6
The studio airlock swung open. Blake’s mind was still spinning. Leo’s name was out there now, and the phones were going crazy. What if someone really remembered him? What if…
Steve charged in like a bull, already halfway through his attack, face flushed crimson, blazer askew like he’d torn it off a coat rack in fury.
‘What. The hell. Was that?’
Blake didn’t move.
Steve didn’t wait.
‘We are less than a week out from survey. Survey, Blake. That means stakes. That means structure. That means bite-sized entertainment.’
He swept his hand towards the studio window like it had betrayed him.
‘This week was Fettuccine Guy! We had momentum. A dating arc. Sales have decks in market for second-chance dates, that’s our survey tactic. And now? You hijack the show for a personal crusade. It’s pathetic.’
Blake’s jaw clenched so tight her molars ached. Where the hell was Chelsea?
She looked through the glass and froze.
The producer bay hummed with activity. In her years on air, Blake had never witnessed the phones to be as hot as they had been this week. Britt looked like she was conducting an orchestra, the way she was flagging anyone in the building down to chuck on a headset and start screening.
Chelsea was nodding, her own headset in place, completely absorbed in managing the calls. She was gesturing excitedly at Britt, while using her sleeve to clear the whiteboard, a marker in hand. She frantically started scrawling.
Blake desperately tried to catch her eye, to signal somehow that whatever was going on out there was the polar opposite to what was happening with Steve in the studio, but Chelsea was in full executive-producer mode, oblivious to anything on the other side of the glass.
Steve didn’t notice the chaos beyond the window either. His focus was entirely on Blake.
‘You didn’t even run it past Chelsea. Or me. You turned the city’s top-rating breakfast radio show into a pity party because your kid asked a few uncomfortable questions.’
He leaned in towards Blake, voice dropping.
‘What is this, Blake? A last-ditch reinvention? You’re not some battler mum doing it tough.
You’re on six figures. You’re on billboards.
You’re part of a brand. And now you want to blow all of that, burn it down, basically, so we can track down some Eurotrash from 2013?
You think the audience is going to eat that up?
We don’t do Brené Brown vulnerability bullshit. ’
The airlock opened.
Chelsea. Headset still on, iPad in one hand, rundown in the other. She didn’t look at Steve.
‘Three callers before the news,’ she said briskly. ‘Britt’s screening. Phones are singing. Portal’s live. Socials are ahead of us. Digital’s building a gallery. We’re going to need an upload form and a Google map integration for sightings.’
She looked at Blake, eyes sharp and determined.
‘Tomorrow, we’ll hero it at 7 am in the top-of-hour talk break. We’ll need a visual asset and a tracking hook.’ Then, she moved to the whiteboard and wrote in giant caps: FINDING LEO—PHASE ONE.
Only then did she turn to Steve. ‘We’re on fire,’ she said. ‘Phones are jammed. Insta’s lit up. We’re doing it.’
Blake could see it in Steve’s face, the moment he realised he’d lost the room.
‘Thirty seconds, team. Steve, everything all right? You look a little flushed. Let’s strategise next steps at the 9 am meeting. Right now, I need you out of the studio, this could be our ratings winner,’ Chelsea said, holding the airlock ajar.
Steve adjusted his jacket sleeve and followed her silently.
Sam shifted behind the panel.
‘Ten seconds. You sure about this, Blake?’
She wasn’t. Not even close. Her hands were still shaking from Steve’s attack, doubt creeping in at the edges.
But she looked at Chelsea escorting Steve calmly away from the studio, then at Sam across the desk, and the banked callers ready to share what they knew about that week all those years ago. She nodded.
The song faded out. Mack leaned in. ‘That was “Afterparty Ghosts”. If your finger’s not already redialling, get to it, we’re taking your calls on Mack and Blake.’
Blake forced herself to lean into the mic, voice steadier than she felt. ‘If you were at Eurofest in 2013, if you remember Leo, or his description matches someone you recall, maybe you took some photos at the festival, we want to hear from you.’
Mack added, ‘Keira’s going to crack it if we miss the news, so we’re squeezing in just three quick calls now, but keep ’em coming.’
‘Fourteen-sixteen-twelve, or hit up the website. The upload form’s live. Every lead helps,’ Blake said.
The first caller was already cued.
‘Line one, Jules from Glenroy,’ Mack announced.
‘Hey guys, I was security at Eurofest. VIP tent had its own entrance, private security. And anyone working near it had to sign NDAs. Your guy? He wasn’t just some random guitarist. You don’t do NDAs for just any mainstream band, it’s generally just for huge acts.’
Blake’s mouth went dry. Huge act.
‘Thanks, Jules. That’s actually really helpful.’
‘Line two, Coral from Toorak,’ Blake said, glancing at the call screen.
‘Oh honey, I haven’t thought about Eurofest in years.
’ There were kids yelling in the background and what sounded like a blender.
Coral shouted over the top of all of it before turning her attention back to the phone.
‘There was this one guy, he and I got a bit handsy behind the merch tent. He had a guitar case, actually one of those portable keyboard cases. Calvin Klein underwear. Left a real impression.’
‘That’s specific,’ Mack said.
‘I can’t recall if he was wearing the Levis you’re looking for, but let me tell you, those keyboard players, they know how to do some wild things with their fingers.’
‘Coral. It’s 8.28 am,’ Blake cut in.
‘Maybe your Leo was a bit of a ladies’ man,’ Mack suggested.
‘I seriously doubt that,’ Blake replied.
‘Line three, Meg from Croydon,’ Mack jumped in.
‘Meg, what have you got for us?’ Blake asked.
‘I was obsessed with Eurofest. Full VIP pass, lanyard, photos with every band on the main stage. If Leo was there, I’ve got him.’
‘You still have them?’ Blake asked.
‘In an alphabetised, colour-coded folder. I can bring them into the station if you like.’
‘Keen to join us live, on air, how about tomorrow?’ Blake offered.
‘Absolutely. I’ll bring muffins, Blake. I always hear you say you forget your breakfast.’
‘Oh we do love a superfan,’ Mack said, winking at Blake.
‘Meg, that is really sweet, stay on the line and our producers will give you all the deets. See you at seven,’ Blake said.
The phones didn’t stop ringing for the rest of the show.
Steve moved their 9 am daily content meeting from his office to the boardroom.
The space had been transformed into a full-blown strategy room, the whiteboard was covered in leads, giving NYPD vibes.
Steve was still in with the sales manager. Chelsea stood at the whiteboard, making notes under the heading: FINDING LEO—PHASE ONE. The morning sun slanted through the blinds, catching the marker dust in the air.
Britt typed furiously at her laptop, her eyes darting between that and whatever was on her iPad.
At one point, she stood up, grabbed a red marker like it was Excalibur, and added EUROFEST DEEP DIVE?
?? to the board with theatrical flair. ‘Those Eurofest acts would have travelled with serious security, wouldn’t they? ’ she said.
Mack sat cross-legged on the floor. ‘We should do a Eurofest nostalgia week. Weirdest concert hook-ups. Festival regret stories.’
‘How about DNA, did that exist back then?’ Britt suggested. ‘Could we trace his DNA?’
Blake blinked. ‘Britt it was 2013, not the 1980s.’
Then Britt perked up, eyes bright with possibility. ‘What if we go to Europe? Literally. A tour. Like a Cinderella manhunt. Every country that played Eurofest. We chase the story.’
There was a pause. Blake felt the room consider it, the idea hanging in the air like a soap bubble. Blake tried to hide her smile. God, she’s sweet. Eager, earnest. A little green, maybe, but in a way that reminded Blake of how she used to be.
Chelsea didn’t hesitate. She turned to the whiteboard and added EUROFEST CINDERELLA TOUR
That’s when Steve appeared, moving towards Britt’s space at the table.
‘Now that’s the kind of blue-sky thinking that’ll make you a great executive producer one day, Britt.’ He dropped a hand to her shoulder. It lingered half a second too long.
Britt beamed at the praise, but Blake caught the way she shifted to create distance. Her stomach turned.
Steve addressed the room. ‘Good work with the calls this morning. That Euro groupie was a great pull.’
He approached the whiteboard, nodding like he’d orchestrated all of it. ‘This is what smart, longform storytelling looks like. Cohesive arc, audience hook. I knew there was something in this story.’
She didn’t say a word. Just watched him bask in the heat of a fire he hadn’t lit.
‘It really could be Blake’s reinvention, hey Steve?’ Mack held Steve’s glare for only a moment, throwing Steve’s words back at him from earlier.
Blake couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her mouth. Chelsea looked between them with raised eyebrows.
Steve didn’t bite. In fact he dismissed everyone not long after that. With a simple ‘Chelsea, please go and talk to sales about a potential on-air integration, and what you are now going to do with the two-dozen second-chance dates they had booked in with paying advertisers.’
It was after 4 pm by the time Blake got into her car for the twelve-minute drive home.
When she pushed through her front door, calling out ‘Morgan?’ she’d almost forgotten the knot of anxiety that had been sitting in her chest since Steve’s attack.
‘In the kitchen,’ came the reply, calm, composed, unmistakably Morgan.
Blake found her on a bar stool, sipping a decaf long black out of her novelty science mug, a white ceramic monstrosity covered in the periodic table with ‘I tell bad chemistry jokes because all the good ones Argon’ printed across it. Her iPad was open beside her.