The Ones You Trust

by Caroline Overington

  Tuesday 13 October

  4:55 am

  ‘The one thing we’re all hoping for this morning is some kind of breakthrough . . . As time goes on, it becomes so much more difficult to keep hope alive . . .’

  Maven aimed the remote at the big screen TV in Emma’s living room. PJ was six hours into his marathon broadcast. His face had grown noticeably darker, and his eyes had grown weary, but his voice remained steady and calm.

  ‘He’s done an amazing job. And now it’s almost Cuppa time,’ Maven said, ‘he’s going to keep going right through the morning for you, Emma.’

  At Maven’s direction, Matty had rebranded the whole show. The Cuppa logo, the big rabbit, the grinning face of Gadget – they’d all been taken off-screen, and in their place was a simple blue set. Crisp, clean, serious.

  #FindFox!

  That was the hashtag they’d decided on for Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, and it was floating along the bottom of the screen, as well as superimposed over the Cuppa logo on the screens behind PJ’s desk. Maven watched as PJ straightened his tie. She’d given instructions that he not straighten it too much, and definitely not shave the five o’clock shadow. What was the point of going through the night if not to have PJ looking a touch dishevelled when Cuppa went to air?

  ‘He must be exhausted,’ she said. Turning to Emma, she added, ‘You look exhausted. Did you get any sleep?’

  ‘Sleep?’ said Emma, her tone incredulous. ‘My daughter is missing, Maven.’

  Maven made her sympathetic face. ‘I know, but we’re going to get her back, Emma. I have a good feeling.’ She turned back to the TV. ‘PJ looks good sitting at that desk,’ she said. ‘The point I wanted to make was, we’re all here for you, Emma.’

  Emma glanced at the screen. Was she meant to feel guilty about how good Stellar was being? Because she didn’t really care about Stellar at that moment. To Emma, it seemed as though they were throwing about the same resources at this story as they’d have thrown at any big news event – a raging bushfire, or a terrorist attack – so much so that even the rhythm of the coverage was familiar to her. It felt like one of the many big stories she had done in the past. They were doing live crosses to the police. They were running a ticker across the bottom of the screen. A press conference was planned. In any other circumstance, Emma would be the one on the desk, crossing live to the house, and she knew all the lines that she’d be expected to say: ‘This is still a terrifying situation for the family . . . There’s a huge police presence here at the house . . . Let’s hope they’re getting the support they need . . .’

  Except it was her house, her family, her friends affected by this, and the number of people that she knew and cared about who were absolutely beside themselves was growing all the time. The intercom had buzzed twice during the night. The first time, it had been Liam, who had come striding down the hallway in his size fourteen boots, saying, ‘Emma, what do you need?’

  The police hadn’t wanted to share what they had with him. They didn’t like private security, any more than anyone did. This wasn’t the place for vigilantes, trophy hunters, the enraged. In the absence of any direction from the police, Liam had taken up one of the dining chairs and positioned it in the hallway, facing the front door, and there he’d sat, bolt upright in his zip-up canvas jacket, as the hours ticked by.

  Two hours into his watch, the intercom had gone off a second time. Liam had stood up to examine the screen. The woman standing at the gate wasn’t anyone he recognised: she was well into her sixties, maybe early seventies; her hair was cut into a grey bob; she was wearing belted, moleskin trousers and a tucked chambray shirt, and newish Blundstone boots.

  Liam pressed the intercom. ‘Hello?’

  The woman at the gate said: ‘I’m Margaret Cardwell. I’m Emma’s mother.’

  ‘Do you have ID?’

  ‘Do I have what?’

  Emma had risen to her feet. ‘Liam, it’s my mum. Oh my God, she must have driven through the night.’

  It had taken Emma seven goes to reach her mum – she had, as Emma had predicted, been at a Country Women’s Film Club night – and there had been no indication that Margaret had intended to hang up the phone and head into the city. Nobody was more shocked than Emma, since the relationship between her and her mum was far from warm. Cuppa fans weren’t supposed to know that. Maven had done her best over many years to style the two of them as Proud Mum and Successful Daughter in a series of magazine features, but Maven knew the truth, which was that things were often tense.

  Do you have a broom, Emma? I’ll just sweep up these dead flies.

  That was the kind of thing Margaret was given to saying when she came to stay.

  I bought some new cockroach baits. The ones you have don’t seem to be working.

  I saw that new photograph of you on the side of a bus today! But why do they use such an unflattering picture? You’re normally so photogenic.

  She was worst on the subject of Brandon’s new role.

  ‘He’s going to be the house-husband?’ she said, after Emma had explained how Brandon had been given a package, and that he would take it, and stay home for a while. ‘That’s an interesting idea, I suppose.’

  Emma had known exactly where her mother was coming from: Margaret would be considered a classic Cuppa viewer – a bit older than the average Australian, and a bit more conservative than young people tended to be – and Emma’s decision to return to the Cuppa couch just six weeks after Hudson’s arrival had been a controversial one among some members of the Cuppa audience.

  Little babies needed their mothers.

  That had been the feedback from those among the audience who hadn’t approved. Maven, being Maven, had encouraged the controversy along, asking Emma to talk openly about her family’s circumstances, the drama of having to pump breastmilk during the commercial breaks. And then, because Maven was Maven, she’d also set PJ up to object to all the pumping going on backstage.

  ‘I don’t think people should do it at work,’ he said, during a notorious segment when Emma had come back to the couch, fixing her top button after pumping.

  ‘But why not?’ asked Emma. ‘Breast is best for baby, so either women give up breastfeeding or they give up work.’

  ‘Nobody’s saying women have to give up work forever,’ PJ said. ‘But do they have to come back to work while their babies still need them?’

  Emma had been furious. ‘Hang on a minute, are you saying I shouldn’t be here?’

  ‘I’m saying that in ideal circumstances, yes, a new mum should be home with her baby,’ said PJ. ‘Because you know what the science says, Emma. Breast is best but not from a bottle. A baby should be looking into his mother’s eyes when he’s feeding. Breastfeeding is a two-way thing and the mum has to show up for it.’

  Emma had placed both hands flat on the Cuppa desk. ‘I can’t believe you just said that. That is just . . . unbelievable . . .’

  The segment had gone off like a rocket on talkback radio, and in the glossy magazines.

  NASTY FEUD THREATENS CUPPA COUPLE!!!

  PJ TELLS EMMA: YOU SHOULD BE AT HOME.

  Emma had been distraught, mainly because the question of whether she should go back to work so soon had been a source of anxiety for her too, and Margaret had given her grief about it, even before Fox arrived. She’d said, ‘Well, Emma, maybe this is the time to ask yourself some questions.’

  They were standing in Emma’s kitchen as Emma tried to settle a sobbing Seal against her shoulder, while shaking a jealous Hudson off her leg. ‘What are you suggesting?’

  Margaret had looked down to examine the gold band on her wedding finger.

  ‘It may well be time to ask yourself whether you should be working quite so much when you have such small children,’ she said, turning the band on a lean finger.

  Emma, exhausted from sleepless nights and in pain from chewed nipples, said, ‘You think I should give up my career?’

  Margaret paused. ‘I know your care
er is important to you,’ she said carefully. ‘But honestly, Emma, you’re also a mother. What does the future look like? You’ve got nannies and au pairs and that’s fine, but how much are you prepared to miss?’

  ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this,’ said Emma, tearing up. ‘Did feminism ever happen for you, Mum? Weren’t you around in the 1970s?’

  Margaret scoffed. ‘Of course I was. Feminism has a lot to answer for. And I’m looking at what feminism has done for you, Emma. Yes, you have this wonderful job, but what about family life? Nobody believes this, but the childhood years, they go like this,’ she said, snapping her fingers. ‘And you’ll have missed it because you’re on TV, or you’re at this event, or that event. I realise it’s glamorous, but why not just let Brandon bring home the bacon?’

  ‘I want to work,’ said Emma. ‘That’s why I went to university. Are you asking me to stay home and make cookies?’

  Margaret turned her ring another full rotation around her finger. ‘I stayed home for many years when you were little,’ she said primly. ‘And before that, when Freya was little, I stayed home with her. And I’ve never regretted that time. Certainly I preferred it to having complete strangers raise my children.’

  Emma had been appalled, and she’d raised the debate, in a defensive way, during one of the post-show meetings at Stellar. Maven had shrugged and said Margaret was clearly old-fashioned, and why didn’t Emma share some of her mother’s musings with Cuppa’s audience?

  ‘The audience will be on your side,’ she said, but Emma had by then grown too wise to get sucked into one of Maven’s traps.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘She’s my mum. She means well.’

  And now here she was, coming up the hallway, having driven through the night to be with her daughter. She put her handbag on the coffee table, opened her arms and said, ‘Come and get a hug.’

  Emma fell into her embrace. ‘Oh Mum,’ she said.

  ‘There, there,’ said Margaret. ‘I came as soon as I could. I’m sure this is no more than a terrible misunderstanding. We’ll find her.’ Turning to Maven, she added, ‘I can see what’s happened. She’s had all these different nannies over the years, and . . .’

  ‘Mum, please,’ said Emma. ‘This isn’t anything to do with that. Somebody’s taken her.’

  ‘But why would anyone do that?’ asked Margaret.

  ‘The police just don’t know,’ said Emma. ‘This is Detective Franklin. He’s in charge. They’ve been trying to find Airlie.’

  Margaret extended a delicate hand.

  ‘Airlie?’ she said archly. ‘What on earth could this have to do with Airlie?’

  ‘I know! But they think it could be for the money, Mum.’

  ‘What money?’ said Margaret. ‘Has someone sent a ransom note?’

  ‘No, but Airlie has tried to get money out of us before—’

  ‘That was very different,’ Margaret interrupted. ‘Airlie’s a troubled young woman, but I doubt very much she would do something like this. How can you think that? Freya’s going to be furious that you suspected Airlie.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Brandon, ‘but we can’t find Freya, either.’

  ‘She’s having a little holiday,’ said Margaret. ‘She told me that. She said she was going away. She deserves a break. She hasn’t had a break for who knows how long. She isn’t like you: off here, there and everywhere.’

  Turning to Franklin, she said, ‘Freya’s not flush. She’s had a difficult time since her marriage ended. That is partly why Airlie is having a bad time, too. The divorce. And it’s been hard for Freya financially. She doesn’t have a job on TV like our Emma here. She works at Target.’

  ‘Fuck, that’s right,’ said Brandon.

  ‘Have I missed something?’ said Franklin, confused.

  ‘No,’ said Emma. ‘He means the Target where Freya works, it’s at Gallery Main Street. But Freya couldn’t possibly—’

  ‘Emma,’ said Franklin, interrupting impatiently, ‘I’ve said this before but let me say it again. You don’t decide what’s important, I decide what’s important. You’re a good person, Emma, I can see that. You trust everyone. But I trust no one. That’s why I’m in charge here. So can you please, please stop telling me who it can’t possibly be?’

  Tuesday 13 October

  5:40 am

  ‘The police need your assistance . . . They want anyone who thinks they have information that might assist to call this number . . .’

  ‘I need coffee.’

  Having turned up the volume on the TV to watch PJ, Maven now turned it down. A blonde minion – one of three Maven had called to the house without telling Franklin they were coming – rushed forward, saying, ‘I can do a coffee run. What kind of coffee can I get everyone?’

  ‘You are not heading out for coffee,’ Maven snapped. ‘It’s a zoo outside. There’s a machine over there. Christ, it’s one of those drip ones. American. Don’t tell me you don’t know how to use it. It won’t be rocket science. Figure it out. Emma, you need coffee. And we have to get you ready.’

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘For the press conference. It’s nearly 6 am. That’s about as early as we can do it, and have an impact. We want to get people before they head into work. We want to get the news playing on the radio. So you need hair and make-up,’ said Maven.

  ‘She doesn’t need to have her hair done,’ Franklin said gruffly. ‘She just needs to get miked up, so we’re ready to go.’

  Maven flicked the lid of her lighter back and forth. ‘The hair and make-up people are already outside,’ she said. ‘I was just about to let them in.’

  ‘Maven, will you fuck off?’

  Brandon had spun around on the spot, and spat the words in Maven’s direction. ‘I mean it,’ he repeated. ‘Can you really just fuck off?’

  Maven opened her cigarettey, pepperminty, red-lipsticked mouth as if to reply, but before she could get a word out, they heard a squeak from the doorway.

  Emma lifted her head. Her two boys had woken up. Emma had spent the longest, darkest hour of the night – between 3 and 4 am – curled up with them in Brandon’s bed. They had been restless and upset and she had hoped they would sleep long into the morning.

  But there had been no real chance of that, she could see that now. They were wide awake at the top of the stairs, anxiously awaiting a signal to be allowed to come down.

  ‘Come here,’ she said, opening her arms, and down they hurriedly stumbled.

  ‘Where is the nanny?’ Franklin said.

  ‘I’m here,’ said Lena, coming off the landing and down the stairs behind them. ‘I’m sorry, Emma. I just couldn’t keep them up here any longer.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Emma.

  ‘Did you find Fox?’ said Hudson.

  Emma plastered on her TV smile and rubbed his hair. ‘Not yet,’ she said confidently. ‘But we will. Definitely we will.’

  ‘Did somebody take her?’ asked Seal. ‘I want to see her. Why is Grandma here?’

  ‘Because I’ve been missing you! Come to me,’ said Margaret, hurriedly. ‘Come to Grandma, both of you. I’ve been missing you so much.’

  Brandon urged them on, saying, ‘Yes, go on, say hello to Grandma.’

  Hudson was reluctant to let Emma go, but Seal rushed towards Margaret and she came for Hudson, taking him by the hand, and leading him back to the kitchen.

  ‘I was thinking I could make my special Grandma porridge,’ she said. ‘Lena, why don’t you go home? You’ve been here all night. Liam, you should go home too. Everyone should get some sleep. There’s nothing for anyone to do here. Boys, come and sit up in the kitchen.’

  Hudson climbed onto a breakfast stool, and looked around the room, bug-eyed. ‘Look at all the police,’ he said. ‘Mummy?’

  Escaping from Margaret’s grip, he dove back into Emma’s arms, and she folded him in. He was so thin she could feel bumps along his spine, his hair still damp from sleep.

  ‘Come on now, you have to have your breakfa
st,’ insisted Margaret.

  Franklin shook his head. ‘No, no, no, they can’t be down here,’ he said. ‘We can’t let them get contaminated by what they see and hear down here.’

  ‘Contaminated?’ said Emma. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I need to get somebody with specialised training in to talk to them, ASAP. If they’ve got to have breakfast, your mum should feed them in another room. Not here, where they’re hearing everything.’

  Margaret packed one breakfast bowl into another, and put two spoons on top. ‘I can do that,’ she said. ‘Emma, you do what the police need you to do. Boys, come with me.’

  Emma released Hudson from her embrace, and guided him towards his grandma.

  ‘Listen, Emma,’ said Maven. ‘That sweet girl you met yesterday, Edie? She’s outside. She’s walking up your street. It was hard to park, but they’ve found a spot around the corner. She’s just going to brush your hair, okay? She’ll be here in a second. Two seconds. And Lisa’s coming too.’

  ‘Lisa?’ said Franklin. ‘Who’s Lisa?’

  ‘Wardrobe.’ Maven looked down at her iPad to avoid Franklin’s gaze.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘It’s to help Emma,’ said Maven. ‘They’re already here, Detective Franklin. They’re just outside. I have to bring Edie in. She’s pregnant. Very pregnant. I can’t leave her out there with the pack. How would that look?’

  ‘Tell her to go back to the car,’ said Franklin.

  ‘She’s had to walk the length of the street already. It’s cordoned off. She’ll need water,’ said Maven, as she strode off down the hallway.

  Franklin locked eyes with Panton, who shrugged and said, ‘Maybe let somebody brush her hair?’

  Maven opened the front door, and dragged Edie into the house. Lisa, laden with clothing bags, followed.

  ‘This is a circus,’ Franklin muttered.

  Edie’s face, as she came down the hall, was scarlet with embarrassment. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She smoothed a hand over her enormous stomach. ‘Maven told me to come. I said it’s not the best idea because . . .’