Pretending: The brilliant new adult novel from Holly Bourne. Why be yourself when you can be perfect?(8)

Then it passes, as promptly as it arrived. I laugh and do a little curtsey.

Simon’s pulling me towards his flat, muttering sweet-anythings like the director’s commentary on a film called Everything A Woman Secretly Wants to Hear. ‘You’re so beautiful, and sexy. I really, really fancy you. You’re amazing.’

The words dissolve in, like honey in hot milk, and erase away all the doubts putting their hands up. I feel potent with power, high on how much he wants me. If he can just keep up this level of adoration for every minute of our lives together, that will compensate, surely, for the fact he can’t handle one minute of me talking about my job being hard, or the fact he is a bit cheesy actually, and … oh. We’ve just got into his flat and, looking around, it’s an atrocious mess. It’s filthy. There’s crap everywhere. It’s like him and his housemate are feral. Eww. Eww eww.

‘Sorry. The cleaner’s not coming until Sunday morning.’ Simon lifts my arms up above my head to remove my top before I’m ready to remove it. I mean, we’re still in the cluttered entrance. He’s not even pretended we are going to drink coffee.

I could’ve done with a bit more reassuring small talk beforehand but now my top is off and Simon’s behaving how all men behave when they get a whiff of laid. His eyes have that angry urgency to them, and now he’s plunging his tongue into my mouth. It’s gone all primal. I feel like … bait? Oh God, brain, stop thinking! I try to focus on kissing him back and losing myself in instinct and feeling good and sexy and doing all the right things, but, yes, I do have one eye open, to take in his flat and try to figure out what that means about his character. It’s hard to deduce much through the mess. It’s typical men-living-with-other-men stuff – two lazy boys and an easy-to-assemble pine table from IKEA littered with wilting Evening Standards. I twist him around so I can get a view of the kitchen. I’m unimpressed with the stack of washing-up and crumb-laden surface. I mean, he’s 33 and he can’t wipe a counter top?

‘Let’s go to my bedroom.’ Simon’s erection strains against his suit trousers, his shirt half-unbuttoned.

‘OK.’

We crash around, attached by the lips. He carries on undoing his shirt so I put my hands up the back of it and sort of scratch him so I can feel like I’m contributing. His grunting noises amplify their urgency and we smash through the door and arrive in his room. There’s a Welsh flag hanging on the curtain rail, which surprises me because he doesn’t sound Welsh. Is he Welsh? Do you need to know if someone is Welsh or not before they put their penis inside you? Oh God – shut up brain! Enjoy the sex. What is wrong with me?

We fall backwards onto his unmade bed with a doof and a giggle. The intimacy of his laugh turns me on a bit. It feels real and right again and I’m back in the game. My brain clears enough for me to tug off his shirt and chuck it to the floor like an actual vixen – well, not an actual vixen, they don’t have opposable thumbs. Shut up brain, shut up brain. Simon gently guides my pelvis up to try and take off my skinny jeans. He does marvellously, until they get stuck on my shins. I lean down to help him.

‘No,’ he smacks my arms away and yanks.

Shocked, I say, ‘I was just trying to help.’

‘Well don’t.’

He struggles to get them off a while longer, muttering, ‘What the fuck are these things?’ Then, once he’s finally yanked them off my feet, he beams at me, all cocky and voila! Like he didn’t just smack me. Like I was supposed to find being told off sexy.

I’m not sure what to do so I lean up and kiss him, craving tenderness for counterbalance. But he wraps my hair around his fist, pulling me towards him roughly, using his other hand to try and unclip my bra. I know this one has a tricky clasp and he’ll struggle but I’ve learnt that he won’t appreciate any pointers. So I run through all the things I like about him to try and get myself back into it, pretending it’s not taken over a minute now for him to get the hang of it: Simon always replies to my messages within an appropriate level of time. He makes me laugh. He is not like other people who work in finance. I remember how hard we giggled on our first date because the waiter was so incompetent and kept ignoring us. I remember how, on our second date, he turned up holding a bunch of tulips because I’d told him they were my favourite. I remember the lovely message he sent me last week, when I had to rain check because I got struck by the office lurgy, telling me to get well soon. Nobody is perfect, I think to myself, as he rummages himself out of his boxers and silently instructs me to slide out of my knickers. I’m so lucky I’ve met him, I think to myself, as I wait propped on my elbows while he faffs around with the condom. This could really be the start of something, I think to myself, as he leans me back. I take three, subtle, deep breaths just as he’s about to enter me, stressing that it won’t work that it will hurt that it will be awful and my life is ruined … but … oh thank God he’s made it in and we’re having sex. I sigh in relief, my entire body relaxing. Simon mistakes the sigh for satisfaction and lets out a matching one. He pulls my face towards him to stare into my eyes. That’s nice actually. I like that. It’s tender and real and safe for two whole minutes of missionary. But then his eyes leave mine, his face closes off, and he gets rougher, thrusts more forcefully, like it doesn’t matter if I’m there at all. Why do they always do this? Why? I need him to look at me. I need him to see me. I need to feel like this is something. But the porn urge has overridden him and I feel like nothing once more and I’m losing it, spiralling away from this room and him and into the darkness, holding on by my fingernails.