Pretending: The brilliant new adult novel from Holly Bourne. Why be yourself when you can be perfect?(9)

But it’s about to get worse. He pulls out and, without asking, without checking, without kissing me or showing me any tenderness at all, he starts arranging me into the doggy position. It’s so cold and unfeeling and no, no! Where has he gone? Why is he acting like I’m not here? My anxiety builds and builds, my stomach curdling as he yanks my hair. The nice man I thought I could fall in love with is gone and I panic …

I can’t.

I freeze. Primitively suspended in the moment. Fear soaking through me.

He doesn’t notice, or maybe he’s pretending not to notice. Either way, he’s getting ready to start again, despite me stiffening up, but no …

No no no.

Not this way.

Please not this way.

The white wallpaper.

No. But oh God.

This will be so much easier, so much easier if I just go along with it.

But I can’t.

I can’t.

‘I’m sorry,’ I squeal. I roll myself over so I’m no longer bent over the bed. I fight the urge to kick him away and run out of the room.

‘What the hell?’

I glance up to see panic bleed across his face. His mouth hanging open, lips slightly curled.

Shit. I’ve ruined it, I’ve ruined it, I’ve ruined it. I’m terrified and want to run away but I also can’t handle his face now that I’ve ruined it.

‘I … don’t understand. What’s going on?’

‘Can we just not … in that position?’ My voice is more squeak than voice. ‘Not tonight.’ I desperately grasp at an excuse. ‘I want to see your face.’

‘Oh,’ Simon says, standing there naked. ‘Oh,’ he repeats.

‘OK, cool.’ I say and unravel myself and make myself lean up to kiss him, to try and get it back. I reckon I could drag myself back into the moment if he could just be a bit more tender. We can recover, this is fine, he’s still a good kisser … or is he? He’s hardly kissing me back. I can taste the hesitation. And, when I glance down, I can see the deflating impact of my behaviour.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit.

I shouldn’t have said anything.

What’s wrong with me?

Why did I do this?

Anxiety pulses through me, panic starts hitting the button. I break off, even though I know talking about it will make it worse. ‘Is everything OK?’

Simon’s eyes are wide; Simon is not OK. ‘Yep.’ He winces as he says it. Then … ‘I mean, well, actually …’ He sits down on the edge of the bed, away from me, signalling the end of the sex and, I’m quite certain, the end of us. My throat closes up in self-loathing. I long for an alternate reality where I just let us continue. Where I am the sort of woman who loves a porn-style pummelling by someone she’s sleeping with for only the first time. ‘I’m just … well, you’ve made me feel bad. I wasn’t doing anything wrong …’ he trails off, hangs his head.

‘I know you weren’t! Sorry! I’m so sorry. I just …’ I don’t want to tell him about it, but I also don’t know how to explain it without telling him about it. I will try and make it breezy. I can do that, surely. ‘It’s just … umm … I had a bad experience a long time ago and so I need a bit more time sometimes …’ His eyes widen, panic well and truly flowing through him now. My heart’s bending over on itself, but I’m still determined to save this. ‘Look, it’s nothing, I was really enjoying it. Hey? Hey …’ I fling myself at him, wrap my naked legs around his waist and kiss him even more desperately. I rub my hands down his back, scratching his skin, trying to be all alluring like the women in the movies.

He ignores me though, and just stares at the wall. ‘I … I don’t think I can have sex now,’ he announces, before standing suddenly, shedding me like a coat he’s dropped to the ground and striding to the en suite. I watch him take a piss. I watch him as I gather my clothes to myself, my heart close to snapping. I expect him to sit down and say maybe we can talk about it. Although I’m disorientated, I reckon I can power through this, make light of it, laugh our way back to sex. He doesn’t talk about it though. He turns off the light and strides back towards the bed, like I’d said nothing, like we’re a stale couple who have been married a million years. And with that, Simon, the man who I thought may be the love of my life, is a stranger again. All the connection just got pissed down the toilet.

He smiles awkwardly. ‘It’s late, and I’ve had one hell of a week at work. Shall we just go to sleep?’

I nod, shoving my dress back over my head to shield my naked body. He leans over and kisses me on the forehead. ‘You all right?’ he asks, making it clear the only acceptable answer is yes.

‘Yes.’

Satisfied he’s a nice man because he bothered asking, he clambers under his slightly-smelly duvet and rolls onto his side. ‘Night,’ he says with his back to me.

‘Umm, night.’

There’s one toss, one groan, and one turn, while I blink up at the ceiling next to this stranger. Then Simon does the impossible.

He sleeps.

I’m not even under the duvet by the time his breathing falls into a steady hiss and his body goes heavy. I take a deep breath and calmly bend to pick my knickers off the floor. I shrug my dress to my nose and smell the cigarette smoke and sweat from the day. Then I lie back next to this man in the dark and actually contemplate the possibility of being able to fall asleep too. I would like to. To be able to check out of reality right now, to pretend whatever the fuck just happened didn’t just happen. I could wake tomorrow, refreshed and bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and somehow laugh it off and say it’s nothing before seducing him into having good sex and getting us back on track again.