Now You Know

by Nora Valters

  She makes a point of studying my face. “I could’ve come round earlier and done your make-up, Lauren. You could definitely take a bold lip, and I have lots of tricks to shape and fill out those overplucked eyebrows. So many women of your age plucked their brows into oblivion when they were my age. Of course, not fashionable in the slightest anymore…”

  She continues, but I switch off. I find Jenna exhausting to be around at the best of times, but right now I’m spent. I can’t help it, but my face actually scrunches at her incessant voice as if bracing for a full-on migraine to hit in T minus a few seconds.

  Toby must sense I’m overwhelmed and says, “Come on, Jenna. Let’s get a drink.”

  He steers her away towards the kitchen and at no point does her mouth pause; she just switches topic to talk to Toby.

  “I thought they’d split up,” Diane says when the pair are out of earshot.

  “Same,” I reply.

  I watch as they stand in the kitchen, Toby leans against the counter as Jenna knocks back the last sip of white in her glass, grabs a bottle of red on the counter and fills her glass to the brim. Although I can’t hear what they’re saying, the conversation is clearly strained, with Toby crossing his arms and Jenna fronting up to him.

  Oh no, please don’t let them have a massive row at my mum’s funeral reception. Please, please don’t let her punch her fist through one of my walls. Toby has told me that Jenna is prone to throwing things when she doesn’t get her own way. I look at my wine glass in her hand and will it not to end up on the floor. Toby raises his hands in a placating gesture, and Jenna backs down.

  One of my mum’s best friends from work catches my eye, and I excuse myself from Dad and Diane and head over to speak to her. I bounce from group to group, person to person around my living area and decide to head into the garden to speak to the few smokers who are congregated out there.

  As I’m chatting to my great-uncle Bob about his journey down from Blackpool and the junction at which he got lost, Akshay places a gentle hand on my elbow and presses a cup of tea into my hand. I’m so grateful I could almost weep. My mouth is dry from talking, and I don’t think my body has had a chance to replenish from my floods of tears earlier.

  My great-uncle excuses himself to talk to another relative and light up a cigarette, and I turn to Akshay. “Thank you so much for sorting all the food and drinks, babe, and for bringing me this.” I take a sip of tea and smile. “I’ve been craving a brew since we got back.”

  “I thought as much. I would’ve made one sooner, but the kettle’s been boiling non-stop. Your family and Judy’s friends are a thirsty bunch.”

  I kiss his cheek. I like how he does that: speaks about Mum as if she’s still here with us, not shying away from mentioning her now she’s gone.

  He takes my hand. “You’re cold. Let’s get back inside.”

  I do feel shivery. I’ve felt shivery all day and assume it’s the grief. As if I have a hole in my heart where Mum’s presence has been bored out and a chill wind is blowing right through me.

  I follow my fiancé back inside, and he leads me to the dining table, picks up a bowl of crisps and offers it to me. I see Joyce’s trifle in the middle of the table. Mum and Joyce always make – made? – the best trifle, from their mother’s, and my grandmother’s, recipe. I have that recipe, and it’ll be my turn to make it for the next family gathering – the twins always took it in turns, and that duty has now passed to me. It’ll be this Christmas, only a month away. My first without Mum.

  My stomach grumbles, and I’m grateful for my body distracting me from that awful thought. I grab a crisp. But before I can eat it, the sound of a mug slammed on the kitchen counter startles me.

  The room goes quiet as all the other guests hear the same noise and turn to look – has someone dropped a cup? There are often a few crockery casualties at parties; who’s the culprit?

  But the noise is accompanied by a raised voice. That voice.

  “I’m here to comfort you, Toby. I’m always here for you,” Jenna says, the pitch of her voice rising a level or two and carrying across the room.

  I look at her, as does everyone else nearby.

  “I don’t need you here to comfort me. I don’t want you anywhere near me,” Toby replies, his voice rising too.

  “You don’t mean that,” Jenna screeches.

  “We’re over, Jenna,” he shouts back.

  Her fists bunch, and she punches Toby’s chest – not so that it would hurt him, she’s too drunk for that, but rather pathetic little thumps. He doesn’t even flinch. Witnessing couples arguing in public always makes me feel uncomfortable at the best of times, but this can’t be happening today of all days, and not in my kitchen. I’ve seen enough.

  I hurry over to them, grab them both by an arm and drag them away from all the guests and towards the back of the kitchen.

  “Guys, this is not the time or place to be having a lovers’ tiff,” I say in a firm, but quiet, tone.

  “Sorry, sis,” Toby replies, matching my volume level.

  But Jenna is having none of it. She yanks her arm out of my hand, points at me and seethes. “You. This is all your fault. You never liked me, even though I made so much effort with you, offering to do your make-up and take you shopping to modernise your wardrobe. I did everything to make you like me. But no! You weren’t having any of it.”

  “Jenna, enough,” I say, suddenly absolutely shattered, my energy levels hitting a wall.

  I glance towards all the guests. Akshay is stood at the end of the kitchen, protectively shielding us and blocking anyone from coming closer.

  Jenna screeches, “You told him to dump me, didn’t you?”

  “That’s enough, Jenna. Get out of here,” Toby says and leads Jenna through the kitchen door into the hallway and towards the front door.

  I’m rooted to the spot, trembling, but just as I hear the front door open, Jenna shouts in a drunken slur, “You ruined our relationship, Lauren. I’m going to ruin you!”

  The door slams, and Toby comes back through to the kitchen. He reaches me just as Akshay does. Akshay wraps his arms around me, and the dam breaks for the second time today.

  “She’s gone, sis. Forever. What a bitch,” Toby says.

  I nod but can’t manage to say anything. I weep into Akshay’s shoulder.

  I hear my brother say, in his charming, lovable voice, “All over, folks. Sorry about that. Just a little relationship trouble. We’re here for Judy.” There’s a pause as I guess he finds his mug from earlier and says: “To Judy!”

  A chorus of voices echo him: “To Judy!”

  And I mumble the same into Akshay’s tear-sodden shirt.

  5

  A few hours later, after waving off the last guests, Akshay makes me my favourite for dinner, homemade lasagne, salad and chips, while I tidy up and give everywhere a thorough clean. As a treat, we get the trays out and eat in front of the telly. We usually always have dinner at the dining table, but it’s been a long day, and neither of us feel like sitting up.

  When we’re done and the dishwasher is loaded and the kitchen wiped down, we sprawl on the sofa. I put my feet up and curl into him. He switches over to some show about million-pound mega yachts. It’s his dream to own a sailboat one day.

  I half-watch, still digesting dinner and the events of the day. I pick up my phone and message Kemi on WhatsApp. She’s been my best friend since secondary school when we were eleven. She would’ve been here today but lives in Bristol with her wife and three adopted kids and is a secondary school teacher so couldn’t get the time off.

  - Service and reception went well. Toby’s ex-girlf rocked up and caused a scene but was soon forgotten, and we all had a good time remembering Mum. Everyone gone now, so Akshay and I chilling on sofa with large glass of vino.

  Kemi replies:

  - Glad to hear it, hon. Rest in peace, wonderful Judy. Do you remember when she picked us up at 3 a.m. from that party in that random field when we were 16? A
nd you stuck your head out the car window cos you felt queasy while I talked her ear off about goodness-knows-what drunken nonsense? What a legend.

  - What a night! What a legend. She loved to remind me of that every now and then.

  - And that time I came round, but you were out, and Judy fed me dinner anyway.

  - Haha. She always enjoyed cooking for you.

  - And her trifle, yummmm.

  - Mine has a lot to live up to!

  - Sure does… can I be the first to try it?

  - Yup. And how’s you? How’s Gillian? The kids?

  - G’s turn to do bedtime. Trevor is nine going on ninety, Darryl has got a girlfriend – he’s five, FFS, and Sindy has just learned how to ride her tricycle, which is suuuuper cute.

  - Awwww! Pls send me a pic of Sindy on her tricycle.

  When Kemi doesn’t reply immediately, I put my phone down and watch Akshay engrossed in a superyacht tour at the Monaco Yacht Show. I can almost see his numbers-orientated mind working out how long it’ll take him to save for a yacht on his current salary.

  A moment later my phone pings. I pick it up, excited to see a cute pic of Kemi’s adorable daughter. But instead it’s a text message from a number that isn’t in my contacts list.

  - Hey, sexy, thinking about you and feeling horny. What you wearing? Wanna see what I’m wearing?

  Urgh. Annoying. A wrong number. I want Sindy on her trike! I delete it and hold my phone, waiting for Kemi’s message, and watch the telly.

  “Blimey, that yacht’s deck is longer than our garden,” Akshay says.

  “I still reckon we should put a hot tub out there,” I reply.

  We’ve had this discussion before. Our garden is quite overlooked, and Akshay is not so keen on all the neighbours seeing him in his swimmers.

  “Hmm,” he replies.

  And I get the distinct impression that he’s wavering and coming round to my idea. I’ll just need to work on him a little longer.

  My phone dings. Sindy! But it’s a second text from the same wrong number with a photo this time.

  It’s a penis.

  I sit upright and blurt, “Oh my god!”

  “What?” Akshay asks but doesn’t take his eyes off the Russian oligarch’s yacht on the telly.

  “Someone’s got a wrong number and is sending me dick pics. Look!”

  I shove the phone in front of Akshay’s face, and he glances down. “What the hell, Lauren!” He slaps my hand away. “Gross.”

  “I know. I nearly vommed up my lasagne. Should I reply?”

  “And say what?”

  “‘What a beautiful cock’,” I tease, but Akshay doesn’t look impressed. “‘Wrong number’, of course.”

  My phone pings again with another text from dick-pic guy. I’m reluctant to look and squint my eyes and turn my head away in case it’s another full-frontal nude. But there’s no photo attached this time, thank goodness.

  I read the message out loud to Akshay, “‘Well… what do you think? Show me something, and I’ll make it grow.’ Eeewww.”

  “This guy has got all the lines.”

  Another message comes through:

  - Well… I wanna see you, sexy. Don’t keep me hanging…

  “We’re keeping him hanging, babe.” I crack up laughing, and it feels like a sweet relief after the sombre day. Akshay laughs with me and tickles my ribs.

  I catch my breath and tap out a reply:

  - Wrong number.

  “How mortifying to be sexting the wrong person,” I say.

  A text pops up. I expect it to be a cagey apology.

  - Ha ha. Acting coy. I like it ;-) Have you had your special delivery yet?

  “Oh gawd. He doesn’t believe me. Thinks I’m pretending and being a tease.” I show Akshay the latest message.

  “Special delivery?” Akshay asks. “What’s that?”

  “Some sexual euphemism the youth are using these days that we’ve never heard of?”

  Akshay brings his hand to his chin in a gesture of ‘thinking’.

  “Maybe it means ejaculation?” I suggest with a cheeky smirk.

  The doorbell goes, and we both jump and stare at each other wide-eyed. Then laugh at our edginess.

  “I’ll go,” Akshay says, recovering himself from our fit of giggles.

  He heads towards the front door as I check my phone. No more texts.

  I hear the front door open and close, and Akshay comes back into the lounge with a parcel about the size of a shoebox.

  He hands it to me. “It’s for you.”

  “Ooooh, yay.”

  I love getting a parcel as much as the next person. I take it from him as he sits back on the sofa and eyes me, no longer interested in the pros and cons of superyacht helipads being debated on the telly.

  “Are you expecting something?”

  I mentally review my recent online shopping sprees, but nothing springs to mind. “I don’t think so. Who delivered it?”

  “It was left on the doorstep, and the van was driving off when I opened the door. Some courier.”

  “Is this the ‘special delivery’?” I joke and use air quotes for emphasis.

  But Akshay’s tone turns serious. “I doubt it’s related in any way to those random texts.”

  “True.”

  I rip open the plastic packaging to get at the box inside. It’s white with a logo in pink writing: Trudy’s. Not a brand I recognise. I ease off the lid and pull back the tissue paper.

  “Yikes,” I say as I lift out a small hanger with a slinky red babydoll, matching suspenders, and teeny knickers.

  For the briefest moment I think Akshay has sent me lingerie. But red and frilly is really not his style. And would he send me saucy underwear on the day of Mum’s funeral? Definitely not. His forehead furrows, and I know for certain he’s got nothing to do with it.

  I put the lingerie in the lid and pull out a smaller box with a clear plastic window in the front. It’s not immediately obvious what it is, but as I look closer, I realise.

  “It’s a sex toy!” I drop it and push the box off my knee. “Some woman has given a guy the wrong phone number and address. Probably to get rid of him at a bar or something.”

  Akshay grimaces while carefully rummaging in the box to avoid touching the sex toy, and pulls out the delivery slip. “It’s addressed to you.”

  “What? It can’t be.” I grab the slip and read my full name and address.

  “Did you buy these things? For… us?” Akshay asks in a tone loaded with self-pity. As if he’s no longer fulfilling my needs, as if our sex life needs spicing up. It doesn’t. Not yet, anyway. We’re still in the honeymoon phase. Maybe after ten years of marriage we might need something to heat things up, but definitely not right now.

  “No. Of course not. This is a seriously bizarre mistake.”

  “It is.” Akshay goes quiet for a minute, staring into space with his lips pursed. Then he turns to face me. “Give me your phone. I’m going to call that number and get to the bottom of this.”

  I pass Akshay my phone, and he taps on the screen and then puts the phone on speaker mode and holds it between us. We listen to the dial tone, and I half expect it to ring off.

  But it stops, and a gruff male voice says, “Hello, beautiful.”

  “Who is this? You keep messaging my fiancée’s phone—”

  But whoever it is hangs up before Akshay can finish. He gawps at me, insinuating I’m not telling him something.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” I say, the injustice flaring.

  “Who was that, Lauren?”

  “I’ve got no idea.”

  “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  His accusation that I’m keeping secrets from him makes my hackles rise. “Are you kidding me? I’m not hiding anything from you.”

  My phone pings with another text message, and Akshay looks at it. He spends some time over it, and I hope it’s Kemi’s photo of Sindy, as Akshay adores the little girl
. But he flings the phone at me, and I know it’s not a chubby-cheeked three-year-old. He stands and paces back and forth. He grabs the remote and switches off the yacht show, slamming it back on the table.

  I pick up my phone and read the message. It’s dick-pic guy again.

  - Lauren, does Akshay know about us? Has he found the letters?

  My gut twists, and the breath knocks out of me as if a giant hand is squeezing my lungs.

  Akshay stops pacing. He faces me, clenching his fists and grinding his jaw. “What’s going on, Lauren? Whoever this is knows our names. Knows my name. Are you having an affair?”

  I gape at him for a moment, processing this. I never in a million years thought I’d hear that question from my rock, my one and only. And I never thought I’d have to give a reply. It comes out through gritted teeth. “Of course I’m not having an affair.”

  Akshay points at my phone. “What letters is he referring to?”

  I shrug and hold up my hands. “How should I know? There are no letters.”

  He looks at me for a beat too long and then shakes his head.

  I stand too. “I’m innocent in all this, Akshay. I thought this was a mistake, a funny mistake, but someone must be doing this to me, to us.”

  He pffts loudly and rolls his eyes in exasperation as if I’ve said the most stupid thing ever. “Why?”

  “For a joke, maybe? Who knows. It’s a cruel joke if it is, but that’s the only thing I can think of.”

  “Who would do this as a joke?”

  I cross my arms and stare daggers at him. Drawing out every word to make my point, I say, “I. Don’t. Know.” And it’s true. I’ve got no idea who’d do this to us.

  Akshay considers me and softens. He rubs his hands over his face and then massages his earlobes. An action he only ever does to de-stress, something his father taught him when he was a child.

  “I love you,” he says. “I don’t believe you’d cheat on me. Just like I’d never cheat on you. We’re a team, a unit. We’ll find out who did this. But it’s late now. Let’s go to bed.”