Training Days (10 page)

Morgan appeared pleased. “Excellent.”

“And Marge can join us?”

“Well . . .”

Ally sprang to her defense. “She’s a nice woman.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Morgan said quickly. “It’s just that I was hoping . . . excuse me just a minute.” She pulled a phone from her pocket, checked the caller ID and said apologetically, “Sorry. I have to take this.”

“No problem.” Ally guessed Morgan’s phone, since it had not rung—was set to vibrate. She turned her attention back to her sketchpad, scanning her preliminary design. She did so without the benefit of her usual critical eye, part of her attention on Morgan’s half of the phone conversation. Not listening in on the words, she was more attuned to the cadence of Morgan’s voice, how she articulated her consonants and how her tone lowered at the end of a sentence. It was pleasant. A good voice for radio. Ally glanced toward the door, where Morgan was leaning against the frame and idly twisting a strand of glossy auburn hair around her finger. It was fashionably long and framed those striking features—slate-gray eyes, not flinty but . . . piercing; chiseled bones offset by a full softness to the lips. And of course, perfect teeth, a must for her job. So, she had a good voice for radio and a good face for television. And the body . . . Ally took in the slender frame, long legs and generous bust. It was a body that, bikini-clad, could quite easily grace the cover of
Sports Illustrated
. Ally returned to her work, smiling slightly as she bent over her sketchpad. It was a wonder what a private compartment with a wash basin could do. Because in ordinary circumstances this was a woman she, like the majority of the female population, should hate on sight.

But she didn’t. In fact, she thought Morgan was . . . attractive? . . . appealing? . . . appealingly attractive? Ally chewed on the end of her pencil, frowning at her inability to describe just what she thought.

Nice
. Ally pounced on the benign word. She thought Morgan was . . . nice. Pleased at her description, she tried to concentrate on her work. Now, where was she? Oh, yes . . . rooflines.

Still not fully focused on the job at hand, her peripheral vision caught the moment Morgan finished her call, snapped her phone shut and slid it into a pocket. “Who’s your provider?” she asked, curious as to how Morgan was able to receive and, presumably, make calls when she couldn’t. “Because I’ve tried my phone a couple of times today and I sure can’t latch onto a network out here.”

“It’s a satellite phone.” Morgan pulled it from her pocket again and showed it to Ally. “We all get issued with one. It doesn’t matter where we are on the planet, we can still make calls.”

“Pretty useful when you don’t know where you are on the planet.” Ally grinned cheekily as she handed the phone back.

“Exactly.” Morgan took the teasing in good fun. “Now they just need to invent one with built-in GPS so it can also navigate me to where I’m supposed to be.” She held the phone out again. “If you need to make a call . . .”

Ally briefly considered the offer before taking the proffered phone. “Thanks.” She felt Morgan’s gaze upon her as she dialed. It made her feel a little self-conscious. She again picked up her pencil and rolled it between her fingers as she waited for an answer. James answered on the third ring. After exchanging hellos, Ally, sensing Morgan’s curiosity, was taken by a sudden mischievous streak. “James,” she said, swinging her legs over one of the armrests, “have I got some front-page news for you!” She glanced up at Morgan and noted with a certain amount of glee that her expression, although she tried to mask it, was worried.

James replied, “What is it, Alison?”

Ally looked directly at Morgan, took a deep breath, then paused, just to extend the drama. “I’ve been upgraded to first class!” She poked her tongue out at Morgan and slung her feet back onto the floor again.

Ally kept the call brief, not only because she was aware it wasn’t her phone, but because she and James never exchanged long calls. They both tended to say what needed to be said and got off the line. She didn’t mention the reason for the upgrade, or the presence of the
Bonnes Vacances
crew, deciding they were details that didn’t need to be said. But she did wish James well in the business he wanted to discuss at tonight’s client dinner and reminded him of the time the train was due to arrive in Sydney.

“I’ll be there waiting for you. I love you, Alison.”

Ally lowered her voice a little. “I love you too. ’Bye.” She snapped the phone shut and handed it back to Morgan. Then she grinned slyly. “Now we’re even.”

“Thank God.” Morgan’s expression was no longer worried, but she sighed dramatically. “I’d hate to see you when you’ve really got it in for somebody.” She nodded in the direction of the Gold lounge carriage. “Can I interest you in an aperitif?”

Ally checked her watch and noticed with some surprise that it was almost half past seven. “What time’s dinner?”

“Eight thirty.”

“Well, I still have to get changed and I really should run down and invite Marge before she hits the diner car—if she hasn’t already.”

“Why don’t I run down and invite Marge while you get changed?” Morgan suggested. “Then you’ll have time for a drink.”

“You
will
invite her?” Ally asked a little suspiciously.

“Cross my heart and hope to die.” Morgan made the motions as she said the words. “I’ll see you in—”

“Twenty minutes.” Ally stood, waited until Morgan had left, then closed and latched the door behind her.

Alone again, she looked to her sketchpad, lying facedown on the table. She’d been so involved in it before being interrupted. Now, feeling no more than a momentary twinge of guilt, she picked it up and shoved it into her bag. After all, had she been in Sydney, she wouldn’t be working; she’d be donning her little black dress to accompany James to his client dinner.

Ally scrounged through her overnight bag. She had no little black dress in there. Having packed with only the option of Red dining open to her, she didn’t really have anything considered suitable as Gold-class dinner attire. She had just worn slacks and a light jumper to lunch and was indeed still wearing them now. She emptied the contents of the bag and considered the possibilities. There was the business suit she had worn to meet the mining executive, and the jeans and light cotton shirt she had subsequently changed into to go tramping around his block. Finally, there was another pair of jeans, two more T-shirts and another cotton shirt, this one in the style that was supposed to look crinkled.

The business suit, while in a modern cut, was still a little too “businesslike,” and the clothes she had worn while assessing the homesite were tainted with Kalgoorlie’s red desert dust. Her other pair of jeans were a designer brand and low cut. Trendy but not restaurant garb. And, of course, she’d already dined in her current outfit.

After a brief wardrobe crisis Ally decided it didn’t really matter what she wore since whatever she chose she’d still look out of place. All her meals were now to be in Gold anyway, so by the time she reached Sydney she’d have to work her way through the contents of her bag, suitable or not.

“Jeans it is.” She tossed them and the crinkly shirt onto the seat and hung her business suit in the teeny wardrobe.

Another wardrobe crisis occurred once Ally had dressed. She pulled out the business suit and weighed it up against her current attire. Then she laughed derisively at herself. She hadn’t given two seconds’ thought to the suitability of her outfit when she dressed for lunch. Why should she be worried now? Once again the suit was hung and Ally turned her attention to the contents of her makeup bag.

By the time she’d finished with that, she was what could be called fashionably late. And that didn’t worry Ally at all. In fact, she idled down her carriage, even stopping to peer into the darkness from one of the large windows that flanked the corridor. And when she entered the Gold class lounge car and was immediately greeted by a wave, she was pleased in the knowledge that Morgan had been looking out for her, even though she was already surrounded by a small group of people, one of whom was Marge.

Inexplicably, as she approached, she felt a little twinge of regret for having insisted that Marge join them for dinner. She set the feeling aside for examination at a later point, caught the eye of a wandering waiter and ordered a gin and tonic.

Hours later Ally toyed with the wrapper of the chocolate that had accompanied their post-dinner coffee. It was the best coffee she’d had since leaving Sydney, and although midnight was approaching she was seriously considering ordering another one. She looked around the table to her dining companions. “Another coffee, anyone?”

“Definitely.” Morgan pushed her cup toward the middle of the table.

“Dearie me, no.” Marge mimicked Morgan’s actions, pushing at her cup. “If I do I won’t get a wink of sleep.” She clutched the strap of her handbag and edged out of their booth from her seat next to Ally. “I’ve had a marvelous night, bless you, dears. But this old stick had better leave you young ones to it.”

Both Ally and Morgan stood, exclaiming how Marge wasn’t old at all, and after lots of cheek-kissing and numerous expressions of thanks, they wished her a good night.

“I’ll come to see you off tomorrow.” Ally had promised to meet Marge before she disembarked at Adelaide early the next morning.

Morgan clasped Marge’s hands within her own. “It’s been a pleasure.”

Ally smiled as she saw Marge’s eyes fill with emotion and draw Morgan into a hug guaranteed to expel the air supply in her lungs. She laughed when Marge trundled toward the exit and Morgan sat down, gasping for breath.

“You’ve made her very happy.”

Morgan clutched at her ribs, grimacing. “Any happier and I’d be dead.”

Ally ignored Morgan’s theatrics, motioning for the waiter and nodding when Morgan suggested they order cognac to accompany their coffee.

“I’m going to be drunk, you know.” Ally looked a little dubiously to the potent alcohol when it was delivered to their table. In addition to her predinner gin and tonic, she had consumed a glass of white wine with her appetizer, a red with her main course and a port with her dessert.

“You’ll be fine.” Morgan picked up her cognac. “Here’s to Marge.”

“To Marge,” Ally agreed. “I told you she was a nice woman.”

“I never doubted it. In fact I never doubt anything you say, Alison.”

“Ally,” Ally corrected, suddenly feeling awkward under Morgan’s gaze. It seemed it was becoming a habit, her having experienced more than a few bouts of self-consciousness over the course of their dinner. One such bout had occurred when she posed with Marge for one of the numerous photos they took that night. Seated in their booth, she had leaned toward Marge, ready for the photo, when Morgan peered from behind Marge’s pocket digital camera. “Perfect.” The gaze that accompanied her smile had been so . . . disconcerting, Ally couldn’t hold the look. On review of the digital camera display they had needed to pose again because Ally had lowered her eyes at the moment Morgan pressed the button. Similarly, when she played camerawoman and was framing a picture of Morgan and Marge, she snapped either too early or too late, again thrown off balance by Morgan’s expression. Now, Ally twisted her cloth napkin in her hands. “Only James calls me Alison.”

“A partner’s privilege?” Morgan asked.

Ally dropped the napkin to take a sip of her cognac. “Hardly. It’s his choice. He sees the shortening of names as rather crass.”

“So God help anyone who would call him Jim?”

“Exactly.” Ally placed her glass on the table and toyed with the handle on her cup of coffee.

She’d called him Jim once. It was during sex. James had stopped what he was doing, held himself upright over her and said, “James. My name is James.” Then he began doing what he had been doing before. Ally had found this extremely funny and started giggling.

“In fact, he got so insulted the time I did it, I’m surprised he actually asked me out again.”

“How long have you been together?”

Ally took a sip of her coffee and looked directly at Morgan. Instead of answering the question she asked one of her own. “Why didn’t you tell Marge you were seeing Nick?”

“I . . .”

Ally held Morgan’s gaze, willing her to give what she hoped was an honest answer. It was over dessert that Marge—openly curious about anything to do with her idol—had brought up the subject of partners by first inquiring of Ally’s status. Upon discovering that Ally, an architect, was dating another architect, she seized onto the idea of pairing up with another of the same profession, declaring, “The last time I read
TV Week
you were seen with that lovely young man who’s a reporter on the news.”

“Lucas,” Morgan offered.

Marge bobbed her head up and down.

“We just went to a film premiere together. Nothing more.”

Marge looked disappointed that there was no romantic attachment as apparently indicated in the tabloids. “So he hadn’t asked you to marry him?”

Morgan laughed disarmingly. “Not that night, he didn’t.”

Marge’s eyes opened wide, interpreting the comment to mean that he had proposed at some stage. Ally had no idea who this Lucas was that they were talking about, but she sat a little straighter, interested to know the details of this supposed romance.