into my neck before kissing it.

I make a non-committal sexy-sounding noise and try to gear myself up. What did he mean by ‘a bit too much’? I’d hardly said anything. Why are those two words always used about me?

We steer through the Friday night energy, dodging clumps of scantily dressed revellers, and the swaying drunks looking for the meaning of life in their Ginsters pasties. Simon kisses me as we wait at the bus stop. Each kiss soothes the angst and pulls me back into the moment. As we get on the bus I try to tell myself I’m being silly and reading too much into things, like I’m always told I do. I try to get myself into the mood for sex, mentally checking I’ve got myself ready for it. I’m wearing nice matching underwear. I shaved in the shower this morning. I’ve got condoms in my bag, and a toothbrush. I hope there are no specks of loo roll stuck around my vagina. Maybe I can use the bathroom beforehand, just to check?

The loud ding of the stop button being hit. Simon’s standing up.

‘This is us.’

I clamber up, trying not to fall as the bus lurches into the stop. He gets off first and holds out his hand. ‘M’lady,’ he says, kissing the top of my own hand.

‘Sire,’ I reply, though I’m having an inexplicable moment of finding Simon totally repulsive. You’re a cheesy twat, I think. Fuck you for being weird about my job.