Emma moved swiftly from the doorway to the shoe wardrobe. She grabbed the first pair of beige pumps she could find, and thundered down the staircase.
Brandon called after her, ‘Em, wait.’
But Emma was in no mood to wait. And she had no time for a confrontation. She had a lunch to attend, a living to earn, even if her husband didn’t. She exited the house, pulling the front door firmly behind her. She made her way down the path and got into the back of the town car, where she immediately closed her eyes and leaned her head back on the tan leather headrest.
‘Let’s go. Just go,’ she said.
Liam pulled away from the kerb. The scene from the master suite kept playing in Emma’s mind. She opened her eyes and looked out the window.
Liam glanced at her curiously. ‘Everything still okay?’
‘Yes.’
Liam opened his mouth, as if wanting to say more, but closed it again, and drove on to the dreaded lunch, stopping only once at a set of lights to allow a painfully slow woman with an old dog to cross. Emma sat waiting, visions of her naked, humiliated husband in her head. She couldn’t figure out how she felt. On one hand, she wasn’t exactly blameless when it came to the problems in their marriage. Her hours were punishing. She was often not up for sex, and because they slept in separate beds, she was often not even there for sex. How long had it been since they’d had sex? Six months at least. So there was that, and also, since he’d been retrenched, Brandon had been responsible for almost all the heavy lifting with the children. The picking up and putting down. The washing and wiping and cleaning. He was a masculine kind of guy – a man’s man, from Texas for Christ’s sake – and those tasks didn’t sit easily with him. For the most part, he’d sucked it up, but obviously there had been a slight shift in the balance between them.
Emma was earning. He was not.
What had he told their marriage counsellor?
I’m just so bloody frustrated. She’s so busy. I feel like I’m in the marriage on my own.
How had she responded?
What am I supposed to do, Brandon? Quit work? Who pays the mortgage then?
Emma watched wistfully as the woman and her dog crossed over.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ said Liam, watching her.
‘Yes. I was just thinking I should get a dog,’ she said, as Liam pushed on. ‘The kids have always wanted one.’
Liam glanced at her in the rear-vision mirror. ‘I’ve got dogs,’ he said after a while.
‘You do?’
‘Chaos and Havoc.’
‘Chaos and Havoc?’
‘They’re guard dogs. I got them for Mum, because I’m out of the house early.’
‘That’s good of you,’ said Emma. She was about to go on when her phone vibrated. Brandon. Surely it would be Brandon, desperately calling, trying to apologise? But no.
It was a photograph of Fox-Piper, standing by the water table at her daycare centre, Crayon and Clay.
‘Oh!’ she said. Next came a message, in a green bubble.
Having a great time at the water table Mummy!
Of course, Fox hadn’t sent the message. She was too young for texting, although, as all the mums liked to joke, it won’t be long! The message had been sent by someone from Crayon and Clay’s staff. It was one of the things they did for every parent, every day.
‘It’s the daycare centre,’ said Emma, staring down at the image. ‘They’ve sent me a picture of Fox. She looks so happy.’
‘Of course she’s happy,’ said Liam. ‘You’re her mum.’
‘I’m not much of a mum though, am I? Working all the time and . . .’
‘Stop,’ said Liam, earnestly. ‘You’re a great mum. The best.’
Maven had arranged for this year’s Brushed Diamond lunch to be held in converted stables. A small group of photographers was milling around outside the front door. Emma recognised a few of them, chatting and smoking while they waited for her to arrive.
She told Liam, ‘I guess there’s no way around it. I have to go through the front door because otherwise they’ll say I’m avoiding them and then it will be all, “Emma trying to sneak in . . .”’
‘I’ll get as close to the door as I can.’
‘You’re a gem.’
Liam manoeuvred the car towards the stable doors. Emma reached into her tote and extracted her sunglasses. The paps, sensing that this was what they’d been waiting for, butted their cigarettes and lifted their cameras. Liam turned off the ignition and got out. He put a hand on Emma’s door and said, ‘Step back, please. Give Ms Cardwell some space.’
Emma waited for the door to be fully open before pivoting sideways with her knees together, so the paps couldn’t catch a glimpse of her Spanx.
‘Hello, everyone,’ she said brightly. ‘Are you all here to see me? That’s very nice of you. I can’t wait to get inside. I want to see these amazing Brushed Diamonds.’
Some of the paps shouted questions – ‘What did you think of the pictures, Emma? Is that an invasion of your privacy?’ – but she refused to take the bait. She waited for Liam to create some space around her and to guide her up to the door. She slipped inside and found the lunch room empty but for staff doing last-minute preparations. The guests must be in the ante-room next door, enjoying the welcome champagne.
Liam escorted Emma towards curtains at the back of the room, which gave way to a small space where she could wait in private, before venturing out for a round of hellos. There they found Maven, swiping through Instagram on an iPad with a crocodile-skin cover.
‘You’re here. Good. Just keep smiling. Don’t eat anything. And keep your back to the wall.’
Emma didn’t immediately get it, but then it hit her: so they can’t photograph your big porridge arse.
‘Right,’ she said.
‘I’ll be at the back of the room,’ said Liam, bowing a little as he slipped out through the curtain.
Emma peeked out to watch him go. She saw the room starting to fill with guests. She guessed that some would be special clients of Brushed Diamond, and some would be Cuppa fans who had won a competition to be there. Most would have seen the porridge pictures – they were all over the internet – but nobody was likely to say anything to her face because Cuppa’s audience were, as a rule, lovely people. She waited for the room to be about three-quarters seated, before taking a deep breath and making her way through the curtain. The crowd – it was mostly women, as it mostly was at these events – straightened in their chairs and looked her way. Emma made sure to keep smiling as she stopped at this table, then that, saying hello to people, before finding her own seat on Table One, next to the CEO of The Brushed Diamond Co.
‘Pete Hamstead,’ he said, standing and thrusting out a hand. ‘My wife’s a huge fan of yours, Emma.’ He gestured towards a woman standing nervously beside him, her earlobes heavy with Brushed Diamond merchandise.
‘Oh, thank you so much for saying that,’ said Emma. ‘I’m a big fan of your jewellery.’
Everyone shook hands. Emma was conscious as always of the fact that pretty much everyone would know more about her – how many kids she had, what she packed for their school lunches, and so on and so on – than she could ever know about them. She did her best to breach the gap, making small talk as everyone sat down. Order was called. An MC bounced onto the stage and went over the schedule. Pete Hamstead would speak first, lunch would be served, followed by a speech by the special guest – Emma Cardwell from Cuppa! – who would also draw the raffle.
Emma acknowledged the applause. Waiters marched out of the kitchen, and began circling the tables, saying, ‘Salmon, or vegetable pattie, salmon or vegetable pattie?’
‘Pattie,’ said Emma, not that it mattered. The paps had been locked outside, but everyone had a phone, and the last thing she needed was for somebody to post pictures of her stuffing food into her mouth. Pete got up to speak and sat down again. Emma chatted to Pete’s wife and others on the table, waved away the alcohol and the
bread. Then, at precisely 1:30 pm, she approached the lectern.
The crowd hushed.
Emma cleared her throat. She didn’t have PJ’s natural charisma but she’d got better at public speaking over the years on Cuppa. She started by delivering some of her favourite lines – how she was so happy to be there, because lunch at her house was usually party pies – and relaxed into the easy laughs. Then she said, ‘And I should probably address the elephant in the room . . . oh, whoops, that’s me!’
The audience laughed again, as Emma had known they would. The mean commentators on Facebook might not be on her side, but this crowd – mums like Emma, with bums on the large size – certainly was. She carried on with her speech, before inviting Pete Hamstead back to the stage, so they could draw the raffle together. She posed for a selfie with the winner, and Pete thanked her for coming as his wife presented her with flowers.
‘You did good,’ Maven said as Emma retreated from the room, back behind the curtain.
‘I’m exhausted,’ said Emma. ‘And I’ve still got a bloody “Cuppa Love” to do before I get to go home. A man who’s having his old dog put down.’
‘We’re doing a “Cuppa Love” about a dead dog?’ said Maven. ‘Did I approve this?’
‘You did. Remember you said it’s better than it sounds. The vet meets the owner at the beach, lets the dog run around, gives it a sausage and then the injection, so the dog gets a perfect last day.’
‘Now I remember,’ said Maven.
Emma waited for the last of her fans to file out, before heading into the carpark to try to find Liam, who was of course, right there, with the back passenger door open.
‘So I’ll take you back to Stellar,’ he asked, ‘and the crew will take you to the beach for the shoot?’
‘Yes. I have to get changed. They’re getting a new outfit ready for me. And they’ll take me there. The cameraman, and the make-up girls, probably. We’ll all go together. I’ll be fine.’
‘If you’re sure,’ said Liam, waiting as Emma slid inside. ‘You know I’ll stay with you if you want.’
‘No, I’m fine. Let’s just get this day over with. Let’s get on with the bloody show.’
Monday 12 October
7:30 pm
The old man and his soon-to-be-dead dog were already playing on Tamarama Beach when Emma and her crew arrived. The vet – a wiry guy in jeans and a white lab coat – was standing slightly to the side, preparing his poison needle.
‘That’s a bit creepy,’ whispered Emma to her cameraman, as he set about getting his gear ready. ‘Make sure you don’t get a shot of the dog actually dying. That would be gross.’
The cameraman nodded.
Emma fished in her handbag for a hand mirror. She had gotten changed for the third time that day, with the wardrobe girls insisting on loose, silky pants and a silk blouse, with pumps that were definitely going to sink a little in the sand. But Emma wasn’t worried about any of that. She was keen to get the shoot done, and get home. She was also keen to hear from Brandon.
He hadn’t called, not once, since she’d left him naked on the floor at the house.
She checked her phone again.
Still nothing.
What was he playing at?
She put the phone away, and introduced herself to the man, his dog, and the vet. She waited while the cameraman got some nice shots of the dog having what would be his final romp through the waves. She settled into one of two folding chairs, set up on the sand, for a tender interview with the dog’s owner, and with the vet, and she checked her phone again, while the vet took the dog away, in a blanket.
She had no missed calls.
How could that be?
Surely Brandon wanted to speak to her? How could he not want to speak to her? It made no sense, and it left Emma with no idea, really, what to expect when she finally walked through the door that night, but certainly not what she found, which was Brandon – her handsome, Texan husband – in the kitchen, wearing a red-spotted apron.
Emma looked around.
Brandon had dimmed the lights. Soft music was playing through the Sonos, but all else was quiet. The children weren’t hanging around the kitchen, or doing headstands in the living room, or hitting each other with pillows.
Emma placed her tote on the bench. Brandon turned to look at her.
He pushed a glass of red wine across the bench. Emma paused a beat before drawing the wine in her direction.
‘What’s all this?’ Emma said.
‘It’s my way of saying sorry.’
Emma took a small sip of the wine.
‘Where are the kids?’ she said.
‘The boys? I put them to bed. Did you put Fox down already?’
‘What?’ said Emma.
‘Fox? Did you put her to bed?’
Emma put her wine glass down.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked. ‘Didn’t you pick her up?’
Brandon had turned his back to slide the rib tray out of the oven. Now he turned back to Emma.
‘Didn’t I pick her up?’ he said.
‘Yes, from daycare.’
‘No.’ Brandon’s voice quickened, like something horrible was dawning on him. ‘Was I supposed to get her?’
‘Of course you were supposed to get her. I’ve been at work. The crew dropped me off. I told you that I was working late.’
Emma placed a hand on the kitchen bench, as if to steady herself.
‘Tell me this is a joke. Tell me you picked her up,’ she said. Her jaw was set, and she was straining to keep her voice steady. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t go.’
Brandon didn’t immediately answer. His mouth had dropped open. He put both hands over his face. ‘Fuck,’ he said.
‘You cannot be serious,’ said Emma.
She did not have to look at her watch to know that it was well after 8 pm, and she did not have to check a schedule to know that Fox’s daycare centre closed at 6 pm.
Dead on 6 pm.
How many times had they – had all the parents – been warned about that?
To our dear parents and carers, please remember, we close at 6 pm sharp! Please respect the fact that your Crayon and Clay carers have responsibilities outside the workplace!
Hands trembling, Emma lurched for her phone, causing it to clatter to the floor. ‘Fucking hell!’ she said.
She reached down to grab the phone and came up so fast she hit her head on the underside of the kitchen bench. ‘I can’t believe this,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘How could you be so stupid? They’re probably there, waiting for us! They’ve probably called child services!’
‘But I had no missed calls,’ said Brandon, angrily. ‘Why hasn’t anyone called?’
‘You must have missed the messages.’
‘I didn’t miss any messages, Emma,’ said Brandon. ‘I didn’t miss any calls.’
‘I called you three times today! You missed me.’
Having retrieved the phone, Emma raced quickly through her contacts. She found the number for Crayon and Clay and jammed the phone against her ear, listening as it began to ring.
‘Mummy?’
Emma spun around on the spot. Hudson must have heard the commotion in the kitchen. He was standing in the doorway, as lean as a bean in his pyjama pants, his rib cage prominent and his stomach sunken.
‘Mummy, where’s Fox?’ he asked.
He looked completely terrified, so much so that Emma could barely look at him.
‘Oh please, Hudson, Mummy has to talk on the phone,’ she said desperately. ‘Brandon, can you . . .?’
She turned away as she waited for her phone to connect with Crayon and Clay, but the call went straight to voicemail:
‘Hello and welcome to Crayon and Clay! We are sorry we can’t answer your call, but please know that we’re tending to YOUR children . . .’
‘Jesus. They’re not there.’ Emma turned to look at Brandon. ‘I can’t believe this,’ she said. ‘I have to go there.’
‘No, I just don’t get this,’ said Brandon. ‘Nobody has called me. They must have called Lena.’
‘But if they called Lena, she would have called us.’
Emma cried out, causing Hudson to burst into tears.
‘Oh Huddy,’ she said, moving in his direction. ‘Huddy, please don’t . . .’
Brandon said, ‘Let me call Lena . . .’
He went to take the phone from Emma, but she snatched it away and found the number for Lena. She didn’t bother with pleasantries.
‘Lena, it’s Emma, have you got Fox?’ she asked, as Brandon looked on. ‘No, he didn’t. We didn’t. You didn’t go by mistake? They didn’t call you?’
Emma dropped her hand, with the phone, down by her side. ‘She doesn’t have her.’
Hudson let out a cry. Brandon gathered him under an arm, saying, ‘Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s all right, it’s a mistake. My mistake. We’ll just go get her. All of us, let’s go.’
He began to move around the kitchen, turning the oven off, and gathering things, but Emma said, ‘No! I’m going there right now.’ She made for the side door that led downstairs to the garage.
Brandon grabbed her wrist. ‘No, wait! I’ll come with you.’
Emma, her tone furious, said, ‘The boys.’
‘Let’s grab the boys . . .’
‘Dad, where’s Fox?’ asked Hudson again.
Brandon turned back, and Emma used the moment to yank herself free of his grip. She went down the steps with the keys for the SUV in her hand, and got shakily behind the wheel. She threw the fob into the centre console and began to reverse the car, almost backing into the roller door as she went.
‘Jesus!’ she said, fumbling for the door remote.
Brandon shouted from the top of the stairs, ‘Emma! Emma, stop, wait.’
But Emma didn’t stop. She found the garage remote and pressed hard. The roller door went up, and she backed with haste into the narrow street, shoving her phone into the console and shouting at the Bluetooth screen, ‘Call the police . . . call the fucking police.’
The voice on her phone – Siri – came back: ‘Do you want me to call police?’
‘Yes, call the police. Call the police, now.’
The Ones You Trust Page 5
