Pretending : A Novel
Holly Bourne
On Sale Date: November 17, 2020
9780778331506, 0778331504
Trade Paperback
$17.99 USD
416 pages
ABOUT THE BOOK:
In this hilarious and heartbreaking debut novel perfect for fans of Fleabag, a woman struggling to
move on after a traumatic relationship pretends to be “the perfect girl” in an act of vengeance that
goes awry when she finds herself emotionally compromised.
He said he was looking for a 'partner in crime' which everyone knows is shorthand for 'a woman
who isn't real'.
April is kind, pretty, and relatively normal - yet she can't seem to get past date five. Every time
she thinks she's found someone to trust, they reveal themselves to be awful, leaving her heartbroken.
And angry. Until she realizes that what men are really looking for is Gretel.
Gretel is perfect - beautiful but low maintenance, sweet but never clingy, sexy but not a slut.
She's a Regular Everyday Manic Pixie Dream Girl Next Door With No Problems.
When April starts pretending to be Gretel, dating becomes much more fun - especially once she
reels in the unsuspecting Joshua. Finally, April is the one in control, but can she control her own
feelings? And as she and Joshua grow closer, how long will she be able to keep pretending?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Holly Bourne is a bestselling UK-based YA and Adult Fiction author and is an Ambassador for
Women’s Aid. In 2019, she was an Author of the Day at the London Book Fair, and was named by
Elle Magazine’s weekly podcast as one of “Six Female Authors Changing the Conversation in 2019”.
Pretending is her US debut.
BUY LINKS:
SOCIAL LINKS:
Author website: https://hollybourne.co.uk/
Twitter: @holly_bourneYA
Instagram: @hollybourneya
Facebook: @Holly.BourneYA
I hate men.
There, I’ve said it. I know you’re not supposed to say it. We all pretend we don’t hate them; we all tell
ourselves we don’t hate them. But I’m calling it. I’m standing here on this soapbox, and I’m saying it.
I. Hate. Men.
I mean, think about it. They’re just awful. I hate how selfish they are. How they take up so much space,
assuming it’s always theirs to take. How they spread out their legs on public transport, like their balls
need regular airing to stop them developing damp. I hate how they basically scent mark anywhere they
enter to make it work for them. Putting on the music they want to listen to the moment they arrive at any
house party, and always taking the nicest chair. How they touch your stuff instead of just looking; even
tweak the furniture arrangement to make it most comfortable for them. All without asking first—never asking first.
I hate how they think their interests are more important than yours—even though twice a week all most
of them do is watch a bunch of strangers kick a circle around a piece of lawn and sulk if the circle doesn’t
go in the right place. And how bored they look if you ever try to introduce them to a film, a band, or even
a freaking YouTube clip, before you’ve even pressed Play.
I hate their endless arrogance. I hate how they interrupt you and then apologize for it but carry on talking
anyway. How they ask you a question but then check your answer afterward. I hate how they can never
do one piece of housework without telling you about it. I hate how they literally cannot handle being
driven in a car by a woman, even if they’re terrible drivers themselves. I hate how they all think they’re
fucking incredible at grilling meat on barbecues. The sun comes out and man must light fire and not let
woman anywhere near the meat. Dumping blackened bits of chicken onto our plates along with the whiff
of a burp from their beer breath, acting all caveman, like we’re supposed to find it cute that we may now
get salmonella and that we’re going to have to do all the washing up.
I hate how I’m quite scared of them. I hate the collective noise of them when they’re in a big group. The
tribal wahey-ing, like they all swap their IQs for extra testosterone when they swarm together. How, if
you’re sitting alone on an empty train, they always come and deliberately sit next to you en masse, and
talk extra loudly about macho nonsense, apparently to impress you. I hate the way they look at you
when you walk past—automatically judging your screwability the moment they see you. Telling you to
smile if you dare look anything other than delighted about living with stuff like this constantly fucking
happening to you.
I hate how hard they are to love. How many of them actually, truly, think the way to your heart is sending
you a selfie of them tugging themselves, hairy ball sack very much still in shot. I hate how they have sex.
How they shove their fingers into you, thinking it’s going to achieve anything. Jabbing their unwashed
hands into your dry vagina, prodding about like they’re checking for prostate cancer, then wondering
why you now have BV and you still haven’t come. Have none of them read a sex manual? Seriously?
None of them? And I hate how they hate you a little just after they’ve finished. How even the nice ones
lie there with cold eyes, pretending to cuddle, but clearly desperate to get as far away from you as
possible.
I hate how it’s never equal. How they expect you to do all the emotional labor and then get upset when
you’re the more stressed-out one. I hate how they never understand you, no matter how hard they try,
although, let’s be honest here, they never actually try that hard. And I hate how you’re always exhausting
yourself trying to explain even the most basic of your rational emotional responses to their bored face.
I hate how every single last one of them has issues with their father.
And do you know what I hate most of all?
That despite this, despite all this disdain, I still fancy men. And I still want them to fancy me, to want me,
to love me. I hate myself for how much I want them. Why do I still fancy men so much? What’s wrong
with me? Why are they all so broken? Am I broken for still wanting to be with one, even after everything?
I should be alone. That’s the only healthy way to be. BUT I DON’T WANT TO BE ALONE. I hate men,
that’s the problem. GOD I HATE THEM SO MUCH—they’re so entitled and broken and lazy and wrong
and…and…
Hang on…
My phone.
HE MESSAGED BACK!!!
WITH A KISS ON THE END!
Never mind.
Forget I said anything. It’s all good.
Excerpted from Pretending by Holly Bourne, Copyright © 2020 by Holly Bourne. Published by MIRA Books.
