Ali Pantony [Pantony - Almost Adults

Ali Pantony is a freelance writer and editor. Her writing has appeared in Glamour, Grazia, BBC Three, Refinery29, Vice, Red and Evening Standard. Almost Adults is her debut novel.

Ali was born in Maidstone, Kent, and lives in North London. You can follow Ali on Twitter and Instagram @alipantony

Thank you to Ebury Press and Penguin Random House. To my editor, Katie Seaman, for seeing something in my work and asking me to write this book. For her thoughtful, careful, whip-smart, nail-on-the-head edits, and for telling me when I needed to tone down the swearing (regularly). For making me a better writer.

To my agent, Sarah Hornsley, for her invaluable support and guidance throughout the process.

To my home town and its people, for inspiring the home town and its people in this book. And to the over-flowing, flawed, fiery, sometimes filthy, always magical city of London, for being my home now, and the pubs of North London, for being my version of what some authors term writing retreats.

To my wonderful parents, Brian and Wendy Pantony. Thank you for my love of literature. For always telling me that I had a book in me. For believing in me when I forget how to believe in myself. For telling me to keep on when I forget how to keep on keeping on. For the cups of coffee, the glasses of wine, the slices of toast, the falling asleep in front of the TV, the weekend newspapers under blankets, the laughs when its good and the mascara-sodden shoulder when its bad. For all of this, much more, everything. Thank you.

Most importantly, the greatest thank you to the people who are the basis for every single chapter in this book: my group of lifelong friends. My childhood, my adulthood, my anchors. You are my greatest love affair, my daily inspiration, and by far my proudest achievement. Without you, this book wouldnt exist. And neither would I. For that, I owe it all.

Nat, come in, its fucking January and youre only wearing a T-shirt, came his voice from inside the flat.

The swearing took me back. I was the swearer Matt only swore when he was angry, or when he was watching Question Time. How dare he be angry right now. What gave him the right?

I was sitting on the roof, shivering in the cold and burning my throat with Johnnie Walker. The whisky was hot hot on my lips, my mouth, my throat, and hot trickling down into my stomach but my body was ice, the bitter seaside air whipping my hair back and biting at my skin. I remember liking the contrast. I remember everything about that night.

An hour earlier, Id been panicking because I couldnt get hold of Matt, and that hardly ever happened, even after seven years together. Hed been at the pub with his friends and wasnt answering my WhatsApps asking when he was coming home, and if he could bring us a pizza from the Italian opposite the pub.

I didnt think much of it probably had one too many ciders to check his phone, I thought. Besides, I wanted to binge-watch The End of the F*cking World on Netflix with a glass of wine and zero interruptions.

I heard his key turn in the lock a sound I loved and dashed to the hall. You didnt message me, I was worried about you! I said with a relieved smile. Until suddenly, I clocked the look on his face, and I wasnt smiling any more.

Matts expression, usually gentle and calm, was solemn, shell-shocked, etched with fear and panic and, for the first time in our seven years together, I felt like I didnt recognise him. He stood in the door to our home, tall, beautiful and broken, limply holding a cardboard pizza box, and said, Nat, we need to talk.

I always used to laugh at those words in films How clichd, who actually says that? Id say until I heard them. My chest turned tight and something thick stuck in my throat so I could hardly speak.

What about? I managed to mutter.

I cant do this any more. I dont feel the same.

Youd think the natural reaction to this would be instant tears, angrily demanding answers, maybe even throwing an IKEA plate or two. But not for me. To me, it felt so unbelievable, so unreal, that my body relaxed a little, calmed by the thought that this was just too farcical to actually be happening.

Youre just drunk, right? I tried to reason, nearly laughing. But dont say things like that, we can just talk in the morning. Come to bed, its almost one thirty.

No, Nat, you dont understa

Of course I do! I get emotional when Im drunk, too!

Then suddenly his face turned stern, frown lines spreading across his forehead.

Im not drunk, Nat. Please, listen. Im sorry, but I dont love you any more.

The calm was suddenly snatched away. Then panic. Blind panic. The kind of panic that strikes your feet like a bolt of lightning and shoots up through your body, ripping through your insides as it goes, and eventually settles in your brain like a parasite. My body turned cold and I started to shake uncontrollably. I couldnt understand it this wasnt happening. This didnt happen to people like us. This didnt happen to happy people. We were happy. Werent we?

I ran to the bathroom to throw up. I sat with my head down the toilet for what felt like a lifetime, retching and shaking. The six most difficult words you can ever hear were rattling around my brain on loop, torturing me over and over. I dont love you any more; I dont love you any more; I dont love you any more. He didnt love me any more. The man I loved unconditionally didnt love me any more.

Eventually I dont know how much later I pulled myself to my feet and walked back into the hall. Matt was through the door to my left, on the sofa in the living room, crying with his head in his hands. Why the hell is he the one crying? I thought, but still, seeing him cry made something swell within me, an ocean rising up in my chest, the instinctive urge to take his pain away. He still had his black coat on; the one Id bought him two Christmases ago. Hed worn that coat so much that the lining in one of the pockets had gone and his backpack had worn away some of the fabric at the back.

I stood, frozen. I knew I had to ask it the question I really didnt want to ask. I turned away from him, trying to breathe deeply and restore some calm, just for a second.

Is there someone else? I demanded with a surprising amount of strength, desperate not to show him how much he was destroying me.

He looked up, his dark glossy eyes stained with tears and fear and guilt.

Of course not, he whimpered. Were just not the same any more. Im different, youre different.

Thats not fair, I hissed instantly, anger joining the panic and shock and disbelief. You might feel like someone else, but Im still right here. I never left you for one minute.

I didnt want to hear his response. I couldnt. I walked through to the kitchen, grabbed the whisky, pulled up the window and stepped out onto the roof.

I was shaking still as my body turned to ice in the winter air. I could hear the crashing of the seas waves on the beach as memories of my life with Matt replayed through my mind, as if fast-forwarding through some sort of tortuous home video.

Wed met at university at nineteen and hit it off straight away. We were studying English and instantly bonded over our love of Brave New World, the smell of old books and Stephen Kings short stories. We both loved terrible horror films and old-fashioned pubs. We became inseparable, our friends constantly rolling their eyes when we said the same thing at the same time. We both tried to ignore our connection for a few months, not wanting to ruin our friendship. Until one evening, after watching the (very terrible)