To my female friends – Rachel, Lisa, Emily, Ruth, Lucy, Ellie, Harriet, Jess, Christi, Non, Lisa, Lexi, Sara, Emma, Louie, Lizzie, Becky, Tanya, Katie, and so many more. Thank you for pulling me through this book, for always picking up the phone, for the insight and wisdom you give me, for the turn-taking we share in reassuring one another that we’re not crazy. To my incredible women in my family – Mum, Eryn, Willow.
And, unlike April, I am proud to say that I don’t hate men, and this is because of the wonderful collection of men in my life who challenge toxic concepts every day. Thanks to my father, to Josh, to all the great men I worked with at Youthnet. And to W, in particular – goodest of all the good eggs.
Finally, to anyone who needs further advice and support after reading this book, please do contact Women’s Aid or Rape Crisis. And to anyone inspired to donate to these causes by this story – please do. They are chronically underfunded considering the huge scale of the issue of violence against women.
For more information and advice for those affected by rape or sexual abuse, contact Rape Crisis or Women’s Aid – both of which are national organisations offering free and confidential support to those in need.
Rape Crisis
Helpline: 0808 802 9999
More information: rapecrisis.org.uk
Women’s Aid
More information: womensaid.org.uk
Did you love Pretending?
Turn over for an extract from How Do You Like Me Now?
Month One
Olivia Jessen
Six month bump alert. The belly has popped people, the belly has popped. #BumpSelfie #Blessed
81 likes
*
Harry Spears
I liked it so … I put a ring on it.
Harry Spears and Claire Rodgers are engaged.
332 likes
*
Andrea Simmons
Poo explosion! But look at that cheeky face …
52 likes
Comments:
Olivia Jessen: Oh no, Andrea. I’ve got all that to look forward to.
Andrea Simmons: I’ll give you a nose peg at your baby shower!
*
Event invite: Olivia Jessen’s super-secret baby shower.
16 attending
*
Tori’s WhoTheF*ckAmI? Official Fan Page
Alright my f*ckers! Who’s coming to the London show tonight? I can’t believe it’s sold out! I love and adore you all. See you at seven. I’ll be the one on stage with the microphone, wondering how the hell I got so lucky in life.
2434 likes. 234 comments.
*
I look out at a sea of earnestness.
There are too many faces to make anyone out individually, but there is a collective look. A collective glow. Their eyes are dewy; their hands are clasped.
They hang on my every syllable.
I’m getting to the good bit. The bit I know they’ve been waiting for. The bit I’ve been building up to. I walk across the stage in my designer heels and smooth down my designer dress. I look exactly how a successful woman should look. Groomed, plucked, highlighted, contoured … but not in an obvious way. I look right out at them. At their anxious, eager faces. And I say:
‘That’s when I realised it.’ I raise one threaded eyebrow. ‘Sitting there, cross-legged in that fucking tent in Sedona. Chanting bollocks with a load of wankers, wearing a rosary necklace for God’s sake. That’s when it hit me …’
I pause.
The audience stills. You could float a boat on the expectation filling the air.
‘I was trying to find myself how everyone else finds themselves,’ I say. ‘I was having a nervous breakdown exactly how everyone else has a nervous breakdown and I was healing myself how everyone else tries to heal themselves. And I said to myself NO MORE.’ I hold out my hand like I’m signalling stop. I pause again, waiting for the beat. ‘“Just who the fuck am I?” I asked myself. “What do I want?” Because life isn’t a paint-by-numbers. You cannot find yourself along an identikit path. And, actually, even after my quarter-life crisis, even after this whole year of self-discovery, I was still twenty-five and doing exactly what had got me into this mess in the first place. I was doing what I thought I should be doing rather than what I fucking needed to be doing.’
A stray whoop. The audience softens into gentle laughter. I laugh, too, and it echoes around the walls, bounces out of the various speakers.
I nod. ‘Exactly.’ I pause to let them settle. I clop back to the other side of the stage. There is a hush. I blink slowly, trying to remember that moment. Trying to invoke the triumph I felt. Six years ago. On that day, that incredible day. The day where everything started going right for me.
‘So,’ I tell them. ‘I opened my eyes, I uncrossed my legs, and I walked out of that stupid meditation yurt and never looked back.’
The applause is overwhelming, like it always is. It takes about five minutes for them to calm down, like they always do. I make my own eyes go dewy to show my appreciation, like I always do. Then I get around to telling them the rest of my story. The story they all know already. Because all of them have my book clasped in their hands, waiting for me to sign it afterwards. Waiting to have their moment with me. To tell me about their own messy twenties, their own terrible boyfriends, their own shitty jobs, their own smacking disappointments. And to tell me how my book, my words, my story helped them through. Still helps them through.
It’s crazy really. I sometimes forget how crazy it is.
We don’t sell many books despite the queue that snakes around multiple corridors. They all already have their copies. Battered copies with crippled spines and Post-its to highlight their favourite parts. I sign for over three hours – my grin stapled on, trying to keep my energy up for all the women who’ve waited so long for this moment.
This moment with me.
Like I’m special or something.
So I smile and smile and I high-five them when they tell me of their own adventures. I hug them when they cry. I lean in and listen carefully as they whisper their secrets. My publicist hovers, twitchy, and asks if I’m OK. If I need a break. If I want some water. I smile at her and say no. I’m OK. I’m fine. I’m managing. But thank you.
Every single person asks the same questions:
‘So, when is your new book coming out?’
‘What are you working on now?’
‘Do you have a new project coming out soon?’
‘I’m so impatient. How long do I have to wait?’
My smile goes tight and I tap my nose and say, ‘Wait and see’ and ‘Watch this space.’
Then, of course, they also want to know:
‘So, are you still together?’
‘The guy you met at the end of the book? Are you still with him?’
‘Are you still in love?’
They ask the way a child asks their parents if Santa Claus is real – their eyes big, wide with a mixture of excitement and fear. I know why they’re excited and I know why they’re scared. They’re excited because if I can find him, they can find him. If I can make it work, they can make it work. If magic is real for me, it is real for them. I am the reflection of everything they want in their own lives. I’m essentially the Mirror of Erised.
They’re scared because I could also be their albatross. If I can’t make it work, who can? If magic doesn’t work for me, it most certainly won’t work for them.