24
Chelsea ducked into the studio, headset around her neck, coffee in one hand, iPad in the other.
Sam, already at the panel, gave a tight nod without looking up. His fingers danced over the touchscreen, prepping the live-cross feed. ‘Let’s do it.’
‘Sweet,’ Chelsea said. She disappeared back through the airlock.
Three minutes.
‘You reckon I can ask for a ring light?’ Mack said, adjusting his mic arm. ‘I’m looking a bit peaky on the internal cam.’
‘You look like a hungover Tim Robards,’ Blake said. ‘And not in a good way.’
‘The hottest thing to come out of reality TV.’
‘Debatable,’ Sam murmured.
The airlock door opened again. A camera operator stepped in, followed by a young guy in a black zip-up with a headset and clipboard. He muttered something to Chelsea, then crossed to the glass. Behind him, a lighting assistant was fiddling with a small panel light.
Chelsea reappeared and gave Blake a thumbs-up and a ‘don’t you dare stuff this up’ smile.
Sam tapped a few keys. The studio monitor lit up with the Morning Show feed. A wide shot of the hosts appeared, one male, one female, seated on a white couch, mid-laugh. The screen’s lower-third chyron read: Coming up—the radio mum who sparked a nationwide manhunt.
Great. Radio mum. As if that was her whole identity now.
‘Bit dramatic,’ Blake muttered, watching the feed.
‘Shhh, this is the bit where they pretend the country isn’t on fire,’ Mack said.
Sure enough, the hosts flicked to a whip-around of the capital cities, sunshine in Sydney, showers in Hobart, and their poor weather guy live from a park in suburban Adelaide, halfway through a dog-jumping competition.
Behind the glass, the promo and sales teams were starting to cluster, leaning against the walls, coffee cups in hand, all eyes on the TV above the producer desk. No one was pretending to be working anymore.
Britt stood near the glass with her arms folded, already mouthing along with the TV hosts. She caught Blake’s eye and gave her a tiny nod.
Morgan had abandoned all pretence of doing homework. She sat forward in her chair, watching the screen with an intensity that made Blake’s chest constrict.
The camera op adjusted the angle, framing Mack and Blake in a tight shot. A crew member handed them each a new set of over-ear cans marked with Channel 9 logos. Blake slipped hers on. The studio fell into its strange, soundproof hush.
Then a raised voice behind the camera.
‘Going live in five!’
‘Four…’
‘Three…’ Fingers raised. ‘Two…’
Blake’s palms went damp against the desk. This was different from radio. On TV, the audience could see everything, every flicker of emotion, every tell. Blake pressed her fingertips against the cool surface, grounding herself.
‘One.’
The Morning Show host turned to camera, smile flawless.
‘And now, to a story you’ve probably heard about, maybe on TikTok, maybe on the news, or maybe live on your drive to work. The Melbourne radio segment that’s turned into a global search for one mystery man…’
Blake exhaled, slow and controlled, and fixed her eyes on the screen.
Her stomach churned with familiar pre-performance nerves, but underneath was something sharper.
She was about to package her most private pain for morning television, serve it up between weather updates and cooking segments, while her daughter watched her do it.
‘Joining us now live from Melbourne,’ the host grinned, ‘are Blake and Mack from Melbourne’s number-one breakfast show. Morning, legends!’
‘Morning!’ Blake said, upbeat and professional. The mask slipped on like muscle memory, even as she caught Morgan leaning in.
Mack nodded. ‘We even put on pants for the telly. Big day.’
The hosts laughed, and the woman leaned forward with practised interest. ‘Blake, you’ve had the country hanging on this story. For anyone who’s just catching up, can you take us back to how it all began?’
Blake didn’t hesitate. She knew this part. Had rehearsed it in her head a dozen times. But saying it now felt different. Like selling her own heartbreak for ratings.
‘Thirteen years ago,’ she said, keeping her voice level, ‘I met a guy named Leo. We were both at Eurofest, a big, now-extinct European music festival with massive crowds, the kind of gig where you lose your voice trying to find your friends.’
The hosts chuckled. Blake kept going, even as her throat went dry.
‘I was doing the half-time show on the main stage. Fifteen thousand people were watching. Lost my VIP pass and nearly didn’t make it to the stage, then completely stacked it in front of everyone.
Twisted my ankle. This guy helped me off the stage, and somehow we ended up drinking vodka cruisers behind the dumpling vans. ’
Mack chimed in, deadpan. ‘Which is foreplay for our girl here.’
Blake smiled.
‘We ended up spending the week together. I showed him my whole world, from Melbourne’s hidden bars to my rural hometown.
Introduced him to my mum at the worst possible moment.
Nearly broke a couch trying to…Well, that’s a story for radio, not TV.
It was messy and perfect and completely impossible. And then…he left.’
‘Did he ghost you?’ the host asked gently.
‘Not at all, well not intentionally,’ Blake said. ‘It was always going to be short. He told me he had to leave the country, and I was career-focused and had my own dreams to pursue. I thought it was one of those golden moments you get once and never again.’
Her voice stayed steady, but inside, the familiar ache bloomed. She’d got so good at turning her pain into content, she sometimes forgot it hurt.
‘When I found out I was pregnant, I didn’t have enough to track him down. Just a first name. A memory. A week.’
The male host exhaled. ‘So why now?’
Blake’s eyes found Morgan again, for a quick moment, before returning to camera. ‘Because my daughter deserves answers. And I guess I want answers too.’
There was a pause. Not long. Enough to hold the space.
Mack broke it. ‘So we put the call out live on air, and Melbourne delivered. Leads from Europe, pub sightings, dodgy sketches, a psychic who reckons Leo’s a Virgo. We even had Rafael Varga from Koniglicht confirm Leo wasn’t part of the Eurofest line-up.’
Blake added, ‘Our first real lead came from a couple Leo and I met at the footy that week. They remembered us. That’s when we realised, someone out there has to know him. So we’ve kept going. We’ve taken every call.’
‘Well,’ the female host said, glancing off-screen, ‘so have we.’
The male host smiled. ‘We had our team pull some old AFL footage. Collingwood versus Geelong, 2013. Look who we found behind the goals.’
The screen cut to stadium footage.
The roar of the crowd filled Blake’s headphones. The kiss cam looped through the usual chaos: teenagers mugging for attention, middle-aged dads with beers raised, a couple in matching scarves.
And then.
There she was.
A young Emily Blake. Eyes bright with stadium lights and pure, uncomplicated joy. Her hand rested on Leo’s shoulder.
His face turned towards her, caught mid-laugh. One arm wrapped around her waist with easy familiarity. Then his mouth found hers, and the camera zoomed in.
Blake’s breath stuck in her throat. She’d forgotten. Forgotten how young she was. How happy. How completely, stupidly in love. The girl on that screen had no idea what was coming, that she’d spend the next thirteen years protecting herself from feeling that way again.
Mack exhaled. ‘Every time I think you’re making the whole thing up…’
Behind the glass, Blake could see the producer bay frozen in tableau. Britt’s hand covered her mouth. Chelsea stood up, her headset abandoned.
Steve hadn’t moved at all. His expression was unreadable, but something flickered across his face as he stared at Leo’s image. Recognition? Calculation? It was gone before Blake could make sense of it.
But none of that mattered.
Because Morgan was standing up.
Her face was turned up to the monitor where her father’s face filled the frame. She wasn’t moving, wasn’t breathing, wasn’t doing anything but staring at this man she’d never known, this ghost made suddenly real.
Blake’s chest cracked open. Blake couldn’t read her reaction, couldn’t gauge if this was wonder or hurt or anger or all three entangled.
The studio monitor faded back to the hosts, but Blake barely registered their words. Something about amazing moments, ‘thank you both’, and ‘we’ll keep following the search’.
Then the feed cut to black.
Blake’s body felt heavy, like she’d run a marathon. The adrenaline that had carried her through the segment drained away, leaving her shaky and exposed. Sweat cooled on her palms. Her mouth tasted metallic, and the lights felt harsher than before.
Mack leaned back in his chair, his usual banter dying on his lips when he saw Blake’s face. ‘I mean…if that’s not him,’ he started, then stopped. ‘You all right, Blakey?’
Before Blake could respond, the airlock door burst open.
Britt rushed in, breathless, eyes shining. ‘That was incredible! Did you see how clear it was? I’ve already requested a copy from Channel 9. I’m gonna clip it for reels. Like, now.’
She didn’t wait for a reply, spinning back through the door, phone in hand, making herself a voice note as she went.
The studio noise crashed back into Blake’s consciousness: the camera crew packing up, Chelsea’s voice directing someone, the general chaos of post-production. But it all felt distant, muffled.
She stood up. The chair rolled back behind her. Her legs felt unsteady, her whole body hummed with the need to get to Morgan, to be there with her in this impossible moment. But also with anxiety of what she might find in her daughter’s eyes.
On the other side of the glass, Morgan had pulled her headphones on, but she wasn’t looking at her iPad. She was staring at the now-dark monitor where Leo’s face had been, one hand pressed against her chest like she was holding something in or keeping something out.
Blake crossed to the door and pushed it open.
The hallway beyond buzzed with energy. The promo team clustered together, someone from sales asking if they could get the footage for the newsletter. Chelsea stood near the whiteboard, her eyes tracking Blake with concern.
Blake ignored them all and moved with careful purpose. She stepped into the producer bay and approached Morgan. The space between them felt charged, fragile.
‘Hey,’ Blake said, her voice catching. ‘Can I hug—?’
Morgan didn’t look at her. ‘No, thank you.’
Blake stopped. She’d never been a clingy mum. Morgan had never wanted that. But today, Blake wanted to gather her daughter up, to somehow share this moment that was too big for either of them alone.
Morgan was still watching the blank screen. Her fingers had found that familiar rhythm against her leg, three taps, pause, three taps, but faster now, urgent, like her body was processing what her mind couldn’t.
‘That was him,’ Morgan said, her voice smaller than Blake had heard it in years.
Blake’s throat tightened. ‘Yeah, sweetheart. That was him.’
Morgan didn’t respond. Her fingers kept their frantic rhythm. Three taps. Three taps. Three taps.
Then she pulled her headphones back on and turned to her iPad, but Blake could see the screen was dark. Morgan was retreating into herself, dealing with this life-changing moment in the only way she knew how, alone.
The dismissal wasn’t rude. But it cut deep.
Blake stood there a beat longer, her arms hanging at her sides.
She wanted to say something, that Leo had tapped that same rhythm, that he’d been real and kind and had held Blake like she was everything to him.
That Morgan was the best thing to come from that week.
That Blake was sorry she couldn’t give her more than join-the-dots on a whiteboard.
But Morgan needed space more than she needed words.
Steve’s voice cut across the producer bay. ‘Chelsea, did Channel 9 give you the heads-up on the footage?’ He was grinning, oddly triumphant. ‘Britt, let them run it first on their socials and then share it. Don’t create our own posts. We’ll discuss it all in the 9 am.’
Blake watched him. Steve was glowing, like he’d solved some great mystery. Why would he care who shared the video first?