‘They’re a pack of jackals.’
PJ was sitting forward in his ergonomic chair. He had his legs wide apart and his hands clasped in front of him. Emma turned in his direction, and was momentarily reminded of a segment they’d once done for Cuppa. ‘Man-spreading’ – the way men took up space on trains and on park benches, with their legs spread, like all the space in the world was for them.
That’s as bad as things get for men, she thought. Mild criticism for taking up too much room on the planet they dominated.
PJ loosened his tie, and stuck the corner of his thumbnail in his mouth. ‘It’s vile,’ he said. ‘Fuck ’em.’
He was trying to be kind. Emma knew that, but part of her still thought, Yes, okay, but it’s easy for you to say that. You’re not the one in the pictures. Nobody cares how fat you get.
Not that PJ was fat. PJ was fit, and that was because PJ didn’t have kids. And even if he did have kids, PJ would still make time to go to the gym. He would still make time on the weekends to play rugby or touch footy. Because that’s what men did. And what women didn’t do. What spare time Emma had, she wanted to spend – felt obliged to spend – with her children. Emma didn’t have much of an exercise routine, and that had been fine when she was maybe even five years younger. But The Snoop wasn’t wrong. She had gained weight while carrying Fox and she hadn’t lost it, and now here it was – her frumpy bum, her porridge thighs – on the internet. With comments.
‘I told you, fuck ’em!’ PJ repeated.
She glanced in his direction and her face softened. PJ could be a jackass. He’d been a jackass not fifteen minutes earlier with the spiralizer girl, but on the subject of Emma’s appearance – the pressure on her to stay thin, and never age, and always dress correctly – PJ had long been the good guy. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen her shamed. Not that long ago, they’d had a guest on Cuppa – a fashion designer – who had insulted Emma on set. A model had come out wearing a skin-tight white jumpsuit. Emma, half-joking, had said, ‘Ooooo . . . I might get myself one of those.’
The designer – Pierre? Pablo? She had blocked his name from her mind – had turned to her, and said, ‘Well, you really have to have a killer body to wear that. My designs . . . they’re probably not for someone like you.’
For the first time in her broadcasting career, Emma had been too stunned to speak. The camera had lingered on her shocked face. Mouth open. Eyes wide. Gadget, sitting to her left, had slapped a palm against his forehead. Even the mute Cash Rabbit had put his big head in his paws.
It was PJ who had come to her rescue. He had risen from the Cuppa couch and gone striding over to the designer, grasped the tiny black microphone off his lapel, and said, ‘You, out.’
The startled designer had said, ‘What are you doing? Don’t man-handle me!’
And that had become that thing that Cuppa loved so much – a meme, a viral trend – on social media: Don’t man-handle me!
PJ had pushed the guy right off the set, and he’d come back, head still full of steam, saying, ‘I am so sick of the pressure on women.’
Emma had been overcome by his kindness, and his willingness to leap to her defence. Of course she’d also noticed how it made him the hero of the day.
Emma handed the iPad back to the minion. ‘I’m going to take a minute,’ she said.
Matty leapt to his feet. ‘Do you want some water?’ he asked. ‘I can get some water for you.’
‘I’m okay.’
Emma picked up her tote, and left the meeting room. She returned to her dressing room where she locked the door behind her. She took her phone out and spoke to the screen. ‘Call Brandon’ and Siri replied, ‘Calling Brandon.’
She waited, but Brandon didn’t pick up.
Emma put her face in her hands. She was already dreading what Maven would surely soon be asking her to do.
Emma Cardwell hits back: don’t fat-shame me!
‘What we need,’ she’d say, ‘is a magazine spread, with you looking just gorgeous . . .’
She dialled Brandon’s number again. Nothing. She looked at her watch. It was midmorning. Where could he possibly be?
Emma took a deep breath and returned to the meeting room. Matty had obviously been looking at the porridge pictures in her absence – blowing them up on the screen with pinched fingers – because he quickly closed his iPad cover, looking a little sheepish.
‘Let’s just move on,’ Emma said. ‘We can think about how to handle it later.’
Matty looked at Maven, then at PJ, and they both shrugged.
‘Okay,’ said Matty. ‘Putting all that aside, we had an okay social media day today. A few people on Facebook were into the spiralizer. The tweet about the fridge that knows when you want beer, that got a few Likes. Nothing viral, but still okay.’
‘“Okay” means we did shit,’ said PJ. ‘“Okay” means we engaged with nobody.’
Matty ploughed on. ‘Well, tomorrow’s going to be better. Tomorrow, we’re doing a live cross, something YOU organised, with somebody called Cannonball . . . he’s a footballer, isn’t he?’
‘How can you not know Cannonball?’ PJ groaned.
Matty arched his eyebrows. ‘Well, excuse me,’ he said. ‘If you could just tell me why we are interviewing him?’
PJ stretched his legs out under the table, feet at right angles. ‘He’s being inducted into the football Hall of Fame,’ he said. ‘But he’s camera shy. He doesn’t want to be on for long. He’s only doing it because the league begged him.’
‘He doesn’t want to be on TV?’ said Matty, bewildered.
‘It’s not his bag,’ said PJ. ‘He was a freak with the ball, but he never got into the whole showbiz side of things.’
‘I don’t get that,’ said Matty. ‘What’s the point of even being famous if you don’t want to do anything?’
‘He sounds smart,’ said Emma, her tone wistful. ‘He does his job and stays out of the spotlight. He gets to have a life.’
‘Nobody gets to have a life these days,’ said Maven. ‘You move out of the twenty-four-hour media cycle, you might as well be dead.’
‘Okay, well, however long he’s on, that’s still a good segment for tomorrow,’ said Matty. ‘Old footballers I’ve never heard of usually do well. But what we really need is some kind of new promotion. A big reason to get people tuning in again every day.’
‘Cash prizes,’ said PJ.
Emma rolled her eyes.
Catching her, PJ said, ‘What?’
‘That’s the best we can do?’ said Emma. ‘Give people money to watch us?’
‘People like cash prizes. You have no idea.’
‘I have no idea?’
‘Oh, come on,’ said PJ. ‘Don’t be so up yourself.’
‘I’m up myself because I don’t want to pay people to watch us?’
‘It’s not paying people to watch us,’ said PJ.
‘Come on, guys,’ said Matty. ‘The last thing I need is the two of you snapping at each other.’
‘I know,’ said Emma. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just thinking, I’ve still go so much on today. A lunch. And a “Cuppa Love” shoot this evening. Christ.’
Matty said, ‘Eh?’
‘She’s got a sponsor do this afternoon.’ Maven removed a stale piece of nicotine gum from her mouth, and stuck it in an empty spot in the packet. ‘The Brushed Diamond people are unveiling their latest jewellery collection. Emma’s the guest of honour.’
Matty clapped his hands. ‘Oh, fabulous!’
‘Oh yes, fabulous. I’ve got to get up there and speak, with Porridge Cardwell all over The Snoop,’ said Emma. ‘Maybe I’ll pull out.’
‘You can’t pull out,’ said Maven. ‘They’re one of the only sponsors we’ve got left.’
Maven’s phone, face down on the table, began to vibrate. She turned it over and immediately rose from her seat. ‘I have to take this,’ she said.
She left the meeting room, taking five long strides down the corrido
r in her wide-legged pants, saying nothing until she was sure she was well out of Emma’s earshot.
‘Okay,’ she said finally.
‘Coast clear?’ asked Jock.
‘She’s seen the pictures,’ said Maven. ‘She’s pretty upset. She’s talking about cancelling the Brushed Diamond lunch.’
‘Yeah, well, she’s not doing that. And did you raise the other thing with her?’
‘Not yet. She was beside herself,’ said Maven.
Jock blasted back, ‘For Christ’s sake, Maven. Raise it with her! We can leverage this. I’ve had two weight-loss companies – not one, two! – on the phone this morning wanting to do the whole “Emma Cardwell losing weight” bullshit. It’s big dollars, Maven. And Christ knows, we need the money.’
‘Let me pick my moment.’
‘This is the moment,’ said Jock. ‘How often do we get a good bit of publicity?’
‘I’m not sure Emma thinks this is good.’
Jock guffawed. ‘My God, these stars are precious,’ he said. ‘They’re fucking snowflakes. Tell her to get over it. They don’t want people talking about them, but then when nobody’s talking about them, it’s all, “Why aren’t we going viral?” And who even gives a shit? So somebody said she’s fat. She is fat! How would she go if something truly fucking horrible happened?’
Emma left the post-show meeting conscious of everyone trying hard not to look at her. She opened the door to her dressing room, dumped her things, and got straight into her Sleep Pod.
Emma’s Nanna Nap.
Emma was famous at Stellar for having a little nap each day after the show. It was something she’d started doing after Hudson was born, mainly because she’d had no choice. Hudson had been a colicky baby. He’d keep her up all night, and by show’s end, she’d be falling asleep on the set, almost. No way could she get on the road. And so she’d started lying down on the little couch in her dressing room, but then the Sleep Pod – her dear, sweet Sleep Pod! – had arrived at the studio, courtesy of Gadget. Emma had immediately fallen in love with it. The Sleep Pod was egg-shaped, and it had a little pillow inside. She could stream her own music or she could choose from digital stations, or she could turn all the music off and just drift off, into the quiet.
It was just what she needed right now. She closed her eyes.
Porridge Cardwell.
The images came swimming in. She wanted to sleep, but she had a million things on her mind and she couldn’t manage it, and so lay quietly in the dark for an hour, waiting for the Sleep Pod alarm. She lifted the lid and headed out again, down to the Stellar dressing rooms, where a young stylist – another new girl, Lisa – stood waiting by a rolling rack of clothes.
‘God, look at you,’ said Emma.
Confused, Lisa said, ‘Sorry?’
Emma felt embarrassed. She hadn’t meant to say anything out loud, it was just, when did everyone get so young? Lisa had white-blonde hair cut into a bob at the front and shaved at the back. She wore a cream top with bell sleeves, a matching skirt that showed off her legs, and sexy tan ankle boots.
Emma stepped forward to introduce herself. ‘Okay, so I’m due at a lunch for the Brushed Diamond people. And I need a change of clothes for after lunch, for a “Cuppa Love” shoot we’re doing tonight. What would you like me to wear?’ she asked.
Lisa stood looking at Emma, then at the rack, then at Emma. Hand on chin, she said, ‘For the lunch . . . body-con?’
Emma grimaced. Body-con meant body-conscious, meaning cut tight, to emphasise Emma’s figure.
‘I know you know best,’ she said apologetically, ‘but can we do something a bit more forgiving? I don’t want to complain. I don’t know if you saw it, but . . .’
Lisa nodded, chin still in her hand. ‘I saw it,’ she said. ‘People are mean.’
‘Okay, so does it have to be tight?’ said Emma. ‘I have to sit down, and it’s a lunch, and the last thing I need is a bloated stomach sticking out.’
Lisa gave Emma a sympathetic look. She considered the dresses at their disposal, plucked one from the rack and held it up. It was pale pink, with a high halter neck and folds and pleats at the waist.
‘Try this,’ she said. ‘I’ll find a shoe.’
Emma took the dress and went behind a screen to wriggle into it. Lisa was right: it was perfect. Fitted at the waist, but flared over her hips and thighs.
‘I’m so grateful to you,’ she said.
Lisa smiled. ‘Okay, we need beige shoes.’
She fished around in the wire rack under the rolling wardrobe, finding a pair of beige pumps. But when Emma tried walking in them, the heel snapped off.
‘Everything’s going wrong today,’ she said. ‘What do we do now?’
Lisa gripped the heel of the other shoe and laughed. ‘We could break the other one off, and pretend they’re flats?’
‘I’d love to wear flats.’
‘Not with that dress.’
‘I know. It’s okay. I can just wear a black pair.’
‘Oh no,’ Lisa said gravely. ‘Not to lunch. Not with pink. Absolutely not.’
‘What else do we have?’
Lisa rooted around in the shoe rack. There was a pair of gold sling-backs she deemed ‘too Lady Gaga’, a pair of silver platforms – ‘too Mardi Gras’ – and pumps in an alligator print.
She sat back on her haunches. ‘How can we not have a single pair of acceptable shoes?’
‘It’s okay,’ said Emma. ‘I have beige pumps at home. I can swing by and pick them up. I’m a bit early anyway.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Okay. Well, you do that, and I’ll get your outfit for the shoot ready.’
She thanked Lisa again, and went out via Make-up, where Edie fluffed and sprayed her flattened-in-the-Sleep-Pod hair, and reapplied some lipstick. Emma pasted a big smile on her face as she went out through reception, and found Liam waiting by the car.
‘We have to do a little detour,’ Emma said.
Liam’s brow furrowed.
‘Everything okay?’ he said.
‘Yes, I just broke my shoe,’ said Emma, holding up what remained of the pump for Liam to see. ‘We need to go by the house so I can get a new pair. It won’t matter, will it?’
‘No, we have time.’
‘Great.’
Emma slid into the backseat and Liam closed her door. She fished her phone out of her tote and tried Brandon for the third time, and again got no answer. She glanced, then grimaced at Twitter and Facebook, checking her own mentions, and those of Cuppa. It was exactly as she knew it would be: one comment after another about how fat she was, or wasn’t, and whether it mattered anyway.
Emma Frump!
In defence of PORRIDGE.
She put the phone back into her tote, determined not to be affected, but took it straight back out again. She knew better than to keep checking – what good would it do? – but at the same time couldn’t resist.
‘Jesus,’ she said quietly, as she studied the storm of tweets.
‘Don’t do it.’
Emma looked up, startled. Liam was eyeing her in the rear-vision mirror. Her face flushed.
‘Don’t do what? Oh! You’ve seen the pictures.’ She shook her head. ‘Of course you have. Everyone’s seen them.’ She folded the cover over her phone, and closed her hands over it. ‘You’re right. I won’t look. I refuse to let them get to me.’
Liam eased the town car into Emma’s tight street and pulled up near her front gate. He went to unclip his seatbelt, but Emma said, ‘No, it’s fine. I won’t be a second.’
She went up the path to her front porch, and pressed some numbers on the keypad – the code for the front door was a combination of the children’s birthdays – then pushed with both palms to let herself in. She began to climb the staircase in the foyer.
‘Brandon?’
No answer.
Keeping her hand on the balustrade, Emma made her way up to the second level,
towards the master suite and her shoe wardrobe. There was a portrait of her family on the wall, about halfway up the stairs. It had been taken on a bright blue day on Bondi Beach. They had all been asked to wear white T-shirts and denim jeans – even Fox, still only a baby, so her jeans had come with elastic in the back. The idea had been to capture the beauty of Sydney and the joy of family, and Emma absolutely hated the portrait because she’d had a shocking fight with Brandon earlier that day. He’d been on the verge of being retrenched, and hadn’t felt like playing happy families. So whenever Emma looked at the portrait, she always felt everyone could tell that her smile, and his, were plastered on.
Three-quarters of the way up the stairs, she called out a second time, ‘Hello?’
No response.
Emma crossed the landing and pushed on the bedroom door. The master suite was as exactly as she’d last seen it. The bed resembled a prop from the bedding section of an expensive department store: high and soft, with pillows in different sizes and a quilted cover. There was an occasional chair in the corner, with a silk throw, arranged artfully.
And there was Brandon.
He was sitting on the floor, side on to the door, completely naked, staring intently at an iPad. Emma could see the screen perfectly from where she was standing, and there was no doubt as to what he was watching.
Pornography.
Thinking about it later, Emma would remember exactly what the couple on the screen were doing, and she would remember how Brandon had looked like a monkey. A pale monkey, lean, with a light covering of dark body hair, because his back was curved, his knees were up, his eyes were screwed shut, and his hand was busy. It took a moment, but eventually he looked up and saw Emma standing with one hand on the doorknob. He leapt to his feet and covered himself with the iPad, but it was facing out and playing on.
For a moment, Emma said nothing.
Then: ‘Are you kidding me?’
The Ones You Trust Page 4
