The Ones You Trust Page 2

  Emma looked up, towards fluorescent lights on the ceiling. ‘And how long before you go on leave?’ she asked.

  ‘Six weeks.’

  ‘You must be excited. Some time off.’

  ‘I am, but we can’t really afford for me not to work,’ Edie said, leaning in with her brushes. ‘What I really don’t get is how people manage. It’s such a juggle, work and the baby . . . How do you do it?’

  ‘Well, I’m pretty lucky,’ said Emma. She opened her eyes and blinked at her reflection in the bulb-framed mirror, admiring Edie’s handiwork. ‘Both my boys are now at school. My little one has daycare a few days a week, today included. We have a nanny. And my husband, Brandon . . . he’s working from home at the moment.’

  ‘Okay, well, there’s no way my husband is going to stay home,’ said Edie.

  ‘Yeah, I know, I’m lucky,’ Emma repeated, and then she laughed, a little ruefully, before adding, ‘it makes things a bit easier. Although I don’t know that he feels that way.’

  ‘Well, good morning everyone!’

  Emma was still sitting with the cape around her neck and a few round brushes in her hair when Cuppa’s producer, Matty Enfield, came bounding in, wearing a cross-body satchel over a pink polo and mustard-coloured jeans, rolled to exposed his ankles.

  Emma glanced in the mirror, smiled and said good morning.

  ‘You look adorable,’ Matty said. ‘You’ve done a great job, Edie. It is Edie, isn’t it? She’s looking great. Which is good, because, while it breaks my heart to say this, I have some not so great news.’

  Emma raised her eyebrows. Matty had been her show’s producer for a touch over three years, and she had grown used to his penchant for melodrama. She could still remember the party that management had thrown on the rooftop terrace to welcome him. Emma had arrived to find the usual corporate cocktail party scene: waiters holding silver platters of Peking duck; men holding bottles of Crown Lager beers; women – lesser in number and lower in salary – quietly waving the food away. The Stellar Network boss, Jock Nelson, a man with a creased face and a crumpled suit, had taken her by the elbow and said, ‘Come meet your new producer. You’re going to love him.’

  Matty had seen her coming, and thrown his hand flat against his heart. ‘Oh my God, it’s Emma Cardwell,’ he’d said. ‘I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven.’

  Emma, startled by his youth, had blurted, ‘Goodness, how old are you?’

  It turned out that Matty had just turned twenty-four, but to Emma he looked eighteen. Baby-faced. That was the term.

  ‘I’m such a fan!’ he’d said. ‘And Emma, I want you to relax now. I’m going to save Cuppa!’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  Emma hadn’t been surprised to hear Matty say that, because everyone at that point had known that Cuppa was in trouble. The show had been a fixture of the Stellar schedule for twenty-two years – long before Emma had taken a seat on the couch – and for at least seventeen of those years, it had been unassailable at No. 1, prompting newspapers to write headlines such as: Morning cash cow! Can anyone steal Cuppa’s crown?

  Rival networks had tried a million times to knock it off, but they had always failed.

  But then, about eight years into Emma’s eleven-year run, the team from Saturn, across town, had launched a copycat show called Brew. Stellar’s team had derided the effort – Brew was such a rip-off! – but it had been going well for them, and everyone could see why. From the outset, Brew’s format had been so much fresher, plus one of their new hosts – Cassie Clay, a former winner of Make Me a Pop Star – had proven popular with younger audiences. And so the poor old producer of Cuppa had been fired, and Matty had been hired to try to find ways to make the show great again.

  Straightaway he’d organised focus groups – informal get-togethers of Cuppa viewers, plied with coffee and biscuits – to give him some honest feedback about the show.

  How often do you find yourself tuning into Cuppa these days compared to, say, five years ago?

  That was the kind of question he’d asked.

  What turns you off? What might make you turn back on?

  Emma had been a bit worried. What if the focus groups said it was she – now married, with three kids – and not the show, that seemed old and stale when compared to shiny Cassie on Brew? But the result had been interesting: Cuppa hadn’t gone stale, exactly, but it had become ‘too serious’ for some viewers.

  ‘What people are saying is there’s too much bad news on the show,’ Matty had said, as he scrolled through the feedback on his iPad. ‘People don’t want misery in the morning. They’re saying, “Why can’t Cuppa ever show any good news?”’

  Emma’s co-host, PJ Peterson, had grumbled, ‘We have to cover the news, Matty.’

  ‘Of course we do,’ Matty had cried. ‘But when something bad is happening . . . well, surely something good is happening too? We should commit to having at least one good news story on Cuppa every single hour we’re on air.’

  Emma had agreed. ‘I know with my friends, they share funny things on Facebook. They don’t share bad news. We should do more good news. We could even have a special segment, you know, so people know to look for it. Maybe even call it something special: “Your Daily Dose” . . . or “Cuppa Love”?’

  Matty had clapped his hands. ‘“Cuppa Love”! It’s perfect!!’

  He’d left the meeting immediately, promising to come back with a new logo and a dozen happy news stories to kick the segment off. He’d also wanted a bigger spray of flowers on the Cuppa coffee table, brighter ties for PJ, prettier dresses for Emma; lighter conversation between the hosts and guests on the couch; and more appearances from the giant Cash Rabbit, whose job it was to rush onto the stage and shower hard-luck guests with cash, while they pretended to be surprised.

  ‘Light banter between me and the Cash Rabbit?’ PJ had complained. ‘He’s mute.’

  The changes had come in but were they working?

  Matty pulled some rolled sheets of paper from his bag. ‘So here’s why I’m grumpy,’ he said. ‘Ratings shit-show.’

  Matty handed the pages to Emma, who unrolled them and flicked her eyes downward.

  ‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘This is terrible.’

  ‘I know,’ said Matty, his expression grim. ‘As of today, we’re officially number two. From what I’ve been able to find out, we haven’t been there since . . . well, since maybe never. And I don’t need to tell you what that means.’

  ‘No,’ said Emma. She knew how it worked: having a breakfast show at No. 2 in the ratings was a disaster. It would make it harder to get good guests, since everyone wanted to be on the No. 1 show, and it would make it harder to get people to give prizes away, since surely it was better to advertise to a bigger audience?

  ‘I’m just gutted,’ said Emma. ‘Maybe the viewers are sick of me.’

  ‘No, no, no.’ Matty snorted. ‘The viewers love you, Emma. They say that all the time. We love Emma! We love PJ! I have absolutely no idea what we’re doing wrong. Do you know what we need? We need something just to remind people we’re still here.’

  ‘Like that time Emma’s husband went crazy at the drone,’ said Edie.

  Emma glanced into the mirror. Edie had been standing with a round brush in her hand, waiting for Matty to stop talking so she could get to work with the dryer.

  Now she looked embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s not my business.’

  Emma said, ‘God no, it’s okay, just wow, don’t remind me.’

  Not that she needed reminding. Edie was referring to a famous – no, infamous incident, during which her mad Texan husband had gone absolutely wild at a local pap – paparazzi – who had invaded their privacy at home by sending a drone up over their backyard swimming pool.

  Emma had been pregnant with Fox at the time, and maybe because Fox was her third, she’d grown absolutely huge, and not just around the middle. She’d put on weight in her face, and her boobs – just wow! – and her ankles had e
xploded, prompting all kinds of gags and headlines:

  Planet Cardwell!

  Cuppa’s Emma’s Set to Burst!

  Emma and the publicity team from Cuppa had worked studiously to prevent too many awkward shots getting out, because who wants that when they’re feeling enormous? She’d taken the last four weeks of the pregnancy off, and she’d stocked her wardrobe with flowing caftans. In her final weeks, she’d avoided even some of the paid events she might normally have attended, which served only to make the paps more determined, stalking her at home.

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ!’

  Brandon had been flopping around with the boys in the pool when Emma heard him shout. Alarmed, she’d come waddling out of their house in her bikini bottoms and a coverall, asking, ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘What the fuck is that?’

  Emma put her hand up and squinted into the sun. ‘Oh my God. Is that a drone?’

  ‘It is a fucking drone,’ Brandon had confirmed. ‘Fucking hell! What if that thing falls in the water? The kids could get electrocuted!’

  ‘Can that happen?’ asked Emma, but Brandon wasn’t taking any chances. He’d pushed Seal and Hudson up and out of the water, both boys looking confused and distressed as their dad stormed wet and dripping into the house.

  ‘Wait, where are you going?’ asked Emma, but Brandon was already marching through the kitchen, down the concrete steps into the undercover garage.

  And when he came back, he was carrying a handgun.

  An actual handgun.

  It had been a gift from his father, and it was more a family heirloom than a weapon. But nonetheless Emma had shrieked as Brandon, still with water from the pool dripping off his firm body, had aimed the gun at the drone, as if he might shoot it from the sky.

  Which, for the paps, was gold.

  UNDER THE GUN! Emma Cardwell’s Texan husband GOES WILD.

  Within hours, the images were all over the internet. Emma had braced herself for the fallout from Stellar, but the first person to call was Jock’s right-hand woman and Stellar’s publicity queen, Maven, who had simply said, ‘Emma, The Scandal website is running photographs of somebody in your garden aiming a gun at a drone . . . please tell me it’s not Brandon.’

  ‘It’s Brandon,’ sighed Emma.

  ‘All right,’ said Maven. Her tone was controlled, calm. ‘Then please tell me the gun is fake.’

  ‘It’s not fake,’ said Emma. Instinctively, she scratched at Fox, still safe inside from the insanity that was her mother’s life. ‘It’s a family heirloom. He got it from his dad in Fort Worth; he was in law enforcement. But it’s legal. He has a licence.’

  Maven had paused, then said, ‘Okay. Well, I suppose I better do some damage control.’ Thinking about it for less than a minute, she’d continued, ‘Okay, we’re going to tackle this head on. We say nothing today, because you’re in shock. You’re also heavily pregnant. And just because you’re a star doesn’t mean you’re not entitled to some privacy. I will write a statement about that, and an apology about the gun, and you can read it live on air tomorrow, from the Cuppa couch.’

  Matty had been ecstatic when he’d heard. ‘It will be a ratings bonanza!’

  And it had been. Tens of thousands of people had tuned in to hear #EmmasExplanation.

  ‘I’m so very sorry about this,’ she’d said. ‘My husband is sorry too. He was terrified of what might happen if the drone fell in the pool. We are cooperating with the police investigation.’

  Maven had predicted a wave of viewer support and she had been right:

  ‘Good on you!’ viewers had commented on Cuppa’s Facebook page. ‘That is so dangerous! Sending a drone up over a pool!’ and ‘I would have pulled the trigger!’

  ‘This is just brilliant!’ Matty had cried, as he scrolled through Likes and Retweets and comments on his phone.

  Emma had untied the pink bow on the pretty shirt she’d been asked to wear to emphasise the fact that she was pregnant. ‘Okay, fabulous publicity,’ she agreed. ‘But Matty, what if something had happened to one of my children?’

  Matty had pouted a little, because going viral was the whole point of the game, and when it happened . . . well, even Emma had to admit to being a bit in the thrall of the strange, elevated, exalted feeling that came with being the centre of attention, and which everyone missed when it was gone.

  ‘Okay, of course,’ he’d said. ‘I just meant, how great would it be if we could get this kind of publicity every week? Provided, obviously, that nobody actually got hurt?’

  ‘And you’re done.’

  Edie put down the tall can of hairspray. Emma opened her eyes to look at her own reflection in the mirror. She had long understood that some people thought she wasn’t pretty enough for a job as co-host of Cuppa. A mean girl blogger once published a piece wondering how she got the gig in the first place, because surely it should have gone to somebody more glamorous? Emma had felt a bit upset. She had been dux of her country high school and she had worked hard to get High Distinctions at university and she had beat out plenty of competition to get a job at Stellar and she had never wanted to be known as the one who got ahead because of how she looked or worse, by batting her eyelids. But she was also realistic enough to know that looks mattered, and so she had also done her best, over the years, to bring herself up to morning TV standard: she’d had a touch of Botox; she’d had her teeth whitened and straightened; and she never stopped at least trying to keep the weight off.

  But still, Emma was always grateful for the efforts of make-up artists, and she was relieved when she saw the job Edie had done.

  ‘Wow. You’ve transformed me,’ she said.

  ‘You make it easy,’ Edie said modestly.

  ‘No, really. I can’t thank you enough.’

  Edie released Emma from the cape, her expression thrilled.

  Emma checked her watch. It wouldn’t yet be light outside, meaning her children should by rights still be sleeping, while she was due in Wardrobe. She shuffled down the hallway to the dressing room, where she opened the door to see what kind of outfit the wardrobe girls had left out for that day’s show. She sighed. It was a green dress – a colour Emma hated, not that she’d ever say so. It was not her job to choose clothes or hairstyles or shoes. It was her job to appear warm and friendly in the morning; to be well prepared for interviews; and it was the job of the women in Make-up and Wardrobe to make sure she looked the part.

  I know you hate it, but green – emerald green! – looks so good with your hair! So good on TV!

  Emma closed the door and got into the dress, sucking in her tummy to close the zip.

  ‘Okay,’ she said to herself, as she wriggled her feet into the heels that had been chosen for her. ‘It’s showtime, Emma Cardwell.’

  She put a deliberate swing in her step as she made her way down to the set. Whatever else was going on in her life, Emma knew that it was important to get herself into the mood – upbeat, chirpy, good morning everyone! – before she settled onto the couch to entertain the audience at home. She stepped through a soundproof door, and then carefully over thick cords that were taped to the black-painted floor. One of the floor managers was busy rolling the Cuppa couches – they were bolted to a platform – into place. Emma smiled hello to the two social media interns who were already sitting on the floor, laptops on their crossed legs, sending out the first of the morning’s tweets.

  Come and have a Cuppa with PJ and Emma! #Cuppa

  A sound technician, dressed head-to-toe in faded black, approached. ‘Ready?’ he asked, holding up a tiny microphone bud.

  ‘Ready,’ said Emma.

  He unzipped the back of her dress to fit a soundbox to her bra strap, before running the cord over her shoulder and out again, through her neckline.

  ‘Say something for me,’ he said.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Emma.

  ‘Say a bit more.’

  Emma said, ‘One, two, three . . .’

  The sound technician look
ed up to where Matty and his crew of assistant producers had taken up their positions in the control booth behind a panel of glass on the mezzanine. Matty gave the thumbs-up and the sound technician zipped Emma’s dress back up. She made her way across the floor towards the couch, where she checked her watch again.

  4:48 am. Twelve minutes to on air. Where the hell was PJ?

  She looked around for Matty and found him coming across the floor with a frown on his youthful face.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ she said.

  Matty went to shift the vase on the coffee table around, before putting it straight back down again, since it had been placed precisely for the cameras.

  ‘Okay, so, well, it seems PJ had a wild weekend,’ he said.

  Emma took a deep breath. ‘Please tell me he’s going to make it,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, yes, he’s on his way,’ said Matty. ‘He’s just called from the car. But he’s not in the best way, if I can put it that way.’

  So PJ was going to be late again. It had been happening more regularly, not that anyone ever castigated him for it. If there was one thing Emma understood, it was that while she, like every woman on earth, was expected to always be on time, and to never drop the ball, despite having three children, and a career, and a husband, and no wife; PJ was allowed to be unprepared, and sometimes unshaven, and very often late.

  At forty-four, Emma’s co-host was slightly older, plus PJ had never been married, styling himself as a lonesome bachelor still hoping to meet Miss Right one day.

  ‘There must be somebody for me, right, Emma? She’s got to be out there, surely?’

  ‘Of course. You just need to stand still long enough to let one of them catch you.’

  That was the kind of thing they said to each other on air. Privately, Emma knew that PJ was happy – deliriously happy – being single.

  PJ’s Pussy Posse.

  That was how Matty privately described the many women in PJ’s life, not that anything could ever be said on air. PJ could be single – Will this latest mystery woman be the one to steal his heart? – but nobody was supposed to know how often he slid onto the couch, reeking of alcohol and cigarettes, horrendously hung over, having been up to God knows what all night.