Now You Know

by Nora Valters

  Maybe if I speak to Akshay, I can make him see sense.

  Before I can talk myself out of it, I find my mobile and call him.

  “Yes?” he answers abruptly.

  “Oh, Akshay…” I mumble, the sound of his voice so familiar, but so, so distant.

  “You’ve seen my note? My solicitor will be in touch.”

  “I didn’t have an affair. This is all…”

  But I trail off as I hear a woman’s voice in the background shout, “Akshay, lunch is here.” My words turn sour, as the voice has a very distinctive American accent.

  “What do you want, Lauren?” Akshay asks impatiently.

  “Where are you?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m hanging up now.”

  And he does.

  My secure, stable life is falling through my fingers like water. But why now? It was all going so right for me. I’ve worked hard to build a great life. Cancer took Mum, not anything anyone did.

  But losing Akshay? The work drama? My car getting keyed?

  I must have some serious bad luck for all of those things to happen at the same time and so close to Mum’s funeral. We all have our fair share of misfortune – but all at once? There’s a proverb that says bad things come in threes. But am I really that unlucky?

  These incidents aren’t innocent or by chance. They are premeditated and calculated to inflict major damage. There’s no mistake, I’m clearly the target.

  I’ve been looking at this all wrong. The timing of these events isn’t a coincidence. They’re not random or isolated. The drama in my personal and work life is connected. It has to be.

  I switch into doing mode. I can’t sit and mope all day, that’s just not in my nature. I need to work this out, set Akshay and Madeline straight, keep my home, head back to work.

  Imani is suspect number one for the trouble at work. But the dirty texts, lingerie, letters and deepfake video? I just don’t know.

  Thinking about work, I realise I need to do a handover of sorts to cover my absence. I know how frustrating it is to pick up other people’s work with no clear understanding of where things are up to. I drill it into my team before they’re away for any length of time. I have to set an example; I can’t let my standards slip. When this is all sorted, I don’t want to return to angry clients, a chaotic team and missed deadlines.

  I open my work emails on my phone and tap out a couple of quick messages to Finn and to Deb with a rundown of what was on my to-do list for this week that can either wait until I return or will need to be picked up by them or one of the team.

  Satisfied I’m not leaving any loose ends, I scroll quickly through my new emails and see there’s no reply from supermarket Stephanie. I wonder if Madeline has called her to apologise again. There are numerous emails I can leave for one of the team to pick up. But I see an email from Imani.

  Just seeing her name grinds my gears, but I open it. It’s the media list I asked her to share with me earlier. I’m surprised she’s actually completed a task without me chasing her for it at least five times. She’s attached it to the email, the message reads:

  Media list attached. Have fun at home. Don’t watch too much porn. Maybe now’s the time to start making your own?!

  I fling the phone down before I reply with something I’ll regret later. What the hell does she mean about making my own porn? Is that a reference to the porn played in the boardroom, or is she referring to the lingerie and sex toy? Or that deepfake video of the couple having sex and my face edited in?

  Hold up. How does she even know about that?

  My hunch that everything is related becomes a knowing, a certainty in my gut. I try it on for size: Imani is responsible for the work drama and all the troubles in my personal life too. She’s getting back at me for coming down hard at her at work. She’s played a cruel and senseless joke on me with the affair stuff, which Akshay has massively overreacted to and taken at face value. It fits. It all fits.

  Imani certainly knows my phone number, email, and home address. She came to this very house for my engagement party along with a few others from the office. And there she met Akshay. She brazenly flirted with him at that party, as well as with most of the other men there.

  She has access to my work diary, as my calendar is public so people can check when I’m free before sending me meeting requests. And we have full team meetings every Monday morning, where we go through every client, discuss upcoming work, check the status of ongoing work, and everyone shares what they have on that week. So she could’ve written those letters that mention specific work events.

  And we all talk about our personal lives at work, within reason. I know all sorts of little facts about my team – I know Finn’s girlfriend is ten years older than him, that Mikey is learning to play the piano – so Imani knew, as the whole team knew, that Akshay was away for two months, when he left and when he was back because I talked about it. And she was well aware of the day Mum passed away because I told my team that morning I was going to be at the hospital all day.

  But could Imani have managed the deepfake video editing by herself? She’s certainly smart enough when she applies herself and always surprises me with her knowledge of tech – and not just smartphones. But maybe she had help? She certainly has the money to pay someone to do it for her. And she always makes out that she knows a lot of people. Perhaps some techy kid in Eastern Europe looking to earn a quick buck made it for her. It’s not hard to find people like that on the internet – you can outsource pretty much everything these days and find the appropriate freelancers.

  How do I go about stopping her? Or proving she did it?

  I’ll cut straight to the chase and confront her. No messing about. The direct route is nearly always the best route. But I need to handle this right. Imani is Madeline’s darling. One false move and Imani will have me fired; she has Madeline’s ear.

  Precisely because I want to rage at her and shake her until the truth comes out, I decide face to face is probably not the best idea. I’ll call her. Then there’s no record in writing if I’m wildly wrong. And ask her if she knows anything about that email to the supermarket client, ask her if she saw anyone near my laptop. Be subtle. Let her trip herself up. Listen to her voice, pinpoint the lies.

  I find a notepad and a pen, poised to jot notes as if on a business call, breathe in and out to the count of four to ready myself, and pick up my phone to call her. But it rings in my hand.

  14

  “Hey, Kemi,” I say.

  “Hey! I’m so pleased you answered,” Kemi says.

  Her voice is a bit echoey, and I know she’s in the bath. She has Wednesday afternoons off teaching, and her three kids are either still at school, at after-school clubs, or with her wife, Gillian. This is Kemi’s me-time, and she always has a long bath, telling me there’s nothing more luxurious than a daytime bath. “I read your message. Jeez. A lot of shit has happened to you. I just can’t believe you have an enemy that has it in for you that bad.”

  “Well, I think I’ve worked out who did it.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “A junior member of my team.”

  “Seriously? Wow. Which one? Actually, hold up. Before you get into that, I have to… well… talk to you about something.”

  Her tone worries me. Kemi sounds almost reluctant to tell me something, which never happens. We’ve been friends since we were eleven and have shared absolutely everything with each other since then – no matter how gross or personal or awkward. I heard all about Gillian’s abnormal discharge at one point.

  “Come on, out with it,” I say.

  “I just checked Facebook, and you’ve posted a ranty update and then shared a really, and I mean really, offensive post.”

  “What? I haven’t been on Facebook since I woke up this morning.” I always check my social media channels and emails the moment I wake up, and then again in the evening. I’m not the kind of person who dips in and out multiple times a day. I’m usually too busy at wo
rk to check. “Are you sure I posted it?”

  “Yes. Very sure. And, mate, it’s a good job that I know and love you. Because, well…” She trails off.

  “Hang on, let me get it up on my laptop and have a look, and then I can stay on the phone with you.”

  I grab my laptop, power it on and go to the desktop version of Facebook. I put in my login details using PW-Protekt, my password manager, and click OK, but an error message comes up saying I’ve entered the wrong details.

  I tut.

  “What is it?” Kemi asks.

  “Facebook isn’t recognising my flipping password.”

  “Annoying.”

  “Let me try again.” The same thing happens. “Urgh.”

  “I’ll hang up, screenshot it and message you.”

  “Okay.”

  We hang up, and a moment later I receive Kemi’s message with two screenshots of my Facebook posts. It’s definitely my Facebook profile. I see the familiar picture of me that Akshay took, where I’m standing against a backdrop of endless lavender fields in Provence, France, just before he proposed to me. It is – was? – his favourite photo of me and is – was? – his background image on his phone.

  I read the rant first:

  This is it, wankers. I’ve had enough. I’m tired of lying, tired of saying and thinking things that I’m told to, that are meant to be polite and politically correct and “acceptable” when I don’t believe it. I don’t believe ANY OF IT. From herein, I’m speaking my truth. If you can’t handle that, then fuck off. I don’t need your goody-two-shoes shit in my life anymore. Because my feed is about to be full of the truth as I see it. I’m about to tell it how it is. So, here goes, you arseholes.

  I scan the second post, shared minutes after the rant, and swallow back the bile that immediately rises. It’s a disgusting racist meme with a comment – apparently from me – saying: ‘YES to this!’

  Another message pops up from Kemi:

  - Another one’s just been posted.

  She messages another screenshot. This post is a reshare of a sexist, anti-feminist rant that enrages me.

  Kemi: There’s more…

  More screenshots come through. The fourth post talks about denying the World War Two Holocaust, peddling a horrifying conspiracy theory that the Jews made it all up. Then a fifth, which is shockingly homophobic and links to a video that I don’t even want to click on, and a sixth about how climate change doesn’t exist and that everyone who believes the ‘fake science’ should be ‘shot for stupidity’. All of it spewing hatred and discrimination.

  I can’t believe that this kind of evil even exists on the internet, let alone that it’s been shared on my Facebook page. It’s distressing and terrifying, and the complete polar opposite to my beliefs.

  They’re followed by Kemi’s message:

  - Definitely think your account has been hacked!

  Another few screenshots come through with the message:

  - And looks like your profile is public because you’re getting all kinds of freaky comments…

  I look at the screenshots of some of the comments under the first racist post, and Kemi is right. There are fifty-two reactions, ranging from likes to loves to angry and sad faces, and twenty-two comments, many from people I’ve never heard of before, definitely not my friends. But then there are replies from people who are my friends saying that they don’t agree with me or that I need to rethink my attitude or that they’re de-friending.

  My cheeks burn – how could anyone think I’m saying these things? I would never post this poison because I don’t think this poison.

  I tap a message back to Kemi:

  - Fucking hell! I’m going to log on now and delete everything.

  She replies with a thumbs-up emoji.

  I put my phone aside and try to log in to Facebook for a third time. Again, the password that PW-Protekt adds in automatically is incorrect. I search for my Facebook page, which, although I’ve always had the strictest privacy settings from day one, is now public, and see the offensive content plastered across it.

  This is insane.

  My social media is like an extension of me, and it’s frightening that I’m not in control of what is coming out of my mouth. Someone is polluting my online world, appropriating my voice, aligning me to beliefs that are most definitely NOT my own. They are deliberately alienating me from my friends and acquaintances, obliterating my network.

  I click on PW-Protekt and enter my master password. All my many passwords are saved in this piece of software – for social media, emails, Spotify, Netflix, all the various work platforms that we have to use. Nearly ninety passwords are saved. And for security, PW-Protekt generates random passwords to use, and each is different. I’ve used it for about a year, and it’s been brilliant. I just have to remember the one master password to log in.

  There’s a split second after I click OK, and then an error message pops up: Password incorrect.

  The bottom falls out of my stomach, and I feel as if the ground beneath my feet is now a yawning chasm and I’m tumbling, tumbling down into nothingness.

  How can my master password not work? It’s always worked. It’s the only password I have to remember.

  Shit.

  I click on ‘Forgotten password?’ and put in my personal Gmail email, which is linked to the PW-Protekt account. I open Gmail and go to log in to my account. But I can’t. The password that PW-Protekt has automatically added is incorrect.

  I start to sweat: a trickle down my spine, armpits dampening, palms going clammy. This cannot be happening.

  Grabbing my phone, I open the email application. But it bars me, asking for my password to proceed.

  “I don’t know my password,” I yell.

  I click on ‘Forgotten Password?’ on Facebook too, and it says it’s sent a code to my email – my Gmail email that I can’t access.

  “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.”

  I tap out a message to Kemi:

  - Can’t log in. Pls can you post a comment saying that you think I’ve been hacked. Am working on getting it sorted!

  - Sure. There’s been some more posts.

  My Facebook profile is now a hotbed of right-wing extremist bullshit, and I can’t do anything to change it. I see Kemi’s comment on one post, but it’s right at the end of a long stream of comments.

  My body shakes. It hurts to inhale, my vision falters, and terror crawls through my belly. I feel completely out of control. It’s the same feeling I had when I had an accident while on a skiing holiday with Kemi when we were twenty-two. That skidding, slipping, falling, sliding. Down, down, down. Picking up speed with no way to slow up. Then, I thought I was going to die. I ended up with lots of bruising and a broken wrist. That out-of-control sensation before a tree broke my fall comes back to me now. The same rush of nausea. The same flood of panic.

  Am I having some kind of panic attack? Calm down, Lauren. Calm. The. Fuck. Down.

  And think.

  I trawl through the Facebook help page to see if there’s anything about what to do if you can’t log in with the email or phone number associated with the account and go through the straightforward account recovery steps. But I’m still blocked. I search what to do if I think my account has been hacked and spot immediately that I can report a compromised account. I follow the instructions to do just that. Easy.

  But it tells me it’s sent an email to the email address associated with the account. And I can’t log in to that sodding email. I slap the sofa’s armrest in frustration.

  Lauren, I hear Mum’s steadying voice, now’s the time to use your practical, logical, solutions-orientated brain to fix this.

  I can use my other social media channels to let everyone know. Yes. That’s it. I try to log in to Twitter, but once again, the autofill password is incorrect. I search for my profile on Twitter, which is public, and see – to my horror – the offensive content has been posted there too, as well as retweets of awful, awful things.

  T
he same has happened on my LinkedIn and Instagram accounts. I see my follower numbers have dropped and read comments from my friends, acquaintances and contacts in my personal and professional networks saying that they don’t support what I’m saying so don’t want any association with me anymore.

  Scarily, I also read messages of support. There are some seriously messed-up people out there, and currently they’re all congregating online on my social media channels.

  I have to get back into PW-Protekt. There must be a way. I look at the help page, follow the various steps but don’t get anywhere. Links are sent to the email I can’t log into or texts to a blanked-out phone number, which ends in three digits that aren’t mine. Another burner phone? It’s clear my password manager software has been hacked – but how? It can only be accessed with the master password on the website, via the app on my work laptop or the app on my phone.

  It had been so easy to use up until now, the app starting and opening automatically when I logged on to my laptop. It had made me feel almost smug that I was taking such good care of my online security – as if my personal information and passwords were now infallible. I recommended PW-Protekt to anyone who’d listen. How did I first hear about it? It had been a recommendation from…

  Imani.

  I saw her using it at work and asked her about it. She said that she used it not for security, but that it was the ultimate lazy-girl hack – it automatically filled in passwords on every site and saved them so you didn’t even have to expend energy or brain power in remembering them all. Imani uses it. Imani knows how it works.

  A boulder drops squarely into the bottom of my throat, and I choke to get my breath out. Imani had access to my laptop before the CozMoz Paints meeting when the porn was played. She could’ve deactivated my account or changed my passwords. Or found out my master password or given herself ‘emergency access’ and then logged in on the website earlier today.

  I’ve not been targeted randomly by some faceless hacker. It’s her. She’s the one posting appalling content on my social media accounts. I picture her rubbing her hands together with glee: *evil cackle* Oh, what fun to wipe out Lauren’s entire online life! Mwahaha!