Training Days (19 page)

She stopped in front of Lot 23, a brand new Vespa scooter, and speculated over how much it might fetch. Ally loved the idea of a scooter but couldn’t quite picture herself darting in and out of the Sydney traffic on her way to and from work every day. She could be persuaded to indulge in the two bottles of the Krug Grande Cuvée champagne that comprised Lot 34 though. And the nighttime Sydney Harbor Bridge climb was very appealing too, despite her fear of heights. Everyone she knew who had done the climb said the views were spectacular, especially at night. And the danger of falling was next to nil, since everyone was attached to the bridge by safety ropes.

Having decided on the few items she might bid on, she joined the rest of her group, already past the end of the display area. They, along with a few other people around them, were discussing what Lot 55, the “Mystery Lot,” could possibly be. Apparently last year it was the deputy headmaster. He’d been won by the father of one of the students, who’d promptly handed him over to his son. The son and his group of friends had taken the deputy paintballing.

“The poor fellow was black and blue from all the paintballs that were fired at him.” Phil guffawed.

There was more hearty backslapping by the three men as they imagined being able to do the same thing to their deputy headmaster when they were at school. And that concluded the Mystery Lot speculation, them turning to a series of school days “do you remember whens?” Their reminiscing was accompanied by lots of guffaws and lots of slaps on the back.

“Phil will wake up tomorrow and wonder why he can hardly move.” Barbara cackled, shaking her head. She had loosened up a little since downing her glass of champagne, even though it “wasn’t quite chilled enough.”

Ally laughed along, temporarily shelving the very appealing image of Barbara being the Mystery Lot, bidding for her, winning, and then taking her for paintballing target practice. “Men,” she said simply.

Mandy laughed too, raising her glass and shooting glance number two hundred and seventy eight in James’s direction. “You gotta love ’em.”

“Yeah. You gotta.” This time Ally’s laugh was just a teeny bit hollow. She craned her head to see over the men’s shoulders. “I think they’re about to start serving lunch. I might see if I can beat the queue.”

“I’ll come with you,” Barbara said quickly.

Can’t a woman get a minute alone?
Ally thought sourly. But she nodded and smiled, leading the way as they passed through the crowd to the buffet table.

“I’d have my eye on that one if I were you,” Barbara said as she picked up two plates. She held onto both of them so Ally assumed she was either very hungry, or she was going to play the role of gatherer for her husband.

“On which one?” Ally pretended she didn’t know who Barbara was talking about. She picked up a single plate and eyed the selection, suddenly hungry at the sight of all the food.

“On Mandy.” Barbara nodded knowingly. “She’s got designs on your James.”

“He’s not ‘my’ James.” Ally selected some sushi rolls and dabbed a large spoonful of wasabi onto her plate. “And if he wants her then he can have her.” Sensing Barbara’s open-mouthed horror at that statement, she continued, “I’m not going to get into a catfight over some man. If he decides he’d rather be with her, then I won’t stand in his way.”

“That’s almost exactly what Ned said about his ex-wife,” Barbara said in a warning tone.

“Then Ned and I must be quite alike.” Ally finished off her plate with some marinated octopus and a melange of salad leaves. “I’ll see you back with the group.”

On her return trip she passed Mandy, who was purportedly heading toward the buffet. Mandy eyed her plate. “You didn’t get anything for James?”

Ally shrugged. “Last time I looked both his legs were in working order.” She smiled at Mandy and continued through the crowd, wondering what delicacies the little vamp would bring back for him.

By the time she was back at James’s side her smile had vanished. Surely she should be feeling at least a little territorial, a little jealous? But no, she wasn’t. If anything, all she felt was the concern of a sister watching a gold digger trying to get her hooks into her brother. Although maybe even that wasn’t accurate. Ally had no siblings, so the notion of sisterly concern was an alien concept. Probably she wasn’t feeling concerned because she had nothing to be concerned about. Goodness knew she’d told herself often enough that she trusted James implicitly. So her lack of worry now was purely her demonstrating that fact. Yes. That was it.

Pleased at the reasonable explanation for her seeming lack of care, Ally applied a decent layer of wasabi onto a salmon sushi roll and popped it into her mouth. The wasabi was potent— much more so than the one served at the Japanese takeaway near her office—and Ally felt the sudden shock of it as it spread through her nasal passages. It hit her eyes just at the moment Mandy and Barbara reappeared. Since it felt like her head was about to explode, probably she looked like it too. Mandy, who had been holding an overflowing plate in James’s direction, gave her a look of alarm, retracted the offering and aimed it instead toward Ned.

Ned, who had been studying the auction booklet, was seemingly oblivious to the fact he had almost missed out on lunch. He accepted the plate. “Thanks, love.”

Barbara handed a plate to Phil and then, nodding approvingly, leaned over to whisper in Ally’s ear, “You go, girl. Put the bitch in her place.”

That comment sounded so utterly absurd coming from Barbara that Ally had to pop another sushi roll—sans wasabi— into her mouth to avoid laughing out loud.

James, now being the only person without lunch, glanced hungrily at her plate. “That looks good.”

“It is.” Ally nodded in the direction of the buffet but had a sudden change of heart about telling him to go get something before it all disappeared. She held her plate in between them. “Let’s share.”

Morgan was halfway across the Harbor Bridge when her phone buzzed. This being the umpteenth time it had rung already today, she was tempted to ignore it. But the part of her that still held hope Ally might call glanced expectantly to the caller I.D. Her expression fell. It was only Michael, her agent. She let it ring.

It stopped and was pleasantly silent for the rest of her journey, even throughout the wrong turn she made and her subsequent unscheduled stop to check her map. But it rang again as she was turning into the gated entrance to the boys’ school where she was due to be “auctioned off.” It was Michael again.

“All right, already. Jesus!” Morgan pointed her Mercedes in the direction of the sign that read “Staff only” parking, pulled into the first bay she found free and cut the engine. “Yes, Michael?” she said curtly as she undid her seat belt. “I hope this is more important than last time. This
is
my one and only day off, you know.”

Yesterday, after being ignored by Ally and after making Marie’s transport and accommodation arrangements, she’d killed the time left before the train arrived by answering some of her phone messages. She’d rolled her eyes skyward when Michael imparted the details of the so-called “exciting opportunity” he had mentioned in his message the previous day. Apparently some biographer to the stars wanted to write her life story. She’d reminded Michael she was only thirty-five years old and hopefully hadn’t already done everything that may be worth writing about. And—not being in the best of moods—she also pointed out that she was trained in journalism, so, surprise, surprise, could string a sentence together. Hence, if anyone was going to write her life story, it would be her. And she hung up.

Now, Michael gave an audible sigh before saying, “Sounds like somebody’s going to get their period soon.”

Morgan rolled her eyes skyward again. He could be as bitchy as any self-respecting queen. Not that he’d ever admitted to her he was a gay man. The philosophy of “don’t ask, don’t tell” at the network also applied to her relationship with her agent, and that aspect of their lives was never discussed. Only business and money, percentages and profile-raising opportunities. And where Morgan was in her cycle. “Yes, Michael, I am. So unless you want to be the victim of a PMS-induced crime, you’d better tell me what you want quick-smart.”

“Have you ever heard of a little event called the Logies?” Michael asked primly.

Of course she’d heard of the Logies. They were the Australian television industry’s equivalent to the Emmys.
Bonnes Vacances
had amassed a nice collection of the little statues over the years and had indeed added another two at this year’s ceremony, held only the month prior. “Get to the point.”

Michael took a deep breath before saying in a very tightly controlled voice, “What would you say if I told you I had been approached asking if you want to host next year’s event? Alone.”

Morgan gasped. Hosting the Logies was an honor that had been bestowed on only a select few over the years. And of that select few, even fewer were women. In fact, Morgan could think of only one time a woman had single-handedly hosted the event. All others had been in a cohosting role. Michael had to be bullshitting her. “No way!”

“I kid you not, my darling.” Michael’s controlled tone evaporated, replaced by his gushing, excited one. “I took the call from the head of the awards committee this morning. And you, my ever-so-popular little beauty, are their first choice.”

“Oh, my God.” Morgan could hardly believe her ears.

“They want to talk to you sometime this week.”

Morgan nodded. “Yes, yes, of course.”

“I know you’re leaving again on Wednesday so I proposed tomorrow night—Monday. You
are
free?”

Morgan was scheduled for recording segment leadins tomorrow and Tuesday, but they should wind up around six. “Even if I wasn’t, I’d make myself.”

“Excellent. I’ll call you back later with the venue and time.” Michael sniffed, a sure indication there was a bitchy comment to come. “And this time keep your PMS monster in its cage.”

Morgan hung up the phone without replying.

Oh, my God. The Logies.
She shook her head in amazement as she consulted the instruction sheet that gave directions as to where she was supposed to go once having entered the school grounds. “The Logies,” she said to herself in wonder as she stepped out of her car and followed the sign that pointed to the assembly hall.

Given the maze of buildings that stretched out across the impressive school grounds, she was rather surprised that she found the hall without fuss. She was late, but that didn’t matter. According to the agenda, they should be serving a buffet-style lunch right now, the auction itself not due to start for another forty minutes. Morgan extended her hand to the man who welcomed her at the entrance and who announced himself as William, the organizer of the event. She smiled brilliantly in his direction.
Wow. The Logies.
And she walked beside him into the assembly hall, which was buzzing with the chatter of the quite sizable crowd.

They stopped not too far from a bank of cordoned-off white-clothed tables, upon which the auction items—with the exception of a very handsome but floor-bound Vespa scooter—were on display. It was with a slight grimace that she saw that Lot 55—the final lot—had only a gold glitter card with a black question mark on it. Since it was the only lot without an item attached, she assumed it was hers.

“I hope I’m not going to have to stand on the table and be ‘viewed,’” she said only half-jokingly to William.

He gave a roar of laughter then shook his head, showing her the last page of a little booklet that gave details of each lot. “See here.” He pointed to the details of Lot 55. “It’s a mystery lot. No one will know what it is until the auctioneer presents you at the time.” He waited for her to nod in understanding then steered her past the tables and to a small cluster of two men and a woman, all of whom held little plates of food. According to his introductions, they were the other members of the organizing committee.

After saying her hellos and accepting a glass of champagne from a wandering waiter, Morgan took a moment to size up the crowd. Lots of suits. Lots of designer dresses. And a distinct smell of money in the air. Morgan took a sip of her champagne, watching as empty glasses were placed on trays and immediately replaced with full ones. She decided—given the impressive-looking array of goods that were to go under the hammer—if the alcohol served to loosen the catches on some wallets even a little, this auction stood to make a very tidy sum indeed. She hoped they still had some money left by the time it came to the Mystery Lot. It would be rather embarrassing to be passed in.

“Would you like a little something to eat, Ms. Silverstone?”

“Please, call me Morgan.” She smiled at William and nodded. She hadn’t eaten any dinner the previous night, having picked all day at the trays of sandwiches and muffins that the studio provided at every meeting. And she hadn’t had any breakfast, a cup of coffee her only companion as she spent the morning wandering aimlessly around her apartment, turning the events of the past few days over and over in her mind and stopping every few minutes to check her phone, which lay charging on a lamp table. Ally hadn’t called.

She followed William to the buffet. It was slow progress, since he saw fit to introduce her to everyone he knew along the way, but finally she had a small plate laden with an array of very tasty little treats. While she had been making a selection from the platter of sushi, William had been tapped on the shoulder and had hurried away to tend to some pre-auction detail, so she weaved her way back through the crowd alone, aiming for the still-clustered committee members.