8
Blake stepped into the studio and stopped short.
The whiteboard had gone full conspiracy theory.
Red string. Blurry printouts. A laminated Eurofest map annotated with four different highlighters.
There was even a photo captioned Side Stage Enigma?
and something that might’ve been a band logo or a questionable tattoo.
For a moment, she thought she’d walked into the wrong room. But Chelsea was at the board, marker in hand. Britt was typing, all three screens glowing. Sam was adjusting levels. Mack, of course, was crouched with a glue stick, applying a Post-it to a photo with the concentration of a surgeon.
‘What fresh hell is this?’ Blake muttered. ‘Mr Leo with the candlestick by stage left or the conservatory?’
Mack spun around, grinning. ‘Welcome to CSI: Who’s Your Daddy?’
Chelsea didn’t look up from her colour-coding. ‘We’ve had half a dozen calls already. Britt’s been here since 4.30 am.’
Britt waved from her desk, holding up four fingers and pointing to the blinking text line.
Chelsea glanced at her notes. ‘Britt’s tracking everything—three dumpling-van sightings and a guy who reckons Leo’s a DJ in Mykonos now.’ She paused, then added with amusement, ‘Britt also laminated the festival map at midnight and cross-referenced all the side venues. She’s very proud of herself.’
Blake took it all in. The board. The energy. The fact that her search had transformed the studio into some kind of incident room. ‘This is actually happening,’ she said in disbelief.
Chelsea turned, marker still in hand. ‘Meg from Croydon is locked in just after 7 am. She’s bringing photo albums. Also laminated, apparently.’
Sam pulled off one headphone. ‘Is that the same Meg who live-streamed her pap smear for Cervical Cancer Awareness Month?’
‘That’s her,’ Chelsea confirmed. ‘She’s bringing muffins too.’
Mack coughed pointedly. ‘Mega-fan.’
‘Of course she is,’ Blake said. ‘And we’re just lucky her fandom also extends to a festival from over a decade ago.’
Sam sipped his coffee, surveying the chaos. ‘You realise the last time we had this many pins on the wall was the footy-tipping comp?’
Mack pressed another photo to the board. ‘You know, Blakey, I’ve been in this game long enough to know when something’s special. This isn’t just about the numbers anymore.’
Blake studied him. Was that actual sincerity creeping into Mack’s voice? From the man who once did a live on-air taste test of expired yoghurts?
‘Don’t go soft on me now, Mackey.’
He grinned, but there was something genuine there. ‘I’m serious. My mum called yesterday. Said she’s been following every update. When’s the last time our parents actually listened to this show?’
That hit Blake. She’d been so focused on Morgan, on her own churning anxiety, that she’d forgotten other people were invested too. Real people. Not just numbers on a board. Maybe she’d forgotten that beyond the sauce disasters and dating segments, radio could still reach people.
Blake stepped closer to the whiteboard. Her own face stared back from one of the printouts. Eurofest 2013. Space buns. Glitter across her collarbone. Young and reckless and sure of everything.
Her stomach did something complicated.
For a second, she could almost see him: Leo’s dark hair, that careful way he held himself.
She was twenty-one back then, and fearless and stupid.
Morgan had her face from that age, her stubbornness, her quick laugh.
But the angular features, the dark hair, the way she tilted her head when thinking—that was all Leo.
‘Right,’ Blake said, her voice steadier than she felt. ‘Let’s do this.’
The morning flew in a blur. By the time they were an hour in, Blake had already knocked over her water bottle, accidentally read last week’s weather update, and nearly revealed the $50k-cash-giveaway winner an hour early.
Standard Friday morning, except for the part where half of Melbourne was apparently hunting for her daughter’s father.
Just after 7, mics were live, and Meg from Croydon swept in like she’d been waiting thirteen years for this moment.
Mack was in full ringmaster mode. ‘If you’ve just joined us, where have you been? Melbourne’s obsessed with finding Blake’s mystery man. And we’ve got a very special guest in the studio. Friend of the show, Eurofest superfan and, apparently, archival genius, Meg from Croydon.’
Meg beamed from across the desk over her stack of laminated albums. She was wearing sequined leggings and a faux fur coat, and had parted her hair with actual glitter. She was straight out of a Eurofest time warp.
Blake leaned into her mic. ‘Meg, welcome. I love that you’ve arrived on theme! You’ve brought…quite the collection.’
‘Yep, that’s right, every band from the main stage, both nights. Tabbed and colour-coded by set time.’
Mack flipped open the first album. ‘This one’s just glitter and questionable facial hair.’
‘Baltic Beards,’ Meg said proudly. ‘Synth-folk fusion from Estonia. Absolutely iconic.’
They flipped through page after page. Keytars, metallic jumpsuits, someone playing what looked like an electric triangle. But no Leo. No one even close.
‘Last album,’ Meg announced, tapping the cover. ‘Final set, Sunday night.’
Blake leaned forward, hope and dread wrestling in her chest. Still nothing. Not one photo of the man who’d haunted her for thirteen years of failed dates.
Mack cleared his throat. ‘You sure you didn’t, Blake, I dunno, combine a couple of these guys? Festival goggles? Few too many vodka cruisers, bit of glitter in the eyes…’
‘I didn’t imagine him.’ The words came out sharper than Blake intended, defensive and raw.
The studio went quiet.
Meg turned back to an earlier photo, her expression thoughtful. ‘It is strange though. If he was in the VIP tent with security, why wasn’t he performing on the main stage?’
Blake looked up. Something had shifted.
‘I mean, Eurofest was massive,’ Meg continued. ‘There were gigs all over the city that weekend. Side stages, warehouse sets, pop-up venues. I was strictly main stage, bit of a purist really. If he played elsewhere, I wouldn’t have seen him.’
Blake sat back in her chair. Memory flickered: Leo in that country pub, guitar across his knee, the way his fingers had moved over the strings with casual expertise.
A song he’d written just for her, performed to an audience of beer-stained carpet and faded footy photos.
He was real. He was talented. But maybe he wasn’t the headliner she’d assumed he was.
What if she’d built him into something bigger in her mind? What if thirteen years had turned a week of nice enough into full-blown mythology? The doubt crept in cold, wrapping around her ribs. What if the search revealed something smaller than the memory?
What if Morgan was building up hope for someone who didn’t really exist?
Meg brightened, oblivious to Blake’s internal spiral. ‘But I did bring muffins! Banana choc chip. Still warm. I got up at four this morning to make them fresh.’
Sam hit the cue for the next song.
‘Meg from Croydon,’ Mack announced warmly. ‘Melbourne legend and baking hero.’
As Meg gathered her precious albums, Blake caught Chelsea’s eye through the glass. Chels was already at the whiteboard, marker moving in quick strokes. She underlined NO MAIN STAGE MATCH twice, then added beneath it: WHERE DID LEO PLAY?
The question hung there, both answer and mystery.
The morning rolled on. By 8.05, the phones still hadn’t stopped ringing.
‘Okay, Melbourne,’ Mack said. ‘It’s five past eight. We’ve got another chance at fifty thousand dollars up for grabs in ten minutes, but the phone lines are completely jammed with people calling about Blake’s mystery guy. That’s…actually insane.’
Line two blinked insistently. Sam tapped the cue.
‘G’day, Senior Constable Davies here, down at Melbourne Central. Thought we’d offer some assistance from Victoria Police.’
Blake nearly choked on her coffee. ‘Wait, seriously?’
‘Too many of us listening in the patrol cars not to get involved,’ Davies chuckled. ‘You’ve got a decent physical description. We’ve got a sketch artist who’s just finished his advanced training. Happy to send him in Monday morning. Call it community engagement.’
Mack’s grin could’ve powered the entire studio. ‘You want to do a police sketch of Blake’s Eurofest hook-up? Live on breakfast radio?’
‘Consider it building public trust through innovative channels,’ Davies said, clearly enjoying himself. ‘Plus, my partner’s been following since day one. She’ll never forgive me if I don’t help.’
Sam was shaking his head but also grinning.
On the other side of the glass, the producer desk had erupted in celebration.
Britt was actually bouncing in her chair, already typing something that was probably a press release.
Even Chelsea looked impressed, pausing mid-whiteboard update to give Blake a thumbs-up.
Blake felt her chest constrict. This was getting bigger than she’d imagined. More real. More public. More terrifying. An actual police sketch artist. Drawing Leo’s face. The face Morgan had been trying to imagine her whole life.
After they wrapped the call, the ads rolled. Chelsea updated the board with a flourish: SKETCH ARTIST—MONDAY 7.40 am. She drew a box around it and added stars.
Blake’s head snapped up. ‘Wait, we’re really going with the sketch artist?’
‘It’s gold,’ Chelsea said through the talkback. ‘Plus we’ve got something else lined up.’ She was out the door again.
The ON AIR light flashed red.
Mack leaned into the mic, eyes sparkling with mischief.
‘You are on the city’s number-one breakfast, and station of choice for those who protect and serve.
We have a police sketch artist coming in to the studio Monday morning.
Incredible. But wait, there’s more! This afternoon, we’re sending our little Blakey off for a psychic reading.
I’ve heard Mercury is in microwave or something, which explains why my coffee order was wrong this morning. ’
Blake played along despite her surprise. ‘A psychic? Seriously?’
‘Dead serious,’ Mack confirmed on air. ‘Our executive producer, who I would have pegged as a sceptic, has already booked it. Some TikTok–verified intuitive in Northcote. Apparently she’s got a two-month waiting list, but made an exception for, and I quote, “Melbourne’s most compelling romantic mystery”. ’
Through the glass, Britt was mouthing ‘streaming live’ and pointing at the studio camera setup.
Mack picked up on the cue. ‘We’ll be streaming the whole thing live across our socials.’
Blake took her turn. ‘Can’t wait to have my aura read by someone who learned their craft from TikTok. But seriously, we have the hotline message bank running all weekend, so if you saw Leo and me at Eurofest 2013, leave us a message. Mack and I are back Monday from 6 am.’
‘Catch you then, Melbourne,’ Mack finished before Sam hit the jingle.
Blake stared at the board covered in red string and blurry photos. At her own glittered young face grinning back.
A sketch. A psychic. An actual face to the memory.
What if they got it wrong? What if some artist drew a generic ‘tall, dark and handsome’ that could be anyone?
What if they got it right? What if Monday morning, Morgan scrolled through the radio socials and saw her father’s face for the first time?
Blake’s hands trembled slightly as she reached for her water bottle.
Everything was accelerating, spinning beyond her control.
She’d told herself this was for Morgan. But how many times had she watched Eurovision, hoping for a glimpse of that beautiful guitarist?
Checked social feeds for his face? Asked tourists about their accents?
And now she might actually get what she’d been searching for all along.
She’d spent thirteen years holding the memory. Now she was about to hand it over to a police sketch artist and a TikTok psychic.