The Ones You Trust

by Caroline Overington

  It had taken Emma several goes before she’d been able to get PJ to agree to a farewell lunch. She’d called him three times before he’d finally called back, saying: ‘Sorry, sorry, my bad, yes, of course I want to see you before you go.’

  Now the date was upon them, the last in what had proven to be a series of drunken farewells Emma had been enjoying before her big move to London.

  She’d broken bread with Freya. Their mum had been right: she had taken herself off on a little holiday on the day of Fox’s disappearance, her first ever trip overseas.

  ‘But why didn’t you answer? We were calling and calling.’

  Because Freya had just figured it was Emma with another babysitting crisis, and she was well and truly sick of those. They vowed to never fall out like that again.

  Six hours later, police had also found Airlie, wasted on a mattress that had shifted off its base in an ice house in the back blocks of Surry Hills. She hadn’t been able to tell them how she’d got there, or even her own name, really. She’d lost her jeans, and was wearing tatty underpants, and somebody’s Miller shirt. It had taken half an hour for cops to find her phone – screen broken, battery dead – in the glove box of Denim’s car, three blocks away.

  And now she was turning a corner, with Emma’s help.

  There had been a boozy session with Maven, during which Emma, drunk on espresso martinis, had been persuaded to try a pink cigarette. She’d patched things up with her mum, who had moved temporarily into Emma’s house to help shield the children from the media in the weeks after the kidnapping.

  Margaret’s presence, in the downstairs bedroom with the ensuite, meant that Brandon and Emma were again sharing a bedroom.

  Now there was this. One last lunch.

  It took Emma a moment to find the restaurant Maven had chosen, hidden as it was behind a warehouse door in a funky laneway. She poked her head inside. The room was dominated by a communal table but Maven had booked a table for two in a dim corner. Emma had been dismayed to discover it was one of those places where one person – usually the first to arrive – gets to sit on the soft bench against the wall, while the other got the bentwood chair.

  Emma, being Emma, took the chair.

  PJ arrived fifteen minutes late, with a pink cashmere sweater draped over his shoulders. He kissed both of Emma’s cheeks and slid into the place she’d left for him. A waitress in a denim apron skipped over.

  ‘Hey PJ!’ she said. ‘I’ll bring some water. Sparkling or still?’

  ‘Tap is fine,’ said Emma.

  ‘Fair enough.’

  The waitress put the menus down – they were A3 size, with curling corners – along with a substantial wine list in a red-leather folder. PJ waited for her to skip away in her bright white sneakers before saying, ‘You never change. Tap water, because it’s free, right?’

  Emma laughed because PJ was right: even after a decade of earning good money, she was still reluctant to pay for water in a city where – as she so often pointed out – the tap water was fine. Reluctant even when she wouldn’t have to pay, since Jock Nelson had promised to pick up the tab for this lunch.

  ‘I just hate that feeling that everyone in this city is trying to shake the last cent out of you,’ Emma said.

  PJ picked up the wine menu, then put it down again.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not going to lie to you, PJ. I know you feel stuck at Cuppa and maybe wanted a posting, but London will be good for my family. It’s a chance to get away. We have to heal.’

  ‘And that’s the only reason I don’t hate you.’

  PJ picked up the menu, but put it straight down again. ‘I don’t even know why I’m looking. We’re having lamb. I come here all the time, and I only ever have the lamb. The chef owns a sheep farm. It’s all very biodynamic. You can watch the lamb you’re about to eat on Lamb-Cam.’

  ‘You can not. What is Lamb-Cam?’

  ‘Lamb-Cam is a camera focused on the lambs,’ said PJ as the waitress returned with the water glasses, and two complimentary glasses of pink champagne. ‘They’ve got them set up all around the paddock.’ He reached into his soft satchel on the bench beside him, saying: ‘I promise you, it’s like a scene from a cartoon. Lambs frolicking everywhere. Christ, where’s my phone?’

  ‘It’s okay. I don’t need to see the Lamb-Cam,’ said Emma. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

  ‘Okay, but it would make a good segment,’ said PJ. ‘I should tell Matty. Lamb-Cam. Our viewers would love that.’

  ‘I can’t believe this,’ said Emma. ‘You were never that organised when I was sitting beside you on the Cuppa couch.’

  She pushed the paper menus away, prompting the waitress to return.

  ‘We’re having the Lamb-Cam lamb,’ said PJ, taking charge. ‘And the zucchini flowers, with the honey drizzle. And you’re going to bring us a bottle of that new Pinot from Patrick the Llama. The Californian one. And chunky chips! Let’s not forget the chunky chips. You’re still doing them, aren’t you?’

  ‘You bet,’ said the waitress. She tapped with the base of her pencil against her hand-held ordering machine. ‘Now, let me read this back,’ she said, and did so.

  PJ said, ‘God, you make everything sound so good.’

  Emma shook her head, amused. She waited for the waitress to turn to the kitchen.

  ‘What are you smiling at?’ asked PJ.

  ‘Can you imagine if I flirted even half as much as you do?’

  ‘I wasn’t flirting,’ protested PJ.

  ‘Oh please.’

  They chatted on, tearing into bread when it arrived. The waitress poured wine.

  ‘Here’s another thing I’m suddenly able to do,’ said Emma. ‘Have a proper drink at lunch, without having to worry about how I’ll pull up tomorrow.’

  ‘It used to shit me how you were such a good girl,’ said PJ.

  ‘It used to shit me how you used to turn up drunk.’

  PJ laughed, and more of the tension melted. They shared the lamb, and more wine. Two bottles in, PJ said, ‘This is going to make me sound like a drunken idiot, but I want you to know, I admire you, Emma. The way you handled the whole thing with Fox. It must have been unreal.’

  Emma felt a crack in the mask she’d been forcing herself to wear around him.

  ‘I was trying to hold myself together for the boys. But on the inside, I wasn’t good,’ she said.

  ‘It’s okay for you to admit that, Emma.’

  She put her knife down. ‘I still worry about what it’s done to Fox. And also, how stupid can a person be? I trusted Liam. I literally trusted him with my life. You know, PJ, when I first realised Fox was missing . . . that moment . . . I can’t even tell you how that felt,’ she said. ‘The panic. That roaring feeling. I can’t even tell you what goes through your mind. The things you think . . . where could she be, and what is happening to her? I don’t ever want to feel like that again.’

  PJ reached out and put his hand over hers. ‘It’s over,’ he said firmly. ‘It can’t happen again.’

  ‘I know. But also, what am I going to tell Fox when she gets older? “Your father saved your life. But he also . . .”’

  She paused a second time, like she didn’t want to say those words.

  ‘And the worst thing is, with the internet, she’s going to know,’ Emma continued. ‘You can’t hide anything anymore. It’s all there, one Google search away.’

  PJ listened, then his eyebrows shot up. ‘Do you know what you could do?’ he said suddenly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You could change her name. I mean, Fox-Piper. That’s way too searchable. Give her a name like . . . Alice! What’s Brandon’s surname? Cole? Call her Alice Cole. She’ll be living in London. She might never make the connection.’

  Emma smiled. It wasn’t a totally terrible idea, but that didn’t make it a good idea either.

  ‘She’ll find out,’ she said. ‘And then what? It’s better that we face it. Change
our lives totally, sure, but not hide what happened. Because the truth comes out. Don’t you believe that, PJ? That the truth eventually comes out?’

  They gorged on petit fours, until finally it was time to go. PJ put his hand up for the bill.

  Emma made a sad face. ‘I’m so glad we did this,’ she said.

  ‘Me too.’

  PJ put his corporate credit card down. The waitress processed the bill at the table, and PJ left a hefty tip. He walked Emma to the door, each of them trying hard not to make drunken fools of themselves in front of the other diners.

  ‘Whose Uber do you think will get here first?’ asked PJ as they stepped into bright sunlight on the kerb.

  ‘It better be mine,’ said Emma. ‘I can barely stand.’

  ‘Let me hold you,’ said PJ. He put his arm around her waist, and suddenly leaned in a bit more, and gently kissed Emma’s cheek, and a flash went off.

  ‘Jesus, did you tell Maven we were here?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And she sent the paps.’ Emma laughed. ‘It’s okay. I’m glad we’re still close, PJ. Let them have a picture. Have you got your picture?’ she said to the paps. ‘Good. Now, here’s my Uber. Have I got my handbag? Yes. Here it is. Jesus, this was a big mistake.’

  ‘You just said it was a good idea,’ said PJ, laughing as he helped her into the car. Then he grew serious, and made the signal for her to wind down the window. ‘Wait, wait,’ he said. ‘Before you go, can you just wait?’

  Emma buzzed the window down, and tilted her head, her expression quizzical. From the front seat, the driver asked, ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,’ said PJ.

  ‘Are you going to kiss me again?’

  ‘No, no. I just want to say. You know your husband, Brandon? I just want to say that what he did . . . it was amazing. Because he really took care of things, didn’t he? I don’t know . . . what he did, it really solved the problem.’

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ said Emma. ‘I guess he did.’

  He was never late. One thing Emma had always loved about her driver, Liam Painter, was the fact that he was never late.

  Also, he was loyal. That was another thing that Emma had always loved about Liam. He had never been anything other than completely loyal. He had come to her immediately with PJ’s awful plan, and in his strange, emotionally constipated way, he’d told her all about it. Emma had barely been able to believe what she was hearing: PJ wanted to snatch her daughter, Fox-Piper, from daycare, not for the money – although they would split the money – but to create a ratings bonanza for the show, and to show off his skills as an anchor during a time of crisis, so he could get off the Cuppa couch and make it onto Investigate?

  Emma had been speechless.

  Her co-host, PJ – her friend – wanted to do what?

  But then, had they ever really been friends? Emma had been in the TV business long enough to know that if you wanted a friend, as they said, you should get a dog. There was no friendship between them. PJ had taken a seat on the Cuppa couch against his will, and now he couldn’t get off it. He was held in place by golden handcuffs. And that had been fine while Cuppa was No. 1, but now it was a failing show, and PJ was at risk of going down with it. Emma had easily been able to see what he’d been thinking: I need a seat on a rocket. I need something to propel myself off this shit show, into something else.

  ‘How does he intend to do it, Liam?’

  Liam had explained the plan, which had seemed so stupid at almost every turn to an experienced mum like Emma: Liam’s mum would collect Fox from daycare?

  What if she got stopped?

  She would call Liam, who would vouch for her.

  ‘And if they call me?’

  ‘You’d be on stage.’

  ‘Okay, fine, but I’m still going to know they called when I get my phone back.’

  ‘No, because if they call you, or if Mum gets stopped, we abort the plan. And then I tell you that we were just going to bring Fox to you as a surprise.’

  ‘And then I fire you,’ said Emma. ‘Because that is insane. Why would I want a driver who gets his mum to pick up my daughter from daycare in the middle of the day? Even to bring her to me. It’s creepy, Liam. That would freak me out. But go on. What happens if nobody says anything – and I really doubt that they’d let her go with just anyone, I mean, I know it can get crazy there, but still – your mum gets away with Fox?’

  Liam had tried to explain: his mum would take Fox home. She wouldn’t know anything about the plan, and Fox would be fine, obviously. PJ would anchor the coverage overnight. The ransom demand would arrive the next day. Jock Nelson would pay.

  Liam had said, ‘They don’t want to hurt her.’

  Emma had said, ‘They don’t want to hurt her?! She would be completely traumatised! And what about me, Liam? Do they care about me? That’s the kind of thing that sends a mother insane. Where is my baby? My God, he’s an animal.’

  ‘At the end of it, you get your daughter back.’

  ‘But how? How do they intend to get her back to me, Liam? Because the second I’d notice her missing I would call the police. I’d raise the roof. I’m not going to sit around waiting to pay a ransom, I’m going to have every person on earth looking for her. She’s my baby.’

  Liam nodded. ‘I know. But his plan is for me to deliver Fox to a girl that he knows, somebody who’s in on it. After the ransom gets paid, she takes Fox to a different location, and leaves her there.’

  ‘She leaves her where? In the street? By a road? Are they crazy?’

  ‘At the surf club in Bondi. In a pram. Because she’ll be safe strapped in a pram.’

  Emma’s head started to spin. She could visualise the scene: dozens of prams parked together. Fox in one of them, alone.

  Alone and crying.

  Ready to be kidnapped, assaulted, God knows what.

  ‘I know PJ hasn’t got kids, but that is just insane,’ Emma said. ‘You can’t just park a pram and walk away. What if Fox gets out? She can get out of a pram. And there’s CCTV everywhere these days. They’ll be seen.’

  ‘That’s why they’re thinking about the lifesaving club at Bondi. There’s a little row of shops there. The girl – PJ’s friend – puts on a big hat. She puts a sarong over the pram. It’s always crowded by the beach: tourists, lifeguards, people buying ice-cream. She can strap Fox in, park the pram and walk away.’

  Emma sat back, stunned. ‘You must be joking.’

  He wasn’t, of course. Liam didn’t joke. Not ever, and certainly not about this.

  ‘It’s madness,’ said Emma. Couldn’t they see how many things could go wrong? What if Fox started to cry when she was left alone in the pram? What if she started kicking the sarong? People would come and look to see what was happening. Some of them might recognise Fox as the little girl who was missing.

  Maybe they intended to leave her only after she had fallen asleep? In that case, they probably weren’t wrong about how much time they’d have: people would assume that the pram was empty if it was quiet, or else that Mum wasn’t far away if Fox started to make a fuss, and only if it went on for a while would they stop and look around, and eventually somebody might look under the sarong . . .

  But how could PJ even think of doing something like this?

  Emma thanked Liam for telling her. She asked him not to say anything to anyone while she tried to figure out what to do. Go to Maven? But what would happen then? She’d have to fire PJ, and what would become of Emma? They’d have to get rid of her, too. No way could the show survive such a scandal.

  Plus, the whole thing was so dangerous.

  Or was it?

  Emma’s own plan formed slowly. Looking back, she couldn’t quite believe the decision she’d made. Madness, just madness. She had asked Liam if he would be willing to go ahead with the plan. He hadn’t understood at first, and she’d had to spell it out: why shouldn’t Liam go ahead and get his mum to collect Fox f
rom daycare, just as PJ had asked him to do, and why shouldn’t Liam’s mum take Fox home, and why shouldn’t Liam send the ransom note, and why shouldn’t they get Jock Nelson to pay the million dollars?

  ‘And after the money gets paid . . .’

  ‘I call the police,’ said Liam.

  ‘No. I go and get Fox.’

  ‘You find Fox?’

  ‘I get the tip-off, yes. We don’t tell them the money has been paid, and then we get ahead of them.’

  Not once in his year-long assignment looking after Emma had Liam ever questioned her. But in that moment, he had looked surprised.

  ‘You actually want to do it? It means leaving Fox with my mum overnight,’ Liam said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And it means dropping her somewhere the next day where you can find her. She’ll be left alone, Emma.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but not for long. We’ll think of somewhere safe,’ said Emma. ‘And the main thing is, I’ll know she’s perfectly safe. PJ’s plan is horrible because I’ll be sitting there thinking somebody has got my baby and why? What are they going to do to her? Will I ever see her again? She will be completely traumatised. But if I know she’s with you, and your mum, it’s different. And I can go straight to where you drop her. And maybe you can be in the background somewhere, just making sure that nobody approaches her, or does anything. And we can be texting each other, so we know everything’s alright.’

  ‘Texting each other? What if the police get involved?’

  ‘We just have to be careful. As little communication as possible, just enough so we know it’s all going to plan.’

  Liam had gone quiet and Emma had for a moment thought he might refuse her, but he had ultimately agreed. Why? Because this was Emma asking, and Liam would have done anything for Emma.

  And then the plan had gone wrong. Of course it had, although not in any of the many ways that Emma had tried to predict.

  First, Brandon had forgotten to collect Fox.

  Thinking about it still made Emma’s head swim. He’d forgotten to get his daughter from daycare on the very day that she would not be there, leaving Emma waiting with a crew and an old dog at Tamarama Beach, feeling absolutely frantic as the six o’clock deadline for picking up children came and went, with no call from Brandon to say: ‘Hey, do you have Fox? She’s not here.’