by Nora Valters
I know exactly what I’m going to say, recalling a time when Jenna went on and on about how her biggest dislike is seeing strangers wearing the wrong colour of foundation. “I just want to take them under my wing, wash it off and find them the right shade,” she’d said. “They’d be soooo much happier, I just know it.”
A woman answers. I put on the friendliest, happiest, lightest voice I can muster.
“Hi there, I know this is a long shot, but last Thursday I came in, and there was an amazing sales assistant who matched me a foundation perfectly, and I wanted to come in again today to find some more items, and I was really keen to speak to her again. She was soooo good, such excellent customer service. She had such an eye for what suited my skin tone.”
The woman gushes, “I’m so happy you enjoyed our customer service. All our staff are excellent. Do you happen to remember her name?”
“Oh gosh.” I pause to pretend I’m thinking. “It was something like Jenny or Jennifer?”
“Jenna? On the All Yours Make-up counter?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“Yes, Jenna is very talented. Really knows her stuff and loves make-up. She has a YouTube channel, you know. Maybe ask her about it when you see her. Anyway, let me check the rota… Okay, here we are. Jenna’s due in at ten.”
“Wonderful. Until when?”
“Seven this evening.”
“Perfect. I’ll be in later today. Thanks so much for your help.”
“No problem.”
I jump in the shower and get changed, too jittery to eat any breakfast but forcing down a cup of coffee. Although I haven’t slept a wink, I’m not tired. I’m running on adrenaline, finally having worked out who is doing this to me.
At 9.30 a.m., I put on my coat, and as I’m wrapping my scarf around my neck, my phone rings.
Jenna?
I dive into my handbag and yank out my phone. No. Madeline.
My heart sinks. Imani has spoken to her.
I’m torn briefly between my need to get to the department store and confront Jenna, and my need to preserve my relationship with my boss and reinstate my position at work. I sigh and answer.
“Hi, Lauren, how are you feeling?” Madeline asks briskly.
“I’m really good, thank you,” I reply in the same chirpy voice I used earlier.
“You’re at home?”
“Yes,” I reply cautiously. Where is this going?
“Good. I need to come to your house to discuss a few things.”
“Right now?”
“Yes. Does 10.30 a.m. suit?”
Bloody hell. No, it does NOT suit.
Madeline senses my hesitation and continues, “It’s urgent and can’t wait.”
My insides knot with apprehension. Imani has mentioned my phone call, and Madeline, playing mother wolf, thinks it’s urgent. Sorting my life out is urgent. Getting Jenna to admit to everything and putting everything – and everyone – straight is URGENT.
But Jenna is at work until 7 p.m. I know exactly where she’ll be all day. This is a minor delay, that’s all. I can go after meeting with Madeline.
I swallow back my annoyance at the delay and reply through gritted teeth, “Sure. That’s fine. See you then.”
For an hour I hover by the front door, pacing back and forth and checking out the window. I know this is a gigantic waste of time, and if I went and did something else – like attempting to sort out the aftermath of Mum’s burnt-out flat – the minutes would pass quicker, but I can’t drag myself away or concentrate on anything else. This meeting needs to be over fast, and then I can get to Jenna.
I see Madeline’s car pull up and spring towards the front door, opening it before she can ring the doorbell.
But Madeline’s not alone.
Behind her is Ursula Craddock, the agency’s outsourced HR consultant. I know her well from many meetings a while back regarding Cleo’s departure.
Ursula here is a bad sign. I calm my panic. I’m jumping to conclusions. Maybe it’s to do with someone else on the team. Maybe Imani hasn’t made a complaint about me.
“Hi, Madeline. Hi, Ursula,” I say brightly. “Come in.”
They return my greeting, and I show them through to the back of the house. I indicate the dining table, but Ursula suggests we sit in the lounge. I offer them a drink, but both decline.
We sit, and I bring out my work notebook and a pen, as if I’ll need to take notes. But I’m twitchy and jumpy and can’t sit still. I chew the inside of my cheeks and corners of my lips.
Madeline takes in my appearance, and a strained expression settles across her brow. She’s never seen me without make-up or with dirty hair scraped back in a messy bun. With two nights of no sleep and no undereye concealer, I imagine I look a right state. But my appearance really wasn’t a priority this morning. And still isn’t, to be honest. I haven’t even looked in a mirror.
Madeline begins, “At MBW we pride ourselves on being equal and diverse, and championing job opportunities for all with a fair and open approach. We make every effort to eliminate discrimination and create a workplace that champions great working relationships between all.”
I think of Madeline’s penchant for hiring pretty, young things with a certain look for the junior roles and know that isn’t strictly true.
She continues, “We strive to be inclusive and to improve ourselves and our policies continually. We don’t tolerate any discrimination of any kind, and quite frankly, we do not condone the content you have been posting on your social media channels, especially as they relate to your work and employer – us. You posted a number of offensive posts on both Twitter and LinkedIn yesterday. They’ve snowballed out of control overnight, and unfortunately MBW has been brought into the narrative. Clients, fellow staff and media have contacted me expressing their concerns.”
I gape at her blankly. Snowballed out of control? Shit. Dealing with the awful content took a back seat after everything else that happened afterwards. I haven’t looked at any of my social media channels since.
Ursula shifts forward on the sofa. “Lauren, you are entitled to your opinion, everyone is. But it does not align with the values of MBW.”
“No, you’ve got this all wrong—”
Madeline cuts me off. “I have to distance myself and my business from you. Immediately.”
But Ursula steps in more diplomatically. “Unfortunately it is unacceptable for the agency to be linked to you in the manner in which it has been. And therefore we need to take the relevant action, as your content, although on your personal channels, is still linked to your employer – it even names Madeline – and is very serious.”
I shake my head in disbelief.
Ursula continues, “We would like to offer you the benefit of the doubt, however, and will be instigating a full investigation. But in the meantime, you will be suspended pending investigation for a serious incident of misconduct.”
“My social media accounts have been hacked. It wasn’t me who posted that content. I’m not like that. I don’t believe any of those things. You know me. You know that’s not who I am.”
Madeline shakes her head sadly. “I thought I did know you, Lauren, but recently you’ve not been yourself. What with those emails and playing that ex-rated video in a client meeting.”
“That wasn’t me either. It was her.”
“Her?”
“My brother’s ex,” I say, exasperated. My lack of sleep is manifesting itself in emotional, impatient outbursts that I’m aware make me sound half-deranged, but I can’t stop myself. “She’s targeting me because she blames me for splitting her and my brother up. I was on my way to confront her, but then you showed up.”
Ursula observes me neutrally, but Madeline’s incredulity is etched for all to see across her face.
“I refuse to believe that far-fetched story. I’m very worried about you and think you might be having some kind of breakdown and are self-sabotaging. Perhaps in your head you think someone else is target
ing you, but actually it’s all your own doing. You’re doing this to yourself, Lauren. I honestly think you need to see your doctor and get referred to a therapist.”
“The mental health of our employees is very important to MBW,” Ursula chimes in.
My voice rises a few notches. “There is nothing wrong with my mental health. I’m not imagining this or doing it to myself. Someone has got it in for me!”
Madeline’s eyebrows shoot up, and she looks almost smug, as if I’ve just confirmed her thoughts.
I continue, “And that person burned down my mother’s flat last night!”
“There was a fire?” Madeline asks.
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but I imagine it’s completely unrelated,” she says.
“It is not unrelated,” I bellow.
“Let’s just calm down,” Ursula soothes.
I deflate. “I’m doing all I can to get this issue sorted, trust me.”
Ursula smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m sure you are. But in the meantime, we’d like to ask that you don’t come into the office, use your emails or contact any MBW staff, and we’ll get the investigation underway as soon as possible. You can keep your laptop and phone for now, as you’ll possibly be required to do some handovers with the team in due course.”
Ursula glances at Madeline as if to say, we’re done here, and Madeline stands.
“Do you have a bathroom I can use?” Ursula says, and she pats her pregnant belly. “When I need to go, I need to go.” She fake-laughs to break the heightened tension.
“Sure.” I stand too and lead them to the hallway, pointing out the small downstairs loo to Ursula. She jumps in with a look of relief on her face.
Madeline and I are left in the hallway. Static hisses between us. She shifts closer to me, and the movement is like a spark. I twitch.
“Just so you know,” Madeline whispers, “you are as good as sacked, and your career is finished. But we have to go through the official procedures. You’ll never work in PR in Manchester again. I’ll make sure of that. Mental health breakdown or not, no one damages my standing or my business’ reputation. No one.”
I stare at her open-mouthed, but the toilet flushes, and Madeline moves to the front door and opens it while I’m frozen in place by the venom in my MD’s pronouncement.
A moment later, Ursula comes out of the toilet with a smile. “Ah, that’s better. Thank you, Lauren. You take care of yourself.”
Ursula sees Madeline by the door and follows her out. I watch them cross the road and get into Madeline’s sporty Mercedes, Ursula struggling to manoeuvre her unbalanced pregnant frame into the low seats, but getting zero assistance from Madeline. I almost dash out to help, but she manages it, and the instant she closes the car door, Madeline speeds away.
I shut the door and stand motionless in the hallway for what feels like forever.
Jenna has well and truly fucked up my job – and my career. Madeline will make good on her promise, that’s for sure. Years and years of hard work down the drain. Years of building up my professional reputation and network scratched out in an instant. I was just meant to be off work for a few days, and now I’m unemployed and unemployable.
Rock bottom.
It rankles that Madeline cut me loose without a second thought after all that I’ve done for her and her business. But, just like with Akshay, the evidence is damning. And that’s all Madeline can see right now.
I have to get to Jenna immediately. To get her to confess and to give me access to my accounts again, to admit to Akshay that it was her who produced that deepfake video and that I didn’t have an affair. To apologise to Toby and Dad and to write an email to Madeline to put her straight. And Jenna can bloody well face the music with the police for starting that fire.
When I finally move, everything goes fuzzy, and I grab the stair banister to stay upright. Holding onto the walls, I make my way into the kitchen for a glass of water and – although I’m not hungry – I force down a granola bar.
I need to be on form for what I’m about to do.
23
The light-headedness passes. I grab my bag, put on my coat and scarf, and find my car keys. I step out into the dreary day and close my front door, ensuring I double lock it. I walk the couple of steps onto the pavement and look up and down the road for my car, having completely forgotten where I parked it but knowing it won’t be far.
As I pause, a small group of people appear from nowhere and crowd around me, making me feel ever so slightly uncomfortable and blocking off every opportunity to escape apart from retreating back into my house.
“Excuse me,” a man says.
I look at him. He’s tall with tattoos on his neck and up the back of his head. He also has tattoos on his hands.
I glance around the others in the group before replying. Two more men and a woman. They all smile at me, but alarm bells blare as a sense of menace emanates from them. Perhaps they’re just lost? Or trying to sell me something for the house like new windows.
I smile tightly back, wanting to get this encounter over with as soon as possible so I can drive into the city centre and get to the department store. “Can I help you?”
“Are you Lauren Cohen?” asks another man. He’s smaller than the first, overweight and wrapped up against the cold in a red-and-white scarf that reads England and has the national flag on each end before the tassels.
“Forgive us,” the third man says and takes a step closer to me.
He has a skinhead and small squinty eyes that look a little too hard at me. I edge instinctively back towards my little front garden and closer to my front door. I still have my keys in my hand and clutch them tightly.
The skinhead continues, “It’s an honour to meet you is all, petal, and Adam ’ere has forgotten his manners.”
Confused, and a little threatened by their presence, I stay quiet, hoping this entire situation will become clear if they keep talking. I glance at the woman, who’s middle-aged and unremarkable, and she continues to smile at me, with what seems to be a look of awe.
Scarf guy says, “We’re from Our Pure Nation Now, or OPNN. Have you heard of us?”
I shake my head in the negative.
“Not surprising. We’ve done some digging and see you’re not affiliated to any group in particular. Which is why we’re here,” tattoo guy says.
Group? Affiliated?
Then skinhead pipes up. “There we go getting all ahead of ourselves again.” He laughs. “My name’s Terry. This is John, Adam, and Vanessa.” He points each out, but I immediately forget the names – I don’t have any desire to remember these people. I know immediately they are not my kind of people.
Skinhead continues, “OPNN is one hundred per cent on board with what you’ve been posting on Twitter. You’re so bold to just put it all out there, and we admire that. That one tweet that’s gone viral globally really struck a chord with us.”
Gone viral globally? Oh, crap. It has to be the same one Madeline mentioned.
Excitedly, tattoo guy adds, “We’d like to recruit you to OPNN, to be the poster girl for our next campaign. With your reach now, and your values aligning with ours, we know it’ll be the perfect fit. Our Manchester branch has a healthy number of members.”
“What do you say?” scarf guy asks.
I weigh my options. If I deny posting that content to my Twitter, what will these right-wing extremists – for that’s precisely what they are, I realise – do? They’re ever so slightly aggressive now, and they’re meant to be on my side. Instead I say, “How did you find out my address?”
“Ah, well, we have a number of IT whiz-kids in our group. It’s easy to find out things like that if you know where to look, petal,” skinhead replies.
A brief thought flickers across my mind: should I ask these people to help me to get back into my accounts? But I dismiss it as quickly as it appeared. I don’t want anything to do with them. Just being this close to them turns m
y stomach.
I anger. The nerve of them accosting me in front of my own house. “I think you need to leave. I am not, and never will be, interested in your group.”
Tattoo guy crosses his massive arms and frowns.
“Have you had any lefty freaks bother you yet?” scarf guy asks.
“What?”
“It’s just as easy for them to find out your information as it is for us,” skinhead says.
“That’s why you need us,” scarf guy adds.
I glimpse movement to my right and turn to see the woman with her phone up, either taking photos or a video of me. I put my arm up to cover my face as a shield.
“Stop that,” I say to her, but she doesn’t.
“You can’t put all that out there and not expect kickback,” tattoo guy says, and takes a step towards me.
He’s too close, invading my personal space, and my flight or fight mechanism kicks in. I take flight, straight back to my front door. I fumble with my keys, open the front door, curse that I’ve double locked it and finally get inside.
Before I close the door, I glance behind and see the four of them stood on the pavement, watching me, not coming onto my property but blocking my exit from it. It creeps me out, and I slam the door.
My heart hammers as I hear the letter box flap, and a business card drops on the mat. Then from outside the door, one of the men says, “That’s our number. We’re ’ere for you, Lauren Cohen. You can’t take on the world on your own, petal.”
I run up the stairs and lock myself into the bathroom as if that might offer me some extra protection. I obsessively wash my hands, attempting to scrub away all the grimy hatefulness that just standing near those people has drenched me with. I stop when the skin is red and stinging.
I sit on the bathmat, find my phone and look at my public Twitter account. It’s dreadful, truly. There are hundreds of tweets from my account spewing hateful rhetoric, spreading awful conspiracy theories and inciting ‘my people’ to commit acts of far-right terrorism. All of them using popular, unrelated hashtags to get more eyeballs on them.
