by Nora Valters
The PR department is depleted of people apart from Imani, who has her Beats headphones on and glances at me, sees me standing and pulls off one ear.
I do a little jig and sing, “We won the supermarket business!”
Imani watches me with a raised eyebrow, radiating disgust, and manages a half-hearted, “Yay,” before sliding the headphone back into place and turning back to her screen.
I run towards reception. “Lorna, is Madeline in?”
“She’s just popped out for a croissant.”
I nod and then skip over to the creative team area and find the creative director to announce the win. He high-fives me, and I head over to the web team to relay the message and then to the content department, who whoop and cheer. After that little lap of honour, I head back to the PR department past reception.
I notice Madeline’s door is open, but Lorna shakes her head at me, to say: She’s back, but now is not a good time to disturb her.
Disappointed, I walk back to my desk and force myself to sit down. I’m giddy with excitement. It’s a bright spot after all the crap of the past few days. I can’t wait to tell Akshay… oh. The memory of him stomping out of the house slices through my elation, and my mood sinks.
To rekindle my high, I reread the email from supermarket Stephanie, as we’ve been referring to her in the office. I get that same buzz as the first read, but I notice that it says I’ve replied to the email. I click onto conversation view and see that not only have I replied all, copying in Madeline and two of Stephanie’s colleagues who were copied on the original email, but Madeline has also replied all immediately afterwards.
Odd. I click into my reply to supermarket Stephanie. It reads:
Stefaney,
Fuck off. We don’t want your bollocks contract. We don’t want to work with you or your shitty team. Your supermarket is an embarrassment and we wouldn’t want it on our books. MBW is SO above your brand.
You also had the most wet-fish handshake I’ve ever encountered. Get some meds or something for those sweaty palms already.
Regards,
Lauren
I reel back from my laptop, feeling very hot, then very cold, then very hot again as shock pitter-patters around my body.
What is this email? Why does it say I sent it?
I was across the other side of the office. I would NEVER reply and say that. I would never misspell a client’s name for starters. I don’t even talk like that.
Scrolling up, I read Madeline’s reply. It’s excruciatingly grovelly. She apologises profusely for my email and insists it’s a mistake and then goes on to talk about organising the call and the times and dates she can do.
OMG.
I look in my Sent Items and – unlike the bitchy email that Madeline claimed I sent – this email is right there. Sent just minutes ago. Who sent it? It’s definitely not Madeline; she wants the lucrative contract more than anything.
Someone is trying to sabotage me at work – why?
Before I can fully process what has happened, a voice screeches my name.
12
“What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” Madeline shouts at me.
The full force of her yell smacks me in the face and incapacitates me. All I can do is open and shut my mouth like a fish out of water as all the life drains from me.
Imani turns to stare, slowly removing her headphones as if any sudden movement might make the Madeline bomb go off again. It seems the entire office goes silent, listening in.
Cleo, Mikey, and Tara come out of the nearby meeting room, chatting and laughing, but immediately sense the charged atmosphere, go instantly quiet and stand still, not daring to get any closer to the snarling beast that the MD has turned into.
Madeline continues her tirade, “Have you actually lost the plot? I cannot believe you would send that email, Lauren! Was it meant for someone else? I mean, come on! My office. Now.”
She marches away, red-faced, and we all watch her back.
I turn to my team. Tara, the intern, is wide-eyed and frightened. Imani smirks. Mikey studies his feet, but Cleo takes a step towards me.
“Are you okay, Lauren?” she asks.
I nod and shakily gather up my notebook and pen to take to Madeline’s office as if we’re about to have a normal catch-up. “Yes, thanks, all good,” I lie, but my voice quivers and gives me away. Trying to retain some level of respect from my team, I say, in as unruffled a tone as I can muster, “Imani, please can you share with me that media list by the end of the day?”
“Mmn,” she replies noncommittedly.
I walk towards Madeline’s office in a way that I hope looks as if I’m in control – shoulders back, chin up, not too fast, not too slow. The last thing I need is for my team to lose faith in my leadership after a public bollocking from the MD.
I enter Madeline’s office and close the door. She’s sat on the sofa already with her arms crossed. She indicates for me to sit on the matching armchair.
“I didn’t send that email,” I say as soon as my bum hits the fabric.
But Madeline holds up a hand. “Lauren, I’m extremely worried about you. You’ve had a lot on your plate recently, what with the grief of losing your mother, the stress of the supermarket pitch on top of your usual workload – which I know is exceedingly heavy at the moment with Cleo leaving and no replacement confirmed just yet. And from what you told me this morning, it sounds as if you’re experiencing some relationship troubles too. I think it has all just got too much for you.”
“I didn’t send that email,” I repeat, firmer, but Madeline either doesn’t hear me or chooses to ignore me. I suspect it’s the latter.
“Up until this point, you have been a reliable, hard-working, steady member of the team. I value your contribution to MBW highly, but I honestly think you need a break. There’s no shame in needing to take some time for personal self-care. You look exhausted, and I’m concerned you’re having some kind of mental health crisis. I want you to take the rest of the week off. Go home, relax, sleep, reflect. Read a book, have a bath, binge-watch some Netflix. Just do whatever you need to do to switch off for a few days.”
“Madeline, I don’t need to go home. I need to find out who sent that email.”
She stands. “Go home. Right now. I’ll speak to the team and check in with you on Friday afternoon to see how you’re feeling.”
She ushers me up and out the door, and I realise there’s no point arguing with her. She’s made up her mind that I’m on the brink of some kind of monumental breakdown, and that’s that.
I head to my desk and gather up my things, my fingers trembling. “Guys, I’m heading home for the rest of the week,” I announce to the team. Although it pains me, I say, “I won’t be working.” My second and third in charge are both still out of the office. “I’ll let Finn and Deb know.”
Cleo, Mikey, and Tara all nod supportively. But Imani grins and doesn’t even do me the courtesy of trying to hide her glee. I catch her eye and hold the contact with her. She brazenly stares back, with a suggestion of a challenge behind her smug expression. An expression that says: I won. Dare you to say otherwise.
I turn and march out of the office, feeling all eyes on me as I walk past the other teams. Everyone heard Madeline’s raised voice; everyone knows I’ve fallen from grace. All I need is someone ringing a bell behind me, shouting ‘shame, shame’, as suffered by Cersei in Game of Thrones.
In the car, I sit but don’t leave immediately. Who sent that email to Stephanie? I have to find out.
I find my phone and call the IT guy, Rob.
He answers on the third ring. “Hi.”
“Hi, Rob, it’s Lauren.”
“Lauren, the PR group account director?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“Hi, Lauren, do you have an urgent request? Otherwise I’m going to have to ask you to email me so I can log it on the queue and deal with it after all the tickets in front.”
“It’s urgent. Ver
y urgent.”
“Okay, sure. Go ahead,” he says.
“An email was just sent from my email address, but I didn’t send it. It was a rude email to a new client, and I have to find out how it happened because it’s very damaging to the business.” When he doesn’t reply immediately, I add, “And Madeline is extremely upset about it.”
“Oh. I see. That is strange. Well, I can look at the IP address to see where it was sent from. What email was it? Do you have a time or subject line or keyword so I can find it?”
“Yes.” I tell him to search for the misspelled name: Stefaney.
“Here we go. Found it. Give me a moment.”
I can hear a few mouse clicks and Rob’s breathing on the phone. It takes him what feels like forever, and I look in the rear-view mirror. Madeline was right – I do look exhausted. I fidget and check my nails and chew the side of my mouth.
Finally, Rob speaks. “That email was sent from the office’s IP address. Which means it was highly likely it was sent from your laptop.”
“I absolutely did not send it.”
“Right. Someone could’ve logged on to your webmail while in the office from another laptop, which is doubtful, as they would need to have your login details.”
“Is there any chance that I’ve been hacked? And someone outside the office sent that email? Or is the virus still on my laptop?”
“No,” Rob answers. “I removed the virus, and we have the highest security measures in place to prevent hacking. I ran a scan when I had your machine and ensured all the security software was up to date.”
I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t.
After a pause he continues, “Is that all, Lauren?”
“Yes. Thanks, Rob, you’ve been really helpful.”
“No problem. Have a nice day.” He hangs up.
I start the engine and head home. That email to supermarket Stephanie was sent when I left my desk to tell the teams across the other side of the office that we’d won the business. The only person near my laptop was Imani, the rest of the PR team being away from their desks or out of the office. She could’ve jumped on my laptop while no one was looking. In my excitement, I left it unlocked. Wide open. It would’ve only taken her a couple of minutes.
Did she do it to spoil my obvious joy at winning? She knew how important that pitch was to me – she’d seen me working on it, heard me talking about it. The entire agency knew how important it was to the business. Perhaps Imani didn’t like that I was about to be Madeline’s golden child, usurping her from the position and stealing her crown? Or maybe she just doesn’t like me and is trying to force me out by ruining my credibility and casting doubt on my professionalism and ability. Maybe this is tit for tat and she’s getting back at me for pulling her up on her tardiness on Monday and refusing to let her leave for her nail appointment on Friday.
And wait. She had access to my laptop yesterday – I left her with it in the boardroom for ten minutes.
Could she have also sent the bitchy email to Madeline yesterday? Maybe she scheduled it to send right after the meeting? As well as swapping the link in the CozMoz Paints presentation so it showed porn?
Imani is entitled and believes I’m always on her case, even though I’m just doing my job as her boss to get her to do her job.
I sigh as I stop at a traffic light, and a car pulls up in the lane next to me. I glance across. The driver looks over at my car, and his eyes flick downwards. He catches my eye and nods down at the passenger side door. I nod, thinking he’s trying to flirt or something. But then I remember.
I have BITCH emblazoned on that door.
An epiphany hits me square between the eyes as the lights turn green, and the car behind beeps when I don’t move. I put it into gear and pull away.
Could Imani have scratched that into my car? That morning she was the second person in the office after me, so she would’ve been alone in the car park with my Mini. Cleo arrived soon after and said there were only our three cars in the car park. The entire floor is allocated to MBW, so there wouldn’t have been anyone else there.
The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that my account executive is attempting to undermine me at work.
Imani, you little cow, I won’t let you get away with it.
13
I fly through the front door and straight into the lounge, determined to work out the best way to confront Imani about this.
But I stop dead in my tracks. Something is very wrong.
My cosy, safe place feels all rigid with jagged edges that poke me. As if the house is telling me: ‘Beware, Lauren, BEWARE’.
A prickle dances across my shoulder blades, and I can sense another person or persons have been in the house.
The coffee table is still upended from yesterday, but it’s not that. The sofa cushions have been pulled off the sofa, and the big flat-screen telly is no longer on the wall. All of Akshay’s Apple gadgets, surround sound speakers and numerous video game consoles are gone from the cabinet under the telly. Books have been pulled off the shelf and are scattered on the floor. Akshay’s rare vintage wine from the wine rack is gone, and the bottle of twenty-year-old single malt scotch whiskey proudly on display on top is not in its usual place.
I glance at the kitchen and notice a gaping hole on the counter where the expensive coffee machine should be. And next to it, Alexa is gone. The cupboard doors are wide open.
A break-in. Someone has trashed the house and stolen our things.
My heart pounds. Is the intruder still in the house? I reach for one of Akshay’s eye-wateringly pricey professional chef knives out of the block, but they’ve been taken. Without making a sound, I carefully pull open a drawer and take out another less fancy knife. I stay very still and listen hard. But the house is quiet. Knife in hand, I creep upstairs and into our bedroom. Akshay’s expensive Apple HomePod speaker is no longer on his bedside cabinet.
“Shit,” I say out loud.
We’ve been burgled.
This is the last thing I need right now. I curse myself again for not getting that fence panel fixed, for making my home a target for burglars. My precious home violated. Everything feels dirty, even the air. I have the urge to throw open all the windows and to clean, clean, clean. To scrub the intruder’s breath off my surfaces, to wipe away the dirty fingerprints that have touched my belongings.
I turn to head back downstairs to find my phone and call the police, but I notice my Mulberry handbag. It’s still hanging on the hook by the chest of drawers. This strikes me as strange. One thing the bastards missed. Then it dawns on me. My equally expensive Coach handbag, a gift from Akshay, which was also hanging from the same hook, is gone. Why would a thief take one but not the other? Did they think the Mulberry’s a fake – it most certainly isn’t – or do stolen Mulberry handbags not fetch as much money?
I open my jewellery box. The most precious, expensive items I own, I’m wearing, including my grandma’s pearl earrings, but the Tissot watch that Akshay got me for my birthday, which I wear on special occasions, is gone. But my Fitbit smartwatch, which I self-gifted last January when on a short-lived and overzealous health kick, is still there.
Spinning around, I fling open the wardrobe doors. Akshay’s side is empty. All his clothes are gone. I open his drawers – all empty. I dash to the spare bedroom, looking above the wardrobe. His suitcase is gone.
The truth of the situation settles over me like a heavy, suffocating veil. He’s been in the house and ripped out everything that belonged to him or that he paid for. Including expensive gifts that he gave me.
I sink onto the bed in the spare bedroom and hold my head in my hands. It’s definitely over. Akshay has well and truly left me and taken his things to prove that point. I had a glimmer of hope that I could rectify the situation, that he was just staying away for a few days, because all his things were still here; his home with me was still here. But this is so final. My relationship is over. The man I loved more than anything
is gone. No wedding, no marriage, no family. We wanted to start trying for babies as soon as we were married. I’m thirty-eight, he’s thirty-nine; we weren’t going to wait any longer. He was the man I was meant to be with for the rest of my life.
My mouth dries out, so parched it hurts. I slouch downstairs, wiping away tears, and head into the kitchen to get a glass of water. And there I see it. A handwritten note on the side, propped against the toaster.
I open it and read:
Lauren, I want my money from this house, so we’ll need to sell it. I’ll organise an estate agent to come and value it next week. I’ve taken what’s mine. We’ll need to sell the stuff we bought together and go halves. I want this over with as soon as possible. My solicitor will be in touch via email to get the house sale underway. The less we have to deal with each other, the better. Akshay.
Not my house, my beautiful house. Where will I live? I’ll have to buy somewhere else on my own. Somewhere smaller and not in such a nice area, and somewhere without Akshay in it.
Or I could move into Mum’s small one-bedroom apartment… but that thought is distressing. How could I sleep in her bedroom? How could I inhabit the rooms that were once so full of her? I’ll expect to see her around every corner, at the sink, in her favourite armchair and then remember she’s not there, will never be there. My brain says: it’s a roof over your head. My heart says: you’ll be living with her ghost. I’m distraught at the prospect.
I take in the room, the open-plan area, all the furniture that fits just right. We’ve been here for six months and made it our own, our nest, our starter home to raise our young family. We’ve made so many good memories in this place already, and I was so excited to make many more. This is my safe space, my happy place. Somewhere I love to come home to every single day. Damn.
I put the cushions back on the sofa and sit looking at the big blank space where Akshay’s telly once was, taking stock of the past few days. The desperate grief of my mother’s funeral, the frustrating issues at work that led to me being sent home by Madeline, my fiancé leaving me and now this – ejected from my lovely home.