4
Mack burst through the studio airlock like he was accepting the Gold Logie. ‘Big day, big rig, big smile, let’s go get ’em, big guy,’ he chanted to himself as he spread out on his seat like he owned the place.
Blake had waved her off with a grin. ‘I’ll tell you on air. Live reveal, maximum impact.’ They’d barely spoken after that. Blake was still furious about the date, but she knew her audience would eat it up.
The studio smelt like burnt toast and air freshener from the overnight cleaners. Someone had left the heating on all night, and now everything felt sticky despite the morning chill outside.
Sam gave her a nod. Mack radiated anticipation.
As the show opener rolled, Sam adjusted the faders with practised ease. The familiar audio sting filled Blake’s headphones, that burst of energy that always made her sit up straighter, even after eleven years: It’s the Mack and Blake Show.
Mack spoke first. ‘You’re waking up with Mack and Blake in the Morning. It’s 6.03 and our girl Blake is looking fresh. I was really hoping for a pasta-covered walk of shame situation this morning.’
Blake responded, ‘Clean shirt. Clean conscience.’
If only that were true. Her skin still crawled with the memory of the night before, that particular itch of humiliation that no amount of showering could wash off.
Her stomach had been in knots since she’d bolted from the bar.
He’d tried calling her twice last night.
He’d sent half a dozen texts since then.
She hadn’t opened a single one. Just turned the phone over, face down, like a guilty verdict.
Why had she agreed to Chels giving him her personal number?
Mack continued, ‘So you didn’t stay the night? Rude to all of us who sent you on that date.’
Blake shot back, ‘You mean the date you orchestrated around my inability to coordinate food to mouth when it comes to pasta?’
She forced a smirk. If she could keep the rhythm, the audience wouldn’t hear the catch in her throat. This was what she did: packaged her disasters into three- to seven-minute segments. This was breakfast radio.
Mack: ‘Knead Me Pasta Nights. Inspired stuff. I told Chelsea it had a Michelin-star sexual innuendo. She disagreed. She was clearly wrong.’
Blake: ‘Let’s just say it was a five-star date, right up until the moment it imploded.’
Her phone buzzed on the desk, the vibration travelling through the particleboard. Her heart kicked once in response.
Mack clocked it—because Mack clocked everything that was potential content.
He snatched the phone up with theatrical glee, squinting at the screen like it might deliver headlines.
‘Fettuccine Guy calling. Again. He’s persistent.’
Of course he was calling. He hadn’t expected to be outed, not like this, not live, not by the woman who’d been ready to go home with him. Part of her wanted to answer, just to hear what creative excuse he’d manufacture. But no. This was not his platform. Not anymore.
Blake turned the phone face down.
‘Actually, let’s open it up. Later this morning, on fourteen-sixteen-twelve, I want to know: when have you sent a text to the wrong person? Because after what was nearly a perfect date last night, I received a message meant for someone else. And let’s just say…it changed things.’
No need to get specific yet. Just the tease. Let the audience lean in. Let them fill in the blanks until she was ready to hand over the whole story.
Mack: ‘This is juicy. I live for this. So I’m guessing you didn’t get laid?’
Blake: ‘Kids in the car, mate. And no, for your information, I did not.’
She glanced at Sam. He was already watching her.
Not judging. Just there. Solid. And for one strange second, she felt the urge to thank him.
Their eyes met. A flicker of something unspoken passed between them as he slammed the button and the ON AIR light dulled, and the ads rolled in with their familiar assault of jingles and half-shouted prices.
Blake peeled off her headphones, and the sudden quiet was almost too loud after the constant chatter.
She rubbed a hand across the back of her neck, working out a knot that’d been tightening since 4 am.
Mack spun in his chair, unable to contain himself. ‘She lives,’ he declared, grinning. ‘God, I love a messy arc. This is gonna be huge for our survey numbers.’
The airlock hissed open. Chelsea pushed through, followed by Steve and Britt. Steve carried two takeaway cups like peace offerings, but his smile had too many teeth.
‘You’re on fire,’ Chelsea said to Blake, all business. ‘Tease was perfect. You’ve got them hooked. Hold off on the full reveal until after seven. Keep the listeners on the drip.’
Blake nodded, trying not to show the way her shoulders tensed at the word reveal. She reached for her long black—it had already gone cold but still served its purpose as something to hold.
‘Morning team,’ Steve said, voice just loud enough to command attention. ‘That tease. Gold. Pure gold.’
He set one cup down on the desk. ‘Britty, this is for you? You’re doing great work on socials, both of you’—he glanced to Chelsea—‘Really great.’
Chelsea’s jaw tightened. Just a fraction, but Blake caught it. She had learned Chelsea’s tells over the last six years.
Steve turned to the room at large, clapping once. ‘So what’s the game plan? Are we milking this for the full show?’
‘We’re pacing it,’ Chelsea said, voice as flat as the station carpet. ‘Building to the reveal after seven.’
‘Smart.’ Steve nodded, but his eyes lingered on Britt who made herself busy adjusting the in-studio cameras. ‘Keep me posted, yeah? Every hour. Britt, your numbers especially, I want to see that engagement climb.’ ‘She always delivers,’ Chelsea said, each word measured.
Steve winked on his way out. ‘That’s why she’s so valuable.’
The airlock closed with a soft hiss. The studio felt smaller without his presence, but also cleaner.
‘Effing creep,’ Mack muttered.
Chelsea was already heading for the door. ‘Britt, let’s jump out and go through the socials strategy. Back in five.’
As the first airlock door sealed behind them, Blake heard the faint murmur of Chelsea’s voice, checking in with Britt. The conversation cut off as the second door closed.
Blake’s phone lit up with a text. Not from Fettuccine Guy this time.
Morgan: r u ok mum? just checking
Blake’s chest warmed. She typed back: im good sweetheart. just another weird morning at work
Three dots appeared immediately.
Morgan: K. Have a good show
Blake: Thanks baby. Have a good day at school x
Blake stared at the texts for a moment longer. Her daughter, checking in on her. It didn’t feel fair that Morgan had to be the responsible one.
She looked up to find Mack watching her.
‘Ready to traumatise Melbourne with your dating life?’
Blake set her phone aside and squared her shoulders. ‘Let’s do this.’
An hour and four ad breaks later, Keira wrapped the 7 am news, with its usual parade of politics and weather warnings.
Blake had received a message from her mother asking if she was ‘making a spectacle of herself again’.
Her mum rarely listened as she always forgot her log-in to stream the show, but of course she was tuning in today.
The ON AIR light flared red.
‘It’s just after seven, and you’re with Mack and Blake, live, local, and launching into one of our favourite types of carnage: accidental texts. It’s time for your Wrong Text Confessions.’
Blake gave Sam a nod across the desk. He cued the first caller.
‘Line one. We’ve got Daniel in Eltham. Go for it, mate,’ Mack said.
Daniel chuckled through the speakers. ‘Yeah, I once sent my boss a photo of my new Baby Yoda tattoo. Only problem: I hadn’t pulled my pants back up yet. It was meant for my girlfriend.’
Blake laughed: ‘Please tell me it was on your leg.’
‘Upper thigh. Just…too upper.’
Mack winced. ‘Nothing says job security like your own unsolicited Jedi nudes.’
They rolled through more: Naomi from Moonee Ponds, who sent a break-up text meant for her boyfriend to her housemate instead. The housemate also happened to be the boyfriend’s sister. The message: ‘You are emotionally constipated wallpaper with mummy issues.’
Zac from Narre Warren, who sent a screenshot of a girl’s dating profile to the girl herself, captioned: ‘Looks like she eats toast in bed.’
Mack grinned: ‘For me it’s the WhatsApp groups. One minute I’m replying to my sister, the next I’ve sent my entire cricket team a photo of what might be an infected toenail. Hypothetically.’
Sam held up three fingers. Caller alert.
Behind the glass, Chelsea’s expression sharpened.
Blake sat up straighter, the vinyl of her chair creaking.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Before we get into the next track, what was it, Sam? Taylor Swift? Quick one from me. And no Bad Blood. Last night’s date was going well. Like, really well. Great banter, great pasta, maybe even a sneaky pash…’
She let that hang just long enough to feel the ripple. The phone lines behind Chelsea lit up like a Christmas tree.
‘Then he excused himself. Ducked up to the bar to pay. A minute later, I got a message. Only it wasn’t meant for me. It was meant for his housemate. Asking him to clear out of their place because, and I quote, “Think I’m about to tick off my bucket list.”’
‘And did those expectations pan out?’ Mack said.
‘Hard no. Not when you tip your hand that early,’ Blake said.
Sam signalled again. Chelsea’s producer note popped on the screen in front of them: Line four. It’s him.
Blake’s pulse kicked up. She could feel Mack vibrating with anticipation beside her.
Mack punched the button. ‘Let’s go to line four.’
Click. The line opened with the soft pop of connection.
‘Hi. It’s…It’s me. Second-time caller, second-date failure.’
Fettuccine Guy’s voice filled the studio, calm but with an edge of something. Embarrassment? Defiance? Blake couldn’t quite place it.
‘I just want to say I’m sorry. The message wasn’t meant for you. I was showing off. Trying to make the boys laugh. It was stupid. I have so much respect for you, Blake.’