‘Yes, let’s go from the top.’
‘I leave the house really early,’ Emma said. ‘I’m on air at 5 am. That’s five days a week. Anyone who knows me is going to know that. I go to Hair and Make-up first. There was a new girl in the make-up room . . . that was something different. The girl who did my face, I hadn’t seen her before. Edie? She was very pregnant . . .’
‘Stop,’ said Franklin. ‘Do you have a last name?’
‘Maven will know. She was very, very pregnant. About to burst pregnant. She did a good job. There was no problem.’
‘We need her name,’ said Franklin. ‘What next?’
Emma went over the details: from Hair and Make-up to Wardrobe, to the set, to the post-show meeting.
‘That was pretty ugly,’ she said. ‘Somebody papped me – meaning they took pictures of me on the weekend, on the beach, looking fat. The Snoop had them . . .’
‘Who took the pictures?’
‘We could find out. Most paps these days are freelance. The websites have to pay them for the pix.’ Emma sighed. ‘I don’t even care. I just want to get my daughter home.’
‘No, but those paps, they must know something about your movements? To get pictures of you on the beach? You don’t tell them where you’re going to be, I take it?’
‘No . . . I don’t know, they stalk you, I suppose.’
‘I want the names of these guys,’ Franklin said to Panton, who had come back into the room. ‘Go on,’ he urged Emma, ‘what happened next?’
‘I had a nap at work. Again, that’s normal for me. It’s a long day if I don’t. I had an event in the afternoon. The Brushed Diamond lunch, where I was the guest speaker. I went straight there from work . . .’
‘No.’
Franklin looked up from his notes. Brandon had appeared in the office doorway.
‘No, what?’ asked Franklin.
‘No, that’s not right,’ said Brandon. ‘You came home, Emma.’
Emma looked momentarily confused. Then her face changed, like she’d remembered something she wished she hadn’t, and she said, ‘Oh! Okay. Yes. I came home. But only for a second.’
‘You came home this afternoon?’ asked Franklin. ‘In the day?’
Emma paused a beat. ‘Yes, but only for a second. I broke the heel on my shoe. I came home for a new pair.’
Franklin looked from Brandon to Emma, and back again. He watched carefully, but Emma did not look at Brandon. She was holding her hands flat on her lap and Franklin noticed her fingers tighten against her knees.
‘I just got a different pair of shoes, and I left again,’ she said.
‘What time was that?’
‘I guess just after twelve o’clock? I had to get to the lunch and I just ran in on the way there.’
‘And Brandon was here?’ asked Franklin.
Emma closed her eyes. One beat passed. Then two. Finally, she said, ‘Yes, Brandon was home.’
Franklin turned to Brandon. ‘You spoke to each other?’
Emma said, ‘No,’ but in the same beat, Brandon said, ‘Yes.’
Franklin looked at them each a second time. ‘You did, or you didn’t?’
‘Only briefly,’ said Emma. ‘I went upstairs, and I got my shoes, and I rushed out again.’
Emma and Brandon glanced at each other briefly. Franklin caught the exchange.
Okay, he thought. Something did happen in this house today, and they are lying about it.
‘So you know, we have found a staff member who says that a woman did come for Fox today.’
Brandon had composed himself and stared now at Franklin.
‘You’re telling me now? Who was it?’
‘We don’t know. We’re getting a description. It’s going to help. I was asking Emma to go over her day to try to figure out . . .’
‘No, wait. I want to know more. Who came for Fox? Was it at the right time? At one?’
‘I hear your questions and I’m going to get answers. I don’t have them yet. I need to do this. Anything the two of you might know that can help us. Emma came home, picked up her shoes, went out again,’ said Franklin. ‘What next?’
‘I went to the lunch,’ said Emma, rubbing her forehead like her head was spinning. ‘Maven will have the details, the address, all that. I sat with the CEO of the Brushed Diamond Company.’
‘And then?’
‘I had a “Cuppa Love” shoot on Tamarama Beach. I got a lift home with the crew. I got home around eight, and that was when I found out Fox wasn’t here.’
Franklin tapped his pen against his notepad. ‘Okay, and besides popping in here, did you call Brandon at any point today?’
‘Yes,’ said Emma. ‘I called him from work a couple of times, to talk about those pictures I told you about. I called him from the car, when I was on my way to get my shoes. He didn’t pick up.’
Franklin made a note. He had taken Emma’s phone, and Brandon’s, and diverted both to Triple 0 where dedicated operators were standing by ready to handle calls coming in from friends, family, God knows who else, but also – more urgently and critically – in case the ransom demand came in. He’d done the same with their iPads and he had their Facebook accounts open on Panton’s iPad, in case the demand came in there. At some point – soon – the forensic technology team would start looking at their data: who had these guys called that day, and when, and why, and what explanation did they have for each of their calls?
But not yet. There was a child missing. If taken by strangers, she urgently had to be found.
‘Did you leave a voicemail?’ Franklin asked Emma. ‘Send a text? Remind him about picking up Fox?’
She shook her head. ‘I should have,’ she said. ‘I usually do, but . . .’ She trailed off.
‘This is not your fault, Em,’ said Brandon. ‘I should have remembered.’
Franklin turned to look at him. ‘And you say you didn’t.’
Brandon’s jaw tightened. ‘I don’t say I didn’t,’ he said, ‘I forgot. And I can’t explain it. It’s just what happened.’
Franklin tapped his pen against the notepad again. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But maybe you can help me understand how it happened? How does somebody forget to pick their daughter up from daycare? Because Brandon, that is bothering me.’
Never in his life, or not since grade school anyway, had Brandon ever set an alarm to wake him in the morning. In the old days – BK, before kids – his habit had been to wake at 6 am and hit the gym, a habit he’d kept up even after moving to Australia and getting married.
Then Hudson had come along and he’d been colicky and they’d been lucky to get a few hours of sleep a night. And then Seal arrived, and that meant two kids under three, and then, just when it was getting easier again, Emma announced a third pregnancy . . .
Fox-Mox. Their happy little accident. Their massive surprise.
Christ. When had Brandon last slept in? Not for years. Definitely not that morning because Fox had as usual risen with the dawn. He’d watched her for a while on the monitor, thinking about how insane it was that this was his life now.
House-husband. Full-time dad. What the actual hell?
He’d heaved a great sigh, rolled out of bed, went downstairs to her room and lifted Fox out of her cot. Her nappy had been heavy, and when he’d changed it, her poo had been green. He remembered thinking, I should take a photo and send it to Emma.
Maybe you’re having a shitty day? Check out mine.
But he hadn’t taken a picture. He’d buttoned Fox back into her duck-patterned pyjamas and carried her on his hip to the kitchen, where he strapped her into the high chair, and set the breakfast bowls out. He’d put some frozen apple puree in the microwave. His boys had come out of their rooms, wearing only their pyjama bottoms – or in Seal’s case, his undies – rubbing sleep from their eyes. He’d prepared their breakfast and their lunchboxes – Vegemite sandwiches, a squeezy yoghurt, a drink box – and he’d said hello to Lena when she came through the front door, to help
Fox out of her pyjamas and into her tulle skirt and her purple stockings and her yellow gumboots then waved the lot of them goodbye.
Only then had he made himself some coffee.
By 9 am, he was in his home office, checking his Facebook page, and Twitter, and the overnight markets: New York, London and Hong Kong.
‘You work from home?’ asked Franklin, scribbling. ‘Trading?’
‘Right. I used to work in finance. I finished up a year ago.’
Franklin glanced up, just as Brandon clenched one of his fists. He quickly relaxed it again, stretching out his fingers in an exaggerated motion. He was conscious of Franklin keeping an eye on his movements. He didn’t want to look like he was under pressure.
‘There was a downsizing,’ he said.
‘You were retrenched?’ asked Franklin.
‘You could put it like that.’
Brandon wasn’t stupid. He knew where this conversation was headed. Franklin was trying to figure out whether they were under financial pressure. Obviously they had a lot of stuff – a big house with a pool and fancy furniture – but what did that prove? Brandon had been around finance and TV and showbiz long enough to know it proved nothing.
‘Also, we just decided – Emma and me – that I should maybe take some time out. Because we’d been doing that thing where we were both working crazy hours, and we had nannies coming and going and . . .’
Brandon didn’t finish the sentence. What could he say?
‘And it was just insane?’
‘And the juggle nearly broke us up?’
How was that this guy’s business?
‘Okay,’ Franklin said. ‘But just so I understand, Emma’s at work at the moment, and you’re not?’
‘Right. But that’s just this year.’
‘Okay, and how does that work? The nanny comes and helps in the morning and you pick up the kids from school and daycare or wherever they are?’
Brandon sighed deeply. ‘It depends on the day,’ he said. ‘Lena comes most mornings to get the boys to school, and sometimes she takes Fox to daycare. Sometimes she brings the boys home, sometimes I get them.’
‘Is there a schedule pinned up anywhere? Is your schedule something people know?’
‘I don’t see how. I know, Emma knows, Lena knows. Daycare knows. The school knows. Okay, people know. But it moves around a bit, depending on who’s got to be where.’
‘Okay, go on.’
‘I did a few hours on the computer. We’ve got a gym in the basement. I worked out for a while.’
‘Why does this even matter?’ interrupted Emma. ‘Brandon didn’t collect Fox. He’s already told you he forgot to go.’
Franklin turned to look at her. ‘You asked me to clear your husband,’ he said. ‘I’m trying to do that.’
Franklin wanted to know when Brandon had finished in the gym and what he’d done next. Brandon’s fist clenched again. What was he supposed to say: I went upstairs, and got the iPad out . . . and Emma walked in, and then she stormed out, and I was left sitting there on my bare arse thinking, shit, shit, shit.
No way was he going to say that.
‘Emma said she called you a couple of times but you didn’t answer?’ said Franklin.
‘Right.’
‘Just didn’t hear the phone?’
‘I guess not.’
‘And you weren’t expecting her to drop home?’
No, obviously not. Because otherwise I wouldn’t have been caught red-handed . . .
‘No,’ said Brandon.
‘So after the gym, after doing your trades, you’re at home here, waiting for your nanny to bring the kids home?’
Brandon didn’t respond. Franklin wasn’t the type to give much away but Brandon knew pretty well what he was thinking because how many times had people said to him, You lucky bastard. I wish my wife would go to work so I could stay home!
And how many of those arseholes had spent any time looking after their kids? Mashing up pumpkins and bananas, and wiping down the high chair for the five-thousandth time?
Like, none.
How had he even ended up in that position? House-husband. Brandon hated the term. He liked to dance around it – I took a package; I’m taking some time out – but that was his reality, and everyone still said, Whoa, lucky you!
Yeah, he thought, lucky me.
How had it happened? Logically, he knew: Cuppa had sent Emma to Los Angeles to cover the Oscars, and she had been standing on the red carpet in a floor-length, ruby-red dress, adjusting her earpiece for a live cross, when Brandon, in a cowboy hat with a boot lace for a tie, had wandered into her shot.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, could you please . . .’
Brandon had cocked his head, and asked, ‘Australian?’
‘Yes, but . . .’ Emma nodded towards the TV camera. ‘I’m about to go live.’
Brandon had moved out of the shot but he’d kept an eye on Emma, with her upswept hair, and he tracked her down at one of the after-parties at the Sunset Towers, whispering ‘Hello, Australia’ in her ear. They had got talking. Emma wanted to know what Brandon was even doing at the Oscars. Was he an actor? No. He had at that point in his life been in a band – a cowboy rock band – and while he was single, their lead singer was dating an up-and-coming actress, Nadine Perez.
Yes, that Nadine Perez.
Nadine had been invited to attend the Oscars. This was ages before she would herself be nominated. She invited all her boyfriend’s bandmates to strut the carpet with her. Brandon had expected to see a whole lot of Hollywood wankers, but – this was what he’d told Emma – he hadn’t expected to meet such a pretty Australian.
‘You’re flirting with me,’ said Emma.
‘I am. I love your accent. I’d love to come down under one day. But you’ve got so many things that kill you, right? I have a friend, he went to Mel-born . . .’
‘It’s Melbourne. Not Mel-born. Mel-bun.’
‘Bun like hamburger bun?’
‘Yes!’ Emma was laughing. ‘Yes, hamburger bun.’
It had ended up being one of those nights. The sex had been surprisingly good – really good – for a drunken one-night stand. They’d kept talking through the night. She’d given Brandon an email address, and they had done the long-distance thing for a while – flirty messages and dirty phone calls and oh my God I need to see you – and Brandon planned a visit. And fair enough, Emma had warned him about her job, but it wasn’t until he started going places with her that he really understood, she’s a bit famous. She would get stopped. The first time it happened, he’d thought, Whoa. But it was actually kind of cool, and they ended up having a brilliant time, taking a surf lesson in Bondi, and sleeping out at Taronga Zoo, dining beneath the glowing bridge while yachts bobbed on the water.
Two days in, Brandon realised, Shit, I’m falling for this one.
Emma fell, too. But what could they do about it? They lived thousands of miles apart.
It was Maven who encouraged Emma to start thinking about marriage.
‘If you want two children by the time you’re forty, then you need to be pregnant with the second one at thirty-eight,’ she’d said. ‘That means you need to be pregnant with the first one by the time you’re thirty-six, which means getting married at thirty-three, which means meeting the person you’re going to marry by the age of thirty. How old are you now?’
Emma? She was thirty.
‘Then he’s the one,’ Maven said. ‘You’ve run out of time. Get it done.’
Emma protested: ‘We haven’t even talked about it, Maven.’
Yet somehow things were already in motion, with Maven taking care of visa issues, and later in control of everything. The white-painted church. The reception with the rustic cowboy theme. The waiters in denim overalls and straw hats, serving French champagne. The tin ice buckets, with ice and Budweiser. The Kombi with the pop-out windscreen to whisk the happy couple away.
Our Perfect Day.
That had been the headlin
e on the magazine spread.
‘Done her way,’ Brandon had said irritably.
‘That’s just Maven,’ said Emma, as she flicked through the pages. ‘She’s always trying to get as much publicity as she can for Cuppa.’
‘Right, but how do you feel about it?’
‘I can’t really avoid it.’
Which had proven true, because next thing Emma was pregnant and there was Maven again, with Our Baby Joy! It had been the same with Seal – Another boy for Cuppa’s Emma! – which had been about the point that Brandon had thought, okay, great. Two kids, that will do us. Fantastic. Now let’s see what we want to do, where we want to go, with the rest of our lives.
But no. Because Fox had come along. And he’d been retrenched. He’d been looking around for work but in the meantime, he was the one at home. Cooking and cleaning. Running after kids.
‘So, I guess after Emma left the house, I went on the computer, and it was pretty shitty. She’d been papped,’ said Brandon.
Emma’s porridge!
Frumpy Cardwell!
‘It was vicious stuff, and even if we’re used to it – those guys are always following Emma round – I thought maybe I should do something for her, you know?’
‘Go on,’ said Franklin.
‘Right, so Emma loves ribs,’ said Brandon. ‘Not sticky Korean barbecue or whatever, but proper Texan half-racks. They’re not easy to make. You’ve got to get the right cut. There’s a butcher I know who does them.’
‘Okay.’
‘So I went and got ribs. I came home. There’s a lot of work in getting ribs right. Doing the rub, I guess I was at that for at least an hour.’
Franklin kept scribbling. ‘And then?’
‘Right, so I was here – I was in the kitchen – when Lena came in with the boys. They finish school at three. So this would have been after three, maybe three-thirty, and she’s in and out, because Mondays Lena gets away early for her Book Club.’
‘Okay,’ said Franklin. ‘And you normally go and get your daughter?’
‘Yes. It’s a bit of a mess when Emma can’t do it because it means I have to take the boys with me.’
‘Did Lena remind you?’
Brandon paused.
The Ones You Trust Page 12
