Again, Jock had tried to kybosh it. ‘Bunny the cabaret singer? With the beehive? How old is she, Maven? I swear I saw her in a silent film.’
‘You did not see her in a silent film. Trust me, Jock. “Come and have a Cuppa with Brian and Bunny.” That’s going to be our catchphrase.’
And it had worked. For years and years, Brian and Bunny had reigned supreme on the Cuppa couch, raking in ratings and advertising dollars, making Stellar – and all of its executives – rich. Then one terrible morning after nearly eleven years on the couch, Brian calmly worked his teeth out of his mouth and placed them on the Cuppa coffee table.
‘What the fuck is he doing?’
Jock had as usual been watching from home, propped up alone in his king-size bed, when he saw it happen, and he’d at first assumed that Brian was playing some kind of joke. But no, Brian just kept sitting there, cheeks sunken, confused. The producer – not Matty, he hadn’t yet been hired – had cut to an urgent break, and Jock had called Maven, who had assured him that it would all be fine, and she’d explain when they both got in.
‘Okay, now we’re in,’ Jock had said, when they kicked back in the boardroom that day. ‘So tell me, Maven, why was my host sitting there holding his teeth like they were some kind of biscuit?’
‘Dementia.’
Maven had spoken calmly. They’d all noticed that Brian’s doddering had grown worse over time, but because he’d always been part of Cuppa and because Cuppa was so successful, everyone had been madly looking the other way, hoping it would somehow come good. It hadn’t come good. They would have to get him off the couch, but how?
Jock was prone to a panic but Maven had said, ‘Calm down, Jock. We only need to last until Christmas, then we’ll do a nice retirement special. We’ll get the Prime Minister to do a live cross – My morning Cuppa won’t be the same without you, Brian! – and we’ll do the big balloon drop, and then we’ll hustle him into a nursing home.’
‘Obviously,’ said Jock. ‘But who the fuck is going to replace him?’
Maven hadn’t even paused: ‘PJ Peterson.’
Jock would never admit it now, but he’d been stunned.
‘Oh, come on, Maven! Pretty Boy Peterson? This is a guy who keeps the visor down so he can look at himself in the mirror while he’s driving. He’s a complete dickhead.’
‘The ladies love him, Jock,’ Maven said. ‘You’re forgetting the interview he did with Dolly Parton when he was on Stellar at Six. He had her blushing like a schoolgirl.’
‘Dolly liked him?’ Jock replied uncertainly.
‘Women like him. I’m not counting myself.’
‘No kidding,’ said Jock drily. ‘Okay, try him. Test him. But what about Bunny? She’s going to sit with that beehive thing on her head next to PJ Peterson? She’s old enough to be his mother.’ Thinking, he added, ‘In some towns, his grandmother!’ and guffawed.
‘No, that won’t work,’ said Maven. ‘She’ll have to go, too.’
‘She’ll break our balls if we try to axe her because of what Brian’s done. Why did he have to go and lose his marbles? Selfish prick.’
‘Bunny will be fine.’
Maven said so, because she knew so: Bunny was old school, an entertainment professional, somebody who understood that when your time was up, well . . . it was up. And so it had proved. Bunny had poked her head around the door of Maven’s office after reading the gossip about her impending demise in the newspaper – Maven had of course planted the gossip – and said, ‘You could have told me in person.’
Maven had felt a twinge. Just the one.
‘I put an extra zero on the end of the cheque,’ she said.
‘I should think so.’
Bunny sauntered in, taking a seat and a cigarette. She was only tiny and in Maven’s view, she’d had way too much plastic surgery, and her regular lipstick – what was it? Avon frosted pink or something? – was too bright. But she was a good egg.
‘Who’s replacing me?’ she’d asked.
Maven had shrugged because at that point, Jock was still testing some of the pretty reporters and weather girls from the Stellar newsroom. Maven’s intention had been to let him go through the motions – none of those women were mumsy enough for Cuppa – before saying, ‘Why don’t we try Emma Cardwell?’
‘Who?’
That had been Jock’s reaction.
‘You know, the one whose boyfriend got run over by a truck.’
Jock’s wild eyebrows had shot straight up. Emma wasn’t one of the stand-out pretty girls at Stellar. She was a good, solid reporter, hired by a newsroom boss who had got tired of the bubbleheads and gone looking for actual talent. Which wasn’t to say she was ugly. Emma was pretty, but not bimbo-pretty. There was a touch of shyness about her that people liked. She wasn’t related to anyone at Stellar, which was unusual for a young woman in the newsroom, which ran on nepotism like cars ran on petrol. But that was not the best of it. The best of it, as far as Maven was concerned, was that Emma had already suffered through a gut-wrenching personal crisis that had endeared her to viewers. It had happened about a year into her tenure at Stellar. An old boyfriend, Heath Somebody-or-other, someone Emma had been dating since high school and dragged up from the country to live with her after she’d landed the job at Stellar, had been killed while riding his racing bike to the building site where he worked.
Emma hadn’t been on the desk reading the news when the story had come in, but she had been in the newsroom, and she’d seen it on the monitor, and collapsed against a desk.
Maven had swung into action, arranging for Emma to be chauffeured to the hospital where Heath had been taken for surgery. He didn’t make it. Maven had then arranged to get Heath’s parents up from the country, and for the return of his body to Orange for the funeral. She had paid for a large floral tribute to go on the coffin, and for the caterers at the funeral home.
Then, when Emma had returned to town, Maven had personally called in on her, in the little flat she’d shared with Heath.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
Maven had been taken aback by Emma’s sweetness in her grief, and while Emma was busy with the mugs and teabags in her tiny kitchen, Maven had picked up a photograph of Heath – all blond shaggy hair and one discoloured front tooth – and said, ‘Christ, he was handsome.’
Emma had burst into tears.
Alarmed, Maven said, ‘Okay, okay, let me help.’ She took the cups from Emma and put them down on the coffee table.
‘We should smoke,’ she said. ‘Do you smoke? No? Well, I’ll smoke for both of us.’
Maven took up her position on the tiny balcony, extracting one of her special coloured cigarettes from a gold case. Standing with one buckled loafer inside and one outside the apartment, she rolled out her plan for Emma’s return to Stellar.
‘I wanted to come and tell you personally how much we are all looking forward to having you back in the office,’ she said. ‘I want you to know that you have Stellar’s complete support as you deal with this. And also . . .’
Maven paused, taking time to look for somewhere to butt her cigarette. Finding a window box with red geraniums, she went on. ‘Emma, I have to tell you, I’ve had a request from a magazine. They’d like to know if you’re prepared to talk about . . .’
She paused again, having forgotten Heath’s name.
‘About your fiancé. How he’s been taken away from you. A hit and run! Nobody stepping up to take responsibility. It’s just terrible.’
Maven finished digging the coloured butt into the flower pot, before continuing. ‘I think it’s important for you to speak up. The aggression that we’re seeing on the roads shouldn’t go unpunished. How would you feel about doing an interview with a women’s magazine? I’ve been shielding you from all the requests, but if you would like to talk about . . . your fiancé . . . by which I mean, if you think it might help . . .’
She waited. Finally, Emma replied, ‘But what am I supposed to say?’
‘You simply tell the truth,’ said Maven, her tone reassuring. ‘That he was the love of your life and you’re devastated. Because that will honour his memory. And obviously, we need you to sit down for a little bit of a make-over, because we’ll want you to look nice.’
Emma hadn’t immediately agreed, but with a little more prompting – ‘Those lovely people from the magazine, they’ve been on the phone again’ – she’d relented, and viewers had responded with oceans of sympathy for her plight:
Oh, the poor thing, so young.
She seems absolutely heartbroken.
Maven had seized the day, encouraging Emma to return to the office – ‘As soon as you feel up to it, of course’ – so that Stellar might capitalise on the good publicity. And the timing couldn’t have been more fortuitous because, just three days after Emma’s no-fuss return to the office, the ‘One Black Day’ bushfires had broken out. The newsroom boss, Eric, sent Emma and a crew out to the scene to get footage of the aftermath. They drove for hours under blackened skies, and upon arrival in a small ghost town, they’d encountered empty streets and charred buildings. Emma had been about to do her first live cross, explaining how the livestock was destroyed and the townsfolk had all fled, when a soot-covered family – a mum, a dad and a small boy – had come stumbling down the main street.
Emma’s cameraman had heaved his camera onto his shoulder, saying, ‘Go, go.’
A nervous Emma took off down the street, in her bright yellow fire jacket with the word MEDIA on the back, reaching the family just as the exhausted boy fell face first onto the road. Dropping to her knees, she dug into her deep pocket and pulled out a water bottle, and held the boy by the back of his sooty head and poured water directly into his mouth, causing him to splutter and cough, all of it caught on film.
‘Thank God for you,’ the mum said. ‘You’ve saved us.’
If the viewers had loved Emma before One Black Day, they loved her even more after, and the effect of her actions had lingered. Even before Cuppa, focus groups always spoke warmly of Emma, when shown her photograph:
Oh yes, I really like her. She’s a really decent person.
She’s not like a normal reporter. She really helped that family.
Isn’t she the one whose boyfriend got hit by a car? Or crossing the road?
God, yes. How long ago was that? Anyway, it’s nice to see her working. She’s got a lovely smile. Did she ever find anyone new?
Maven had long toyed with the idea of putting Emma on the Cuppa couch, and now a spot had come up – but would Emma want to take it? In Maven’s experience, TV reporters could be a tiny bit precious about what they wanted to do. Maven had gotten fierce resistance from Brian when she’d first tried to put him on the couch, because would Walter Cronkite do that? Like he was Walter Cronkite. She’d gotten resistance from PJ, who had done a couple of celebrity interviews and a couple of live crosses from a couple of war zones, and now thought he deserved a gig on Investigate.
Emma had a journalism degree, which to Maven signalled that she was probably waiting to break the next Watergate, too. Not that the apparent loathing of fame ever lasted. They’d get a taste – Oh my God, I can’t believe it’s you! – and before she knew it, she’d have an ego-monster on her hands, demanding more money and a car space closer to the entrance. But all Emma said was, ‘I’ll do whatever Stellar needs me to do, Maven. I’m really grateful for everything you’ve done for me.’
She was a smash hit with viewers from day one. Not only that, she had proven so easy to deal with, especially compared to some of the other divas – weather girls, weekend newsreaders – in Maven’s life. Emma had never complained having to do meet-and-greets with advertisers. She was always on time. She did what Hair and Make-up told her. She wasn’t a snob about having to go out and meet the public.
PJ on the other hand . . .
Maven had lost count of the number of calls she had taken from PJ late at night when he was drunk, or even in the early hours:
‘Maven, mate, Maven, listen, I’m sorry about this, but . . . I think I’ve just been photographed falling out of a taxi.’
Or:
‘I just got this last-minute invitation to go with these footballers and we kind of ended up at a strip club . . .’
But when Maven’s mobile phone started ringing shortly after 10 pm that Monday, 12 October, it wasn’t PJ. It was Emma. Maven saw the letters EC on her screen, and immediately picked up.
In her gravelly voice, she said, ‘Emma?’
She heard a gasping sound.
‘Emma?’ she repeated.
‘Maven?’
‘Yes, Emma. It’s me. Tell me what’s happened.’
‘Maven, it’s Fox. Somebody has taken Fox.’
‘What? Who’s taken Fox?’
‘I don’t know, Maven. I don’t know. From daycare. The police are here.’
Maven rose from the sofa. She’d kicked off her patent flats on arriving home and her red-painted toenails were buried deep in her silk rug.
‘Okay, Emma,’ she said. ‘Are you at home? I’m going to take it that you are at home. You said the police are there, Emma? I’m on my way. Twelve minutes. No, ten. I’m on my way. Ten minutes, I’ll be there.’
She hung up the phone, and picked up her cigarettes. She lit one, dragged back long and deep and – as she always did at the beginning of a network crisis – thought to herself, Okay, we’re on.
She stepped into her dressing room, where she shoved her wide feet into flat shoes. She took another puff of the cigarette, gulped the last of the wine from her goblet, switched off the widescreen, and went down the sleek, steel elevator into the underground garage. She strode out, beeping the locks on her Humvee while lighting another cigarette, climbed into the front seat, pressed a button to turn on the engine, and tapped a screen on the dash.
The garage door went up and the Bluetooth kicked in.
‘Call Jock,’ said Maven, and the Humvee complied.
Monday 12 October
10:15 pm
‘This is not one of those cases that police can afford to muck up . . . They’re going to want to get this right . . .’
‘What do you want, you old boiler? Don’t tell me, PJ’s puked on a stripper?’
Jock Nelson was nestled into a cream leather, TV-watching armchair with the footrest up and a Crown Lager tucked into the armrest when Maven’s call came in.
She didn’t muck around. ‘One of Emma’s kids is lost,’ she said.
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Jock, thrusting his spare hand into the popcorn bowl on his lap. ‘How many has she got now? That woman is forever on maternity leave.’
Maven was negotiating traffic with one hand, while dragging back on her cigarette with the other. ‘This is serious, Jock. She’s just called. She’s hysterical.’
Jock released the popcorn. ‘What are you talking about?’ he said, wiping his hand on his TV pants. ‘You mean the kid’s actually lost? How old is it?’
‘It’s the baby. Fox-Piper. She’s not a baby anymore. She’s coming up for eighteen months. All I know is what Emma told me: somebody’s taken it from daycare. Fuck. I’m sorry. Fuck that. Fuck this. I’m in traffic. The cops are there. I’m on my way. I’m going to put you in touch with Emma, okay? As soon as I get there, or as soon as the cops let me see her. And you’re going to say the network is behind her and no expense spared and all that shit. Okay? You’ll have media trying to reach you. Don’t speak to anyone.’
Jock lowered his footrest. ‘But is the kid all right?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know, Jock. I told you everything I know.’
‘I’ve lost track of how many there are.’
‘Three. Two boys – Hudson, Seal – and the little girl, Fox. And somebody’s got Fox.’
‘Somebody’s got Fox.’ Jock bit the inside of his lip as he repeated Maven’s words. ‘Jesus. Who would do that?’
‘I have no idea. But if she’s called the cops, it’s going to be all
over the police scanners. Paps are going to swarm. Let me get off so I can call the newsroom. We’re going to need to get a crew there ourselves.’
‘But call me when you get there?’
‘Of course.’
Jock watched the phone go blank. Emma’s kid was missing? That was bloody awful. A newsman all his life, of course he wanted to tell someone straightaway. He wondered whether to call his wife. Jock had been married a few times, and his current wife – his fourth wife, as the media insisted on calling her – didn’t much care for Stellar, and less for his obsession with the station. She spent part of the year at their apartment in Monaco. He wondered what time it was there, and whether he could call her for a chat, but decided no, because she’d probably be shopping. And anyway, Jock’s work – your stars and their dramas – bored her to tears.
Monday 12 October
10:25 pm
‘We don’t yet know what they want . . . Is it money? Because police don’t like paying ransoms, so there is going to be some tension there . . .’
Maven guided her Humvee into a vacant space in Emma’s congested street. She butted her cigarette in an ashtray overflowing with coloured butts, sprayed peppermint into her mouth, strode up to the gate, and pressed the intercom.
‘Yes?’
The voice was not one Maven recognised. ‘Maven here,’ she said.
‘Who?’
‘It’s Maven,’ said Emma, her voice audible over the speaker.
‘Do I let her in?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry. I just need her here.’
Maven waited impatiently for the click, pushed the gate, and came striding up the hallway, pant-legs swinging. She barely paused to acknowledge the police before setting her sights on Emma, who rose unsteadily from the sofa, allowing Maven to take her shoulders in a firm grip. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Enough worrying. There’s obviously been some kind of mix-up. We will find her and get her home tonight.’ Turning to survey the room, she asked: ‘Who’s in charge?’
Emma nodded in Franklin’s direction, saying, ‘This is Detective Paul Franklin. He’s CIB.’
The Ones You Trust Page 10
