Now You Know

by Nora Valters

  He continues, “I’m sure you’ll smash it.”

  “Thanks. What’s up with you?”

  He sighs, and I know a whinge is coming. I’m his more experienced, worldly-wise, agony-aunt older sister.

  “It’s Jenna,” he says.

  As soon as he mentions his girlfriend’s name, I realise I’m not in the mood right now to dish out relationship advice.

  “What’s she done now?” I say tersely.

  But Toby doesn’t pick up on my impatient tone and ploughs on. “She’s doing my head in. I can’t do anything right. She has a go at me for literally everything. Urgh. I don’t know what to do. Nothing I say is right…”

  While Toby’s talking, I hear Rob shout my name from inside.

  I’ve heard this moan from Toby before. It’s pretty much all I’ve heard for the past two years he’s been with Jenna.

  Impatiently I blurt, “Just dump her already. Jeez, Tobe, this has been going on forrreverrr. You’re clearly not happy, so get rid of her.”

  Toby is silent, not used to me being quite so direct.

  I continue, “Look, gotta go. Speak later. Love you.” I hang up before he can reply and dash back into the farmhouse.

  Rob is standing, drinking green juice from a huge flask. He beckons me to him, sits in his chair and points to his screen. I lean over his shoulder to see my folder in the New Business drive.

  “I’ve found your presentation.”

  “Yes!” I hug him from behind and stand up to do a little happy dance. “OMG, Rob, I could kiss you!”

  He swivels his chair to look at me seriously. “I don’t think my girlfriend would like that.”

  I’m not sure what I’m more shocked by: that he actually thought I’d kiss him, or that he has a girlfriend. “Oh, I, er… it’s just an expression. Sorry.”

  He looks at me for a beat too long. Awkward.

  “Could you open it?” I ask.

  He swivels back around and clicks on the file.

  The first slide pops up with the too-small-for-Madeline MBW logo, and my breakfast churns in my gut. “That’s the old version. Before the designer made it look amazing. Are you sure that’s the final, final, final one?”

  “Absolutely certain. I recovered the file, and that’s the only one in the cloud.”

  Don’t freak out, Lauren. This is fixable. It has to be.

  The ticking clock chimes in my ear, and I look at my watch. My heart booms. Only two hours to go before the pitch, and I don’t have a finished presentation, and I’m in the middle-of-nowhere countryside. I need to get back to the office to sort this mess out. “Did you fix my laptop? Maybe it’s on there?”

  “Alas, no. That’ll take a little longer. Looks like you’ve picked up a virus. Easy enough to do. You probably clicked on a link in a junk email.”

  I rack my brains but can’t think of anything and shake my head. “I definitely haven’t clicked on anything.”

  Rob shrugs, as if to say, ‘everyone says that when they’ve clicked on something’. “I’ll look at the laptop this afternoon and bring it in on Monday for you.”

  “Okay, great,” I reply and turn towards the door. “Oh, no, wait.” I turn back to Rob. “I’m not in the office on Monday.”

  “I can bring it in on Tuesday, then.”

  “Sorry, but I need it on Sunday.”

  Rob looks unimpressed.

  I rally my emotions. The last thing I need today is for them to blast out from the depths like a geyser. I tell him the truth. Honesty is the best policy, after all. “It’s my mum’s funeral on Monday, and I need to print out some photos that I saved on the desktop.”

  Rob holds my gaze long enough to make me squirm a little and says, “Where do you live? I’m coming into town on Sunday, so can drop it over.”

  “Oh, thank you so much. In Chorlton, so on your way in from here. I’ll text you my address. Gotta go. Thank you again, Rob.”

  He smiles, blinks twice and then turns his back on me. I let myself out, run to my car and race back to the office but get stuck in traffic, and the journey takes closer to an hour. I try not to let it ruffle me, glancing at my engagement ring and forcing myself to think of good things and the upcoming wedding, but it’s no use. The stop-start frustration of bumper-to-bumper vehicles makes me shout “Come on!” and “Get out the way!” and “Why is EVERYONE on the road today?” about a million times.

  When I arrive – traffic-stressed and running on adrenaline, the exact opposite of how I like to be before a major meeting: composed and laser-focused – the receptionist tells me Madeline and the rest of the pitch team have already headed over to the coffee shop opposite to talk through the presentation and that Madeline wants me to go straight there.

  But I can’t go straight there because I don’t have a fecking presentation.

  I run to my desk, clock that Imani is still there, and ask the intern if I can use her laptop. She diligently brings it over and, without taking off my coat or my handbag, I open the latest version that Rob recovered. I rapidly make all the tweaks to this presentation that I was making earlier to the sexily designed one. I bash the keys and swear every few seconds.

  “All okay?” Cleo asks, knowing full well I’m not okay. I never usually get this frazzled.

  “No. Pitch is in less than an hour, and the presentation is gone. Having to amend an old one.”

  “It’ll be fine, Lauren. It’s not titty now, is it?” She smiles.

  This is a story I tell all my team before pitches and has become a bit of a legend to calm everyone’s nerves and to remind us to prepare well in advance. My first-ever pitch was a traumatic experience that I vowed never to repeat and never to let any of my team members repeat. I’d been at my first PR job at a high-profile agency for three weeks when I was told I was attending a pitch, we were leaving in five minutes, that I had some slides to present that I’d never seen before, but it would all be fine.

  It wasn’t fine. I got massive stage fright, rambled some incoherent nonsense and then incorrectly pronounced the product ‘titty-kah’ instead of ‘tea-teak-ah’. It was mortifying. For the first time in a long time, the memory gives me the shivers, and my nerves squirm like they did on that day.

  “Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” I reply to Cleo in a reassuring tone, as much to reassure myself as anyone else. This is NOT going to be a titty disaster. I need to get it together.

  I make the final amend, press save on the PowerPoint, close it down and give the intern back her laptop. I attempt to ignore the ache in my bladder and bypass the toilets on the way to the coffee shop, but it’s no use. I dash in and wee as fast as I can and blot my armpits with toilet paper. I pat some powder on my shiny face in front of the mirror, rearrange my outfit, try not to care that I’m looking slightly disheveled and not the polished PR professional I was this morning, and hurry to the coffee shop.

  Madeline is lording it over the pitch team, large coffee in hand, and raises her chin at me. The four others shift chairs to make space for me, but Madeline sips her drink.

  “Well?” she demands.

  “Technical difficulties. Rob found the old presentation, but the designed version is gone. It looks basic, but all the content is there, and it’ll have to do.”

  She glares at me for a long time, and the pitch team collectively hold their breath. Then she nods to her second travelling laptop, which is on the table. “Open it and we’ll go through it.”

  “Right.”

  As I open the file, one of the pitch team goes to the counter to get me a coffee. By the time he’s come back, the presentation is ready. I pick up the cup. My hand trembles. I put it down again. I never get this nervous before pitches, but the dead laptop/lost file rigmarole has turned me inside out, as if timed perfectly to exert maximum pressure and cause the most carnage.

  I take a deep breath. I’ve got this. Forget the virus on my laptop and how it got there, I have a presentation.

  “Let’s go through this, then,” I
say over the chatter around the table, and all go quiet to look at me.

  I quickly run through the slides, remind each person of their part and give a debrief about the supermarket chain, the people we’ll be pitching to, and remind everyone of the pitch brief and the contract should we win it. When I’m done, there’s a palpable buzz about the table.

  “We’ve nailed the brief and, yes, the presentation could look better, but we know our stuff. We’re going to win this business,” I say.

  The creative director slaps the table, and I get a couple of whoops. I grin, smooth my flyaway hair, which is now looking more limp than sleek blow-out, and peek at Madeline. She’s smiling, like a matriarch surveying her talented brood.

  I look at my watch and stand. “Let’s flag a couple of taxis over to their office. I’ve got the address.”

  As we’re leaving the coffee shop, Madeline positions herself to ensure she’s not in the same taxi as me. And I know, even though the lost presentation wasn’t my fault, that I’ve fallen out of favour.

  2

  After a what-should’ve-been-a-disaster-but-actually-turned-out-awesome pitch on Friday afternoon, I allowed myself Friday evening to destress by binge-watching a steamy period drama on Netflix.

  On Saturday I sacked off my morning exercise class to catch up on some sleep and chill out on the sofa, daydreaming about the wedding, googling idyllic honeymoon destinations, scouring Pinterest for wedding dress inspo and researching home décor ideas to update our bathroom.

  But I wake early on Sunday knowing I’ve got tons to do ahead of tomorrow.

  I write out a to-do list and set about tidying the house and doing a thorough deep clean. It’s not too bad; I like to keep on top of it. I enjoy cleaning, finding it relaxing and satisfying. Sometimes I’ll listen to an audiobook or music. But often I just like quiet. My best mate calls me Monica from Friends, and I’m quite proud of that comparison.

  When I first moved in with my fiancé, I worried he’d be a nightmare to live with. Messy and with an aversion to cleanliness. I thought, I love him, I’m just going to have to put up with it. But – to my delight and the jealous grumblings of my mates with untidy partners – I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  It turned out I fell in love with a fellow clean freak. Hurrah. Akshay and I have been known to draw straws as to who gets to clean the bathroom – the winner cheerfully donning their rubber gloves, the loser having to wait for the next time.

  Gosh, I’ve missed him like crazy these past two months that he’s been in New York for work, but he’s back today. And I can barely contain my excitement, twittering around the house like a chirpy bird.

  As I’m unloading the dishwasher, wiping every item on a tea towel just to make sure it’s definitely dry and to avoid any annoying smears on the glassware, my phone pings. My insides go all fuzzy when I open WhatsApp and see it’s Akshay.

  - Just landed. Waiting for luggage. Should be home in an hour or so. Can’t wait to see you xxx

  I reply:

  - See you soon. CANNOT wait to see you too.

  I rush upstairs and slip on my new sexy underwear, purchased especially for this occasion, my luxe, cosy-but-sexy loungewear that hugs my average-sized figure in all the right places, and some super-soft cashmere socks. I dry my still-damp hair from my earlier shower and apply a touch of make-up and a spritz of perfume. I slick on some lip gloss.

  My phone pings again. But this time it’s not Akshay. It’s a message from Toby.

  - I’ve finally done it. I took your advice and dumped Jenna.

  I tap out a message to my brother.

  - How are you feeling about it?

  - Happy. Should’ve done it ages ago.

  - Good. Must mean it’s for the best.

  I experience a flash of joy at this news. Jenna is a sweet girl, not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, but she and Toby never quite gelled in my mind – their two-year relationship always riddled with tumultuous drama rather than coupled-up, googly-eyed bliss.

  I think of the time about a year ago when the four of us went out on a double date. Akshay and I had fun keeping up with the ‘kids’ and let them choose the bars and restaurant we went to. Jenna and I ended up syncing our comfort breaks and were stood in the queue for the toilets when Jenna, very drunk at this point, and I, not so drunk but still pretty far gone, ended up having a rambling heart-to-heart, which didn’t end very well.

  Jenna: I don’t think you like me. I don’t think you’ve ever liked me.

  Me: Noooooo, I like you.

  Jenna: You’re just saying that.

  Me: Am not.

  Jenna: Are. I don’t think you think I’m good enough for your brother. You think he can do better.

  Me: Whaaat, nonsense.

  Jenna (shouting): Stop lying!

  Me: …

  Jenna: You’d be happier if he was dating someone else. I know it. But we’re happy and I’m not going ANYWHERE.

  Me: Okay… (Pointing at an empty cubicle) Your turn.

  This conversation was forgotten by the time we’d left the toilets and returned to our men to then – at Toby’s insistence – go clubbing until 2 a.m. I have a feeling Jenna doesn’t even remember it. But I do. And she was right. Although it’s not that I didn’t think she was good enough, it’s more that Toby never seemed completely smitten with her. And that’s what bothered me.

  Although I didn’t mean to so bluntly tell him to dump Jenna on Friday, I’m pleased it’s worked out for him.

  I see Toby’s typing, and a second later another message pops up:

  - She didn’t take it well. At. All.

  I frown and tap out a reply.

  - How come?

  - We were at hers, and she TOTALLY freaked out. I mean, she threw a proper tantrum. She punched her bedroom wall and actually put her fist through it. Her flatmate had to come in to calm things down.

  - Wow. Who knew Jenna has such a violent streak?!

  - It was insane.

  - What did you do?

  - I left Cammy to it. She was doing a good job of consoling J and told me to go home.

  - Have you spoken to Jenna since?

  - Nope. Hopefully won’t have to again.

  I send him the thumbs-up emoji just as the doorbell chimes. I jump up and fly down the stairs, taking a deep breath and partly unzipping my hoodie to show off a big dollop of cleavage. I fix my most alluring pout on my face and – as sultry as possible – open the door.

  “Hello, sexy,” I say in a way I hope is as seductive as Marilyn Monroe.

  But it’s not Akshay. Of course not, I realise in my excited haste, he has a key.

  It’s the IT guy.

  Rob has my laptop under an arm, and his eyes almost pop out of his head at my blatant ‘come to bed’ performance.

  I blush hard. I completely forgot he was coming over today. He probably thinks I’ve made a massive effort for him. Cringe. “Oh, er, hi. Sorry, thought you were my fiancé.”

  He recovers himself, tears his gaze from my boobs and finds his voice. “I’ve got your laptop working. Can I come in and show you?”

  “Sure, come in.”

  Rob steps into the house, and I close the door behind him, fumbling to do up my zip as quickly as possible. I edge around him in the hallway and lead him through to the lounge at the back of the house, walking as stiffly as possible so as not to draw attention to my bum in these knitted joggers that skim and accentuate it. I bought this loungewear set to only ever wear in the house and only ever in front of Akshay. I gesture to the dining table, and Rob heads there to set up my laptop.

  “Do you want a drink? Cup of tea?” I ask, hoping he’ll say no and this will be a brief visit. I want him gone before Akshay arrives.

  “Glass of water, please,” Rob replies while pulling out a chair, but he doesn’t sit on it. He powers up my laptop.

  I head into the kitchen and pour him a glass of water. When I return, he’s taken off his coat and put it over the back of the ch
air next to the one he’s pulled out. His scarf is also neatly folded and hung over the top, and his gloves are on top of that.

  Dammit, he looks like he’s here for an extended visit. He gazes purposely around the room and out the window with interest, as if taking in every detail.

  “Here you are,” I say and place his glass on a coaster next to the laptop.

  “Thanks.” He indicates to my garden. “Your fence panel is down.”

  “Yes. Been down a while. Need to get it fixed. Haven’t had a chance recently.”

  “I know someone who can come and fix it. He works on the farm. Do you want his number?”

  “Oh, thank you, but no, it’s fine. My dad will come and do it with my fiancé at some point. My dad’s a massive DIY fan. Honestly, he’d be really put out if I got someone else in to do it.”

  I laugh, but Rob doesn’t. He gestures for me to sit in the pulled-out chair. Cursing under my breath, I oblige. He leans over me to place a finger on the mouse touchpad. The yellow Post-it note with my writing is stuck under the keyboard. He glances at it and types in my password.

  His proximity to me is a smidgen too close, his armpit pretty much over my shoulder, torso almost touching my arm and elbow nearly knocking my boob. I tilt in the opposite direction to regain my personal space, but he’s oblivious. This must be a move he does with everyone.

  Not looking at me, his eyes fixed on the screen, he says, “So, I basically had to download everything off your desktop onto a hard drive, then restore factory settings and reinstall everything. A few things might have moved about, and you’ll need to download non-work-related apps like Spotify again, but there’s no data loss.” He uses the mouse cursor to point things out on my desktop.

  “Oh my goodness, that’s great news. Thanks so much, Rob. I was so worried that I’d lost important files and documents. Phew.”

  He pauses what he’s doing and takes a long inhale through his nose. “What perfume are you wearing?” he asks.