Training Days (12 page)

“I’ll see you tonight.”

“I look forward to it.” Morgan watched Ally turn to leave and was gripped by a sense of “now or never.” She couldn’t imagine sitting on her news until ten p.m. that night, or worse, having Mark niggling in her ear all day because she hadn’t yet cleared the air. “Wait.” For the second time in as many days she grabbed Ally by the arm, pleased that this time her hand was not slapped away. In the moments it took to steer Ally far enough away from her compartment door to be out of Kitty’s earshot, her stomach started to churn again and whatever was left of her last night’s dinner threatened to make an encore appearance. This coming-out business never got any easier. Although, these days, she was rather out of practice. Not counting those she worked most closely with—Mark, Nick and Kitty—it had been a good number of years since she had openly confessed her orientation to anybody. There was a culture of “don’t ask, don’t tell” at the network, so while others she worked alongside, including the other
Bonnes Vacances
presenters, may have had their suspicions, it was never discussed. Not when she was around, anyway. Morgan reminded herself she didn’t
need
to tell Ally, that she could just go down the nameless, sexless route Mark had suggested. Then she admitted she actually
did
need to tell her. For reasons Morgan herself could not entirely fathom, she felt compelled to open up to this woman. “I have to tell you something and it really can’t wait.”

“Okay,” Ally said slowly, obviously a little unsettled by Morgan’s tone.

Morgan cleared her throat, trying to rid herself of the quaver that was audible even to her own ear. “I was not with Mark the night we stopped at Kalgoorlie.”

“Okay,” Ally repeated, but this time her eyes narrowed slightly. She glanced down to Morgan’s hand on her arm, which Morgan promptly removed.

“I’ve never been with Mark . . . or Nick. They’re just friends.” Morgan saw Ally draw a long, slow breath, so she continued before Ally could verbalize whatever she was thinking. “I wasn’t with a man, Ally. It was a woman.”

There. The words were out. Well, almost out. She hadn’t actually said the “L” word, but Ally was a smart woman so there was no need for that level of precision. Morgan felt lighter for having offloaded her secret. But she also felt her feet were weighted to the floor, pinning her in place as she waited for what seemed an eternity for a response.

“Okay,” Ally said for the third time. She scratched a little nervously at her scalp and shifted her feet, her gaze settling onto the view outside the window. “That’s really interesting to know. But, like I said, I really have to go.”

“So, I’ll see you at around ten tonight?” Morgan asked, trying for a casual tone. It didn’t work very well. Her mouth was completely dry.

“Umm . . . sure.” Ally still seemed to have trouble meeting Morgan’s eyes. Now she appeared to be focusing on Morgan’s chin. “I’ll come knock on your door when I’m ready. ’Bye for now.”

“ ’Bye.” Morgan watched Ally’s retreating figure until it disappeared into the next carriage. She knew she had held Ally up by a few minutes, but still, her hasty exit gave the impression that she was fleeing from her, as opposed to hurrying toward her appointment with Marge.

“Did you get everything out?” Kitty asked when Morgan slid the door to her compartment open again.

“I think so.” Morgan sat on the bottom bunk.

“Do you feel better?”

Morgan fingered the white cotton sheets, avoiding Kitty’s eyes.
Ask me again after ten o’clock tonight.
“I don’t know yet.”

As at Kalgoorlie, there was also an hourlong, train-operated whistle-stop tour at Adelaide. While one could not make an informed judgment of a city in one hour—and even less so when viewed from a coach window—the previous day Ally had booked herself a place on the tour with the idea of using it as a brief reconnaissance. If she liked what she saw, she would suggest to James they pay the city a visit during the next holiday weekend.

The coach was waiting, but Ally found herself standing on the platform, unable to take the steps necessary to follow her fellow tour companions. Her current immobility was bizarre. She’d had no trouble moving her feet as she accompanied Marge onto the platform when the train pulled into the station. Neither had they caused her any problems when she and Marge walked together to retrieve her suitcase from the rows of baggage that the handlers quite efficiently extracted from the train. And so too had they obeyed the orders to put one in front of the other and cover the distance necessary to be introduced to Marge’s husband, Fred. In fact her feet shifted often during the ensuing ten minutes of Marge-dominated chat, seemingly itching to get on the move again. But when Marge and Fred had disappeared through the station doors and Ally had made a slow turn, looking for the tour group, her feet stopped still the moment she was facing the tracks. And since then they had refused to respond to the directives issued by Ally’s brain. Instead, they stayed put, as if suddenly glued to the cement.

Ten yards away and directly in her line of sight was the
Bonnes Vacances
crew. Nick balanced a camera on his shoulder and Mark held aloft a boom. Kitty stood a few feet back watching as Morgan shook the hand of a man that Ally presumed was the English crooner. Behind them a maroon-colored carriage that looked at odds with the relatively modern train was slowly being shunted into position.

Ally was vaguely aware of a last call for the whistle-stop tour being announced over the public address system. She really should get moving if she wanted to do her Adelaide recon. But her feet were still fastened to the platform.

And her eyes were fixed on Morgan. She had changed her outfit from the jeans and jumper she had worn that morning. Now, although the morning was cool, she was in a light, summery dress that crossed over at the cleavage and flowed out until just past the knees. She was talking animatedly to the crooner, that smile of hers lighting her face. Even from this distance, Ally could see that the smile reached her eyes. And even though the crooner’s back was to her, Ally could tell by his open-bodied stance he was more than a little interested in the woman who stood before him. He was probably also weighing his chances of glimpsing more than was being offered by the current drape of material.

Men,
Ally thought scornfully.
Got their minds on one thing only.

Inexplicably, Ally felt something very close to jealousy rush through her. But what did she have to be jealous of? It wasn’t as if it was James who was leering at Morgan. Actually, she’d be very surprised if James had ever leered in his life. In all their time together—nine months now—James had never done anything to make Ally feel threatened or jealous. She felt secure with him. Safe. Ally’s eyes bored into the bald patch that extended almost all the way down the back of the crooner’s head.
You can’t blame him for being interested.
She folded her arms.
She sure is a stunning-looking woman.
Ally tilted her head to one side, refocusing on Morgan.
And she sure doesn’t look like a lesbian
.

Immediately Ally felt her indignation rise at the notion that Morgan was yet again playing her for a fool. Then, just as quickly, her ire dissolved and it was with a somewhat self-effacing smile that Ally admitted she really had no idea what a lesbian looked like. She didn’t even know any lesbians, or, if she did, she didn’t know it. Her experience was limited to what she’d seen on television, in movies and from the sidelines two years ago at the Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras. She could discount the likes of Sharon Stone and Elle Macpherson being cast in lesbian roles as Hollywood’s catering to the male audience. But the Mardi Gras . . . if the women she had witnessed there were an indicator of real life, then lesbians came in as many varieties as their heterosexual counterparts. Including real stunners. So Morgan could be telling the truth after all.

And that surely would go a long way toward explaining why Morgan and everyone around her had been madly flapping about trying to cover up the details of her Kalgoorlie station indiscretion. It didn’t fully explain it though. While Ally’s “I don’t care what you do behind closed doors” attitude was not shared by everybody, any dent in Morgan and her show’s supposedly huge popularity would most likely be small and short-lived. After all, it wasn’t the Dark Ages anymore. So why the big fuss?

Maybe there was a girlfriend in the wings? But no, Ally dismissed that idea. Just last night Morgan had told Marge that there was no one special in her life right now. Ally had a second thought. Morgan may well have a girlfriend, but she was kept as secret as her sexuality. And the secret girlfriend would be pretty pissed off to discover her partner had been cheating on her while at work.

Ally was still contemplating the likelihood of a behind-thescenes girlfriend when she realized the filming in front of the newly attached carriage was winding up. The boom was lowered and Nick removed the camera from his shoulder to hold it by his side. Morgan shook the hand of the crooner, smiling and nodding as if in thanks. Then her face lit up again and she rushed forward, past the crooner, past Kitty, to greet what looked like yet another television crew. The camera being toted by a short, stocky woman displayed the same network logo as Nick’s, as did the bag carried by the person lugging the boom. Both logos had the word
News
tacked on the end.

So, there was a news crew here.

Ally’s speculation at what was possibly newsworthy at eight in the morning at the Adelaide train station came to an abrupt halt. She opened her eyes wider, a knot twisting in her belly. Right before her eyes, Morgan practically threw herself into the arms of a suited man—the reporter maybe?—who was accompanying the news crew. Whatever the newsworthy event was, it had either happened already or was yet to happen, since Morgan and the suited man started walking arm-in-arm away from the other crew members. The man—just shy of Morgan’s height, probably around Morgan’s age—paused for a moment, laughed and pushed a strand of hair from Morgan’s eyes. It was a very familiar gesture, and one that suggested intimacy. The knot in Ally’s stomach twisted.
She’s damn well lied to me again.

Morgan and the man were heading in her direction, toward the station. Ally wasn’t going to hang around and find out how Morgan would talk her way out of this one. She willed her feet to move, and finally they obeyed.

Two minutes later she was back in her compartment. She slammed the door across, fully prepared to throw herself onto her bunk. But some staff member had been in her compartment in her absence and the bunk had already been converted back to daytime seating.

Fucking efficiency freaks.
Ally threw herself into the seat instead and sat with her chin on her knuckles, not knowing whether the tears that threatened were angry tears, or disappointed tears. She decided they were a little of both. She was angry at Morgan for having lied . . . again, and disappointed that she had lied . . . again. Whoever said the train was the best way to travel obviously had never traveled on one with Morgan-frigging-Silverstone.

Sitting and fuming did not make the time pass quickly and it didn’t take too long before Ally was bored with it. Restless, she headed for the restaurant carriage, where they were still serving breakfast. Morgan was not present, nor was any of the
Bonnes Vacances
crew.
Just as well
, Ally thought as she took a seat in the one and only vacant booth available. As she waited for her toast and coffee to arrive, she again sat with her chin on her knuckles, dreaming up a thousand things to say to Morgan when she next saw her. None of them were particularly nice. She lingered as long as she could over her meager breakfast, ordering a second coffee and then a third, but it was still only nine a.m. when she wandered back to her carriage. There was still one more hour before the train would pull out.

Maybe she could take a stroll around the streets. Or maybe not. She wouldn’t get far in an hour and since the train didn’t stop at the central Adelaide station but at Keswick, they were two kilometers shy of the city proper. Even at a brisk pace she’d just reach the city before having to turn back. She’d have to visit Adelaide sight unseen with James—or, more likely, not visit at all.

James.

Ally decided to give him a call. She settled into her seat and dialed. It rang. But not too surprisingly, he didn’t answer. At this hour on a Friday he was usually ensconced in one of his partner meetings. James was the “Tymeson” in Ernst, Small and Tymeson, an architectural firm that specialized in low-rise residential property. At forty, he was the youngest partner in the firm and had in fact not long been awarded partner status when Ally first met him. They met over a tray of exotic nibbles at an industry cocktail party. It may have been the high that James was on due to his promotion, but on that occasion Ally found him enthusiastic about their shared profession, charming and talkative. She agreed to a post-cocktail dinner, which he followed up three days later with another dinner invitation. At their third dinner—this time at the iconic Summit restaurant—he sealed a deal on behalf of his firm with some Singaporean property developers. That night also seemed to seal the deal on their relationship. Nothing was ever formalized—certainly not by engagement or even with a spoken agreement of their pairing. They just slipped into exclusivity. Friends began inviting them as a couple and they accepted or declined as a couple. It was assumed that Ally would attend James’s client dinners just as it became the norm for them to spend their nights together, either at Ally’s Croyden apartment or James’s Balmain townhouse. Sometimes Ally wished the early days of their relationship had been filled with a bit more excitement, a bit more spontaneity. But as James liked to point out, excitement was usually the result of either speed or the unexpected—or the unexpected occurring at speed. And spontaneity was for those who didn’t have a plan. In other words, consistency and reliability undertaken at a respectable pace was the ethos James lived by. To date it had not done him any harm. He was successful, respected, steadfast. He was a good man. He was . . . nice.