Free Stolen Child by Laura Elliot Page B

appearances—’
    ‘The Anticipation advertising campaign exposed you to a wide audience,’ said Alyssa. She glanced quickly to either side, aware that she had the media’s attention. ‘As a celebrity, you were constantly in the public eye. Is it possible that a woman who has recently lost a child could have been influenced by the disproportionate attention you received throughout your pregnancy?’
    Once again the superintendent took the microphone. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I agree with Mr Kelly. That theory is groundless. Thank you for your time.’ He raised his voice above the protesting babble. ‘As you can understand, this is an extremely distressing experience for Mr and Mrs Gardner. This conference is over. No more questions…I repeat, no more questions.’
    Leo placed his hand under Carla’s elbow, raised her to her feet. ‘Keep walking,’ he whispered. ‘Look straight ahead and don’t respond to any further questions.’
    She followed his instructions, vaguely aware that the journalists were on their feet and shouting her name. It was a familiar scenario. This way, Carla! That way! The other way! They stepped backwards, clicking, clicking. She recognised Colin Moore, the photographer from Pizzazz. He had phoned her yesterday to offer his support and sympathy. He lowered his camera and smiled encouragingly, jerked his thumb into the air. Instinctively, she found courage in his confident gesture. Her lips moved in response, a grimace, thanking him. Then she was ushered into the anteroom off the conference centre where she collapsed into Robert’s arms.
    Next morning, her photograph appeared on the front pages of the newspapers. Why was she smiling? She had not smiled from the moment she awoke to find her daughter missing yet there she was, her grimace morphed into her catwalk smile. Years of experience radiating from the pages. Placed beside her smiling image was the photograph of Isobel, her scrunched-up, newborn features partly hidden by a blanket. A photograph of Robert, his face white and haggard, had been placed on the other side; a lost trinity that should have been a family.

Chapter Nine
Susanne
One month later
    This morning we christened you Joy Ainé Dowling. In Maoltrán’s small Catholic church, where David and I were married six years ago, we renounced Satan, with all his works and pomps. We lit candles to let the light of love shine on you. Fr Davis anointed you with chrism. You did not cry when he poured water over your head. ‘Such a sweet placid baby,’ he said. ‘Such a miracle, born to be loved.’
    Phyllis has remained the heroine of the hour. Towards the end of the service Fr Davis mentioned her in his homily: two women sharing the ultimate experience of bringing new life into the world. The art of public relations is about perception. It’s not the story that’s important but how you tell it.
    Carla Kelly had told her story badly. She wore a stretch top, skinny jeans and a fitted jacket, slim as a whippet after giving birth only five days previously. And she smiled for the cameras, such a silly thing to do. She lost the public sympathy with that smile. How could she, a mother so recently bereft, look as if she was enjoying her fifteen minutes of fame?
    It gives me courage, that smile. The journalists use it everytime they run with the story. The lingerie shots have also been dusted off and the tabloids are having a field day reproducing them. So too is Alyssa Faye. She writes about the woman who stole Isobel Gardner. Clichés and stereotypes, that’s all she writes. What does she know about anything? She milked my misery for all it was worth and now she milks Carla Kelly. Each weekend, she picks her bones clean, analyses her need for publicity, and how, by flaunting her pregnancy, she stirred a deep, dark well of longing. As for Josh Baker…he was a tabloid hack when I worked for Carter & Kay and now, five nights a week, he brings that same mentality to The Week on the Street.