Now You Know

by Nora Valters

  I can’t even begin to imagine my life without him – all my visions of my future include Akshay. All my dreams of our family, of our marriage and life together that I cherish, that I can’t wait to make reality, vanish as if scrubbed away, permanently deleted from my mind. I feel hollowed out, blank, lost.

  I hear him thumping about in our bedroom, and a few moments later he flies down the stairs, grabs up his car keys and heads out the front door, slamming it with an almighty bang.

  In the still aftermath I sob.

  How could he not believe me?

  The grief of my mother’s loss and now this. Akshay gone, the engagement off. The love of my life just walked out on me, and I haven’t done anything wrong.

  I attempt to get up off the floor to follow him outside even though I know he’s long gone. But I can’t manage it, as if there’s an earthquake and the ground is shaking so much I can’t find my balance.

  So I stay on the floor, curl up in a ball, and hold my breath against the rumbling that brings my entire world down on top of my head and crushes me into pieces.

  10

  Eventually the shuddering subsides, and my limbs ache from staying in the same position for too long. Laboriously, as if my body were on pause and is just coming back to life, I sit up. And then stand, trying not to look at the coffee table on its side, trying not to remember Akshay’s rage.

  This is ridiculous. I haven’t had an affair, I didn’t receive any love letters, and I sure as hell didn’t make a sex tape with another man.

  Someone is doing this to me. And I’m going to find out who.

  I turn on the lights in the room and wince as my eyes adjust. I scowl at the letters, scraps of paper, and the plastic tub scattered on the sofa and on the floor – not just everyday inanimate objects but the things responsible for bringing poison into my home. Although I don’t want to touch them and contaminate myself any further, I know I need to look at them to solve this mystery. Taking a deep breath, I remind myself that they’re not going to bite, and scoop them up and take them to the dining table.

  I sit and survey the bundle. First, I look at the plastic tub. It’s just a bog-standard container that any takeaway or café might use. It has no brand name and, I concede, could actually belong to me. Akshay and I are partial to a takeaway every now and then, and yes, I wash out and keep the containers to reuse for work packed lunches or to store leftovers. I have no idea how many of these containers I own. We have an entire drawer overflowing with plastic containers, and I only ever rummage in there to find a container and lid that fits. I’ve never taken an inventory. So maybe this is my tub. But more than likely, it isn’t.

  Next, I look at the letters and scraps of paper. I spread them out. There are seven notes. Some are A4 pieces of paper folded up, and some are smaller, written on the back of what look like envelopes or ripped out of a lined notebook. I turn each over, but the A4 is blank, and the other pieces have no distinguishing marks or logos. One note is in a plain white, generic envelope.

  I study what is written on the letters. Each is dated in the top left corner. Which seems very pedantic. But Akshay was right; the dates all correspond with when he was away in New York. Each has been handwritten in an untidy, large scrawl. I don’t recognise it.

  I organise them by date and read each through in the order they were apparently written. Much of the same love babble as the one Akshay read out, but peppered with mentions of work or personal information.

  One talks about my mother’s passing and how they wish they could’ve been there for me but how they were pleased my auntie Joyce was with me. The date is correct. Another talks about us going to one of my favourite restaurants when Akshay is out of the picture. And the note in the envelope indicates that I left one of my grandma’s pearl earrings – which I always wear – at their house, and the reason for the envelope was to give it back to me by posting it through my letterbox.

  Someone knows a lot about my life.

  I reread all the notes, but they don’t give anything away about the sender. Occasionally they say, ‘thanks for your note’, as if I’ve replied, but mostly they talk about undying love, me dumping Akshay and about all the incredible sex we’ve supposedly had.

  I stand and go to the telly, reaching behind to pull out the USB. It’s a common one that you might find in any shop, with no company name or logo. I grab my work laptop, which I always bring home with me, put it on the dining table and power it up. I sit again, plug in the USB and note there’s only one file on it: the sex tape movie. It’s an MP4 video file labelled with characters and numbers in the same format as many smartphones use.

  Although I’d rather be watching anything else, I grit my teeth and press play.

  The video is dark and unclear, but I study it carefully. It looks like a normal bedroom, a bit messy and cluttered, rather than a hotel room or movie set. I don’t recognise it. The curtains are closed, and there’s a low light coming from behind the camera, as if a table lamp is on. The bed looks like an Ikea jobbie with a bland wooden headboard. The bottom sheet is white, and the navy-blue duvet is crumpled on the floor, as if kicked off in the throes of passion. There’s absolutely nothing remarkable about this bedroom. There’s no gadgets or trinkets or pictures on the wall. There aren’t any books on the nightstand.

  I pause it at the moment Akshay had – where there’s a glimpse of my face. I lean forward to scrutinise the still image on my screen. Yes, it’s definitely my face. And it looks like my hair – but I have pretty normal hair similar to many other women. I rewind the movie to check the body. It does look similar to my own. But, as with my hair, I have an average body shape and height, with average boobs. But it’s clearly not my body. This woman has a flatter stomach, skinnier arms and larger calf muscles.

  If Akshay had looked, really looked, past my face he’d have seen it wasn’t me. But the video quality is poor, and the lighting is murky. The man is not anyone I recognise. White, average build, a bit of a belly, short hair that could be dark blond or brown, and beard stubble.

  I didn’t notice before, but there’s sound. It’s very faint. I turn it up to full volume and hear the usual sex groans, but neither man nor woman say anything. I can hear traffic noise and the beeping of a truck reversing in the background but nothing that might locate where it was shot.

  It looks exactly how it’s meant to: an everyday, normal couple having sex in their bedroom at night and filming it on their smartphone.

  How is it possible to edit my face into this?

  I open a browser on my laptop and google ‘edit face onto video’. I’m shocked at what comes up. One result says ‘want to change the face of someone in a video? It’s a piece of cake with this software’. I read a few entries and learn that face replacement to make a video look authentic is a thing. It’s called deepfake.

  I’m both terrified and fascinated.

  Someone went to the trouble to produce a deepfake video of me having sex with another man. And to plant it on a USB along with some fake letters in my garden. I glance out the window into the garden. It’s dark out there, but I immediately see the fallen fence panel and the row of garages behind. The gap in the fence offers easy access into my garden. I should’ve asked Dad to fix it as soon as it happened, but Akshay was away, and I was so busy with work and spending all the time that I could at the hospital. And then Mum passed away. I just didn’t think about it, but it left me open and exposed.

  I get up and check the sliding glass door is locked. It is. Then I close the curtains across the door and pull down the blind on the window. I go back to the dining table and sit once again. The thought that someone is watching me from out there flickers in my mind, but I cast it aside. There is no one out there, of course there isn’t. I need to focus on the task at hand.

  Whoever it is also knows my phone number to be able to send those dirty texts. They also know my address, to have posted the lingerie and sex toy, both of which are now in the bin.

  Maybe they’
ll give me some answers? I fish the package out of the black bag, thankful that I started a new bag and it’s not covered in food waste. I put the box on the side. The bra is in the correct size. Alarming. How does whoever this is know that? My bra size isn’t exactly something that I broadcast. And the matching knickers and babydoll are in the correct dress size.

  I don’t bother looking at the sex toy, not sure what that will tell me, but I do scrutinise the packaging. The bag has my name and address on it and the delivery slip too. It looks exactly as if I’ve ordered it for myself or someone’s purchased it for me. There is no bank card detail or other information on the delivery slip. I dump everything back in the bin.

  It’s someone who knows a lot about me, both my personal and work life. And who wants to destroy my relationship with Akshay.

  But just like this morning, I don’t have any suspects.

  I decide to do an inventory of everyone in my life: work, romantic partners, family, friends, acquaintances and even neighbours. I think back as far as I can remember, to school, college, university. I tick off everyone I can remember and ponder whether or not they might have a grudge against me that I’m not aware of. I come up short.

  The biggest emotional turmoil in my life was splitting with my first fiancé a decade ago. It was tough at the time, but years later I bumped into him, and he was happily married with a baby on the way, and he’d actually said ‘thank you’ to me for leaving him.

  I’ve had friends come and go, as everyone does, but none that have ended sourly. I’ve had one-night stands and flings but nothing that traumatic or unusual. I did have a minor falling-out with a neighbour who had a habit of playing loud music at 2 a.m. on Wednesday mornings. And I’ve had work colleagues over the years who I’ve not gelled with, but never any major drama.

  Although the palaver with Cleo recently was pretty awkward. She’d been less than honest about an incident with a client and got found out. HR got involved, and it was decided it would be best for Cleo to hand her notice in. It was uncomfortable, but she accepted it and, by the sounds of it, has landed on her feet with this awesome new job. I just can’t imagine her doing this. She has a great life – she’s about to get married and is moving up in her career. So what would be the point?

  I start thinking about Akshay’s family and friends, but there’s absolutely no one who I think would want to split us up. I got on with his parents from the first time we met. I’d even go so far as to say his mother adores me – outwardly anyway. Perhaps it’s a front? But I really don’t think she’s anything other than genuine in her affection.

  A name pops into my head that I hadn’t considered: Jenna.

  Jenna shouted how she wanted to ruin me when Toby kicked her out of the house for making a scene at the funeral reception. I discounted it at the time as drunken, empty nonsense, but what if it wasn’t?

  No. It’s not Jenna.

  She isn’t bright enough to engineer the texts, the delivery, the letters, and to produce that video. Although there’s deepfake software on the internet, it would need someone with some skill to actually create a video that looked so real. Or it needs to be someone who’d know where to find someone with those skills. Jenna knows how to contour her nose; she is not tech savvy or streetwise. And Jenna had nothing against Akshay, so why would she involve him if she wanted to ruin me?

  Although I try to convince myself, I just don’t believe it’s my brother’s ex. But who else? I can’t believe it’s anyone in my family. My best friend lives in Brighton and adores Akshay; she wouldn’t want to split us up. I run through everyone again, but there’s no one. And what motivation would they have?

  But it has to be someone, because one thing is for certain – it wasn’t me.

  11

  I wait for the kettle to boil in the kitchen at work and take some deep breaths to steady my racing thoughts.

  I wasn’t the earliest person here this morning. I couldn’t sleep last night in a bed so empty of Akshay. I tossed and turned, going over and over who could have wanted to split us up and why. It felt as if I’d only just nodded off when my alarm blared. I pressed snooze one too many times and ended up leaving the house late, then getting stuck in morning traffic. I dropped my bag on my desk and headed straight for the kitchen to make an extra-strong coffee.

  The kitchen door opens, and I look up. Madeline steps in, and we both robotically smile at each other.

  “Morning,” she says.

  “Morning,” I reply.

  Remorse for sneaking in her office and going through her emails swims in my veins. But it was necessary, I remind myself. And what am I going to do? Tell her and apologise? Not a chance.

  The atmosphere between us is strained enough after yesterday’s boardroom porn and bitchy email. That drama feels so insignificant to me now that Akshay is gone. I hadn’t even thought of it until I saw Madeline’s slight hesitation about coming into the room a moment ago. If she could’ve, she would’ve turned and avoided me. But that’s not Madeline.

  She edges around me and grabs a mug from the cupboard, places it next to my mug, pops in a tea bag, and stands with me, listening to the kettle rumble.

  I know I should make small talk, make the move to smooth over the cracks from yesterday, but I just don’t have the energy, and after a bad night’s sleep – I sleep like a log usually – words escape me.

  The kettle clicks off, and Madeline breaks the silence. “Is there enough water in there for me?”

  “Yes,” I reply, but my hoarse voice breaks, still full of emotion. I haven’t spoken out loud since Akshay dumped me last night and walked out. I swallow, but my throat is still raw from so much crying. The distress bubbles and boils over like the water in the kettle and must show on my face.

  Madeline, alert as ever, picks up on this. “Are you okay?”

  My MD is the absolute last person I want to speak to, but I couldn’t get hold of Kemi or Toby last night to talk to, and my mother – the first person I would’ve called in a situation like this – is no longer on the other end of the phone. Mum would’ve known what to do, would’ve soothed and listened, would’ve been there for me. She’ll never be there again to console me. Fresh grief stamps in circles around my heart, and I press a palm into the painful spot on my chest.

  “Lauren?” Madeline probes gently.

  She’s the first person who’s shown me any kindness, and I crack. “It’s Akshay,” I say before I can help myself.

  “Oh?” Madeline looks concerned.

  She’s met Akshay before, knows all about him. She even graced our engagement party with her presence for all of thirty minutes.

  “We’ve… split up.” I heave back a sob at saying it out loud. It sounds so brutal, so final.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. Always painful when relationships end. Do you need some time?”

  Time off, she means. But I want to be at work. I can’t bear the idea of sitting alone at home, traipsing around the endless whodunnit maze in my head. The idea of work, and focusing on something else, is more appealing. My brain likes to come up with solutions to problems when I’m doing or thinking about something entirely different and not paying attention. I was hoping an idea, or even the teeniest hint of an idea, as to who did this would pop into my head while I was in the shower this morning. It didn’t.

  “No, I’d rather be here.”

  Madeline nods, gives me a sympathetic smile and then pours the hot water into my mug and then hers. She splashes some milk in her mug, gives it a quick stir, removes the tea bag, bins it, and exits the kitchen in her brisk and efficient manner.

  In contrast, I feel as if I’m wading in a thick soup and am physically unable to move that quickly. Slowly I add milk to my coffee and put the carton back in the fridge. I know what she’ll be thinking: will heartbreak affect Lauren’s performance at work? Because for all the sympathy and saying the right things, the bottom line is if this will have an impact on Madeline’s business. She doesn’t really give a m
onkey’s about her employees as individuals. Never has done, never will.

  After sipping my super-strength coffee, I shake myself off and pull it together.

  Much to my surprise, I actually do feel slightly better for speaking to Madeline – or maybe it’s the caffeine kicking in? – and head back to my desk. I need to compartmentalise everything and take control. I hate the feeling of powerlessness that I felt last night when Akshay didn’t believe me, like a tortoise on its back, legs flailing, unable to right itself. But I put that to one side. I’m at work now. And there’s tasks that need crossing off my to-do list, clients to manage, and team members to lead.

  After an hour or so of focused work, I check my emails. As I’m replying to Deb about the collection for Cleo’s leaving gift, an email arrives from the contact at the supermarket we pitched to on Friday.

  I click it open immediately and see it’s been sent to me with Madeline cc-ed in. That’ll piss her off no end, but I read on. It’s a reply to the last email I sent confirming the time and date of the pitch.

  I read:

  Lauren,

  Great to meet you and the team on Friday. As I mentioned at the meeting, MBW was the last agency to pitch to us. We’ve discussed it internally, and without a doubt you guys smashed it. So, we’d like to award you the business for next year.

  There’ll be a handover period with the incumbent, and we’d expect MBW to start in January.

  Let’s organise a call to talk everything through and sort out the contract.

  Looking forward to working with you and the team.

  Best,

  Stephanie

  I jump out of my seat, punch the air and shout “YES!” at the top of my lungs. Finally, something is going right for me. Madeline will have to honour my pay rise now. I’ve smashed my targets for this year. I knew we’d done an awesome job even with the undesigned presentation. It will be the biggest contract won by MBW, and I led the pitch team. I swell with pride that all my blood, sweat and tears has paid off.