Love to Hate You by Anna Premoli Page A

hanging off the end falls back down onto my plate. If I've got any oil on me, I swear I'll decapitate him.
    â€œPardon?” I ask, hoping that I've misunderstood.
    But Ian is in the mood for pointless conversation. “It’s been unbearable, recently. There's a whole gang of girls literally harassing me—” he continues relentlessly, not noticing my expression. And for the record, I think my facial expressions are usually fairly eloquent.
    â€œPoor thing, being so irresistible—” I mutter, nauseated.
    â€œExactly – it’s not my fault, obviously. It’s all because of this ‘title’ nonsense,” he concludes.
    I don't think it is
just
because of this 'title nonsense', though. When was the last time he looked at himself in a mirror? Of course, I'd never say anything like that to
him
, or at least, not until aliens have landed on earth and taught us all how to live together in harmony and brotherhood, but it’s a fact: he is objectively terribly, annoyingly good looking.
    â€œSo?” I ask, regretting it almost instantly.
    â€œSo you'd be perfect!” he exclaims enthusiastically. For a moment I'd actually hoped for a different conclusion.
    I must have misunderstood. He can’t really be asking what I
think
he's asking. “Ian, are you on some kind of weird medication?” I ask very seriously. There’s no other explanation. That or a temporary memory loss. Does he even
realise
who he is asking to pretend she’s his girlfriend? He laughs as he tucks in to his ketchup covered chips, and the sight is upsetting, to say the least.
    â€œThe only weird thing in my system is the bloody smog in Peckham,” he answers, “which I’m sure isn't particularly healthy, but I doubt it affects your mental abilities. And anyway, why? Does my idea sound so absurd to you?”
    Is this supposed to be a joke? Ok, I’m definitely not hungry any more.
    I put my fork down and look at him very seriously. “Then please run it by me again, because I’m sure you would never – and I repeat,
never
– ask me what I think you're asking.”
    The rogue smiles at me so innocently that I almost buy it. Almost. I'm not that ingenuous.
    â€œAs hard as it is to admit it, you’re the only woman I know who could pretend to be in a relationship with me without really wanting to be. And anyway, they've already photographed us together—”
    I pick up the glass in front of me and take a gulp of whisky.
    â€œWhat?” is the only thing I can say, and I’m glad that the alcohol has got me slightly tipsy.
    â€œYes – and you’re not the usual stunner, which would make the plan even more ingenious.”
    I’m starting to get really annoyed.
    â€œOk, maybe I shouldn’t have said that last part, right?” he asks, as soon as he sees my face.
    â€œProbably not—” I confirm through gritted teeth.
    â€œBut it would be perfect!” he repeats, ignoring what we've just said.
    Right, this joke has gone on too long, and it's going too far.
    â€œAnd what would I get out of this little farce?” I ask, trying very hard to stay calm. “And anyway, everybody who knows me knows that I have much better taste—”
    It's a complete lie, but it sounds so good I can't help saying it. Ian’s expression is resigned for a moment, but then goes back to neutral. His discomfort lasted maybe five seconds, but I treasured it.
    â€œThink about it, Jenny – you'd be seen with the most desirable bachelor in town. That alone would raise your market value quite a bit—”
    Like I need my 'market value' raising.
    â€œI’m certain that I can make myself pleasant enough even for your parents and friends. I know how to make people like me, when I want to,” he goes on, blabbering like an idiot.
    I stop him with a murderous look.
    â€œI consider you an intelligent person,” I say in a