Training Days (2 page)

Or, more likely, she did such things because she eked some sort of grim satisfaction from making life difficult for Morgan. Morgan knew, despite Kitty’s outward impression that last February’s “Mai Tai Incident” in Chiang Mai was forgotten, inwardly she had never actually forgiven.

Mark and Morgan agreed all the Red action was most likely to be happening in either the diner car, where meals and snacks could be purchased, or in the lounge car with its club-type seating and bar area. Their assumption was pretty much correct. A couple of the sleeper compartment doors they passed were open, and sly glances showed the occupants to be window-gazing, reading or in quiet conversation. The corridors were surprisingly devoid of people, and thankfully the people who squeezed past them either did not recognize Morgan or chose not to acknowledge the fact.

There was an immediate change in atmosphere as soon as Mark opened the door to the lounge car. Dozens had gathered in the comparatively wide space, many clustered in tight groups along the upholstered seating that flanked either side of the carriage. Others nursed their drinks as they leaned on the high circular tables found in bars around the world. At the far end of the carriage a group of young men had discovered the video game consoles. Occasional cheers or groans came from their direction as the current player either blew something up or was himself blown to pieces.

Generally, the patrons were pretty much involved in their own activities and conversations, so Mark and Morgan’s entrance did not cause a sea of heads to swivel in their direction. Morgan nodded to the bar. “My buy.”

“The usual, thanks.” Mark was already headed in the direction of the smoking capsule, located next to the video consoles. “I’ll be right back.”

Morgan ordered a vodka and cranberry for herself and a beer for Mark. The woman behind the bar opened her eyes a little wider in the body language of recognition but silently placed two coasters on the bar and attended to preparing her drinks. “There you go, Ms. Silverstone,” she murmured as she placed the glasses on the coasters.

“Thank you.” No doubt all the staff on this journey had been briefed about the presence of a
Bonnes Vacances
film crew, but still Morgan nodded and smiled, appreciating the woman’s discretion. Five years as the anchor presenter for the travel show that constantly ripped through the ratings had long ago stripped her of her anonymity. Her fame was restricted to Australia, which meant—apart from the natural curiosity of the general public when stumbling across a working film crew—she could move relatively freely in other countries. On Australia-based assignments such as this, however, she spent a good amount of time in the presence of starstruck fans. Morgan reluctantly accepted this fact as part and parcel of her job. After all, no fans meant no ratings, which ultimately meant no show . . . and no job.

Morgan slid the glasses across the bar, moving away from the central serving area. She stayed facing the bar, sipping on her drink and enjoying a brief moment of being nobody before she had to slip back into “Morgan” mode. The moment lasted for a full minute. Then she felt the weight of someone’s glance.

“Excuse me.”

Here we go,
Morgan thought cynically, half turning toward the voice and preparing her television presenter smile. Her efforts were wasted. The young woman standing next to her was not addressing her at all but was instead trying to get the bartender’s attention. The bartender had moved to the far end of the small bar, within earshot but intent on straightening the packets of dry-roasted peanuts in a display stand of various bar snacks.

“
Pardon
,
madame
?” the young woman rephrased, a little louder this time.

Morgan leaned forward over the bar and waved to get the bartender’s attention. “Hello?” she called.

The bartender immediately left her peanuts and rushed over. “I’m sorry Ms.—” She stopped short when Morgan shook her head and nodded to the woman next to her.

The bartender changed the focus of her attention. “How can I help you?”

“One espresso please. To take with me.”

Morgan noted the young woman spoke with a strong French accent. Given that the espressos in France were among the best Morgan had ever tasted, she was tempted to tell the young woman the coffee was likely to be terrible. Instead she held her tongue, covertly eyeing the woman’s profile. She liked what she saw—hair short, but not too short, strong features without being harsh, taut skin touched by the sun. The T-shirt was loose without being baggy and the pants were a stylish cargo type with multiple pockets.

Maybe?
Morgan mused, idly stirring the swizzle stick in her vodka and cranberry.

Definitely
, Morgan decided ten seconds later. The bartender had presented the woman with her espresso, a sugar sachet and a plastic stirrer. The woman turned to Morgan, looked her straight in the eye and smiled. It was a short, penetrating look, but it spoke volumes.

Definitely a dyke.

The coffee was held up and the woman continued to look directly at Morgan as she nodded in the direction of the bartender. “
Merci beaucoup
. . .” She smiled again as she corrected herself. “Thank you very much.”

Morgan had been right. She was French, or perhaps from a Frenchspeaking country. She delved into her memory, searching for an appropriate response in her extremely limited stockpile of French phrases. Nothing immediately came to mind, so she opted for an Australian phrase instead. “No worries.”

That caused the French woman to pause then laugh softly. “No worries,” she repeated, as if trying out the words for the first time. “It is an ‘Aussie’ saying?”

Morgan shifted to face her fully. This was not the first time she had been beguiled by an accent. It was one of her failings, and a path her globetrotting career led her down many times. She nodded, noting the woman gave her a quick once-over before returning her gaze. Morgan answered the unspoken “I’m interested” with a sultry stare. “Very Aussie.”

At that moment Mark, reeking of tobacco smoke, appeared at Morgan’s side. “Thanks, Mogs.” He reached around her for his beer, which was still sitting on the bar. “What’s very Aussie?”

“We were just talking about our ‘no worries’ saying.” Morgan took a sip of her vodka and cranberry, discreetly checking the Frenchwoman’s reaction to the interruption. As feared, she totally misinterpreted Mark’s presence. The woman’s eyes flicked from Morgan to Mark and immediately her demeanor changed, tightening and closing.

The little cardboard cup of espresso was held up. “I must go to my place. The coffee—it gets cold.”

Morgan nodded a good-bye and dismally watched the woman fade into the crowd.

“What?” Mark asked when Morgan glowered at him. Then he said, “Oh,” as he realized he had interrupted something. He slapped Morgan on the back and leaned toward her. “Just as well I came when I did then. Don’t forget where we are.”

“I know, I know.” Morgan sighed a heavy sigh. The Australian-made closet she lived in to protect her public persona sure put the reins on her love life. “Come.” She downed her vodka and cranberry in a series of swallows and placed the empty glass onto the bar. “Let’s go mingle.”

Forty minutes later and Morgan was desperate for a toilet break, the diuretic qualities of her drink of choice taking effect as she finished her third vodka and cranberry for the day. She excused herself from her present company—a very sweet old married couple from Adelaide—and worked her way through the crowd to Mark, who was in the process of protecting the galaxy from deadly invaders. After being stopped twice by people who had met her briefly and now assumed they had best-friend status, she finally made it to the bank of video games.

She tapped Mark on the shoulder, told him she would see him at dinner and headed out of the carriage in the direction of the nearest toilet. To her dismay, but not to her surprise, it was engaged. A sign pointed to alternate facilities in the next carriage, so Morgan continued on.

It too was occupied. Morgan figured the farther she moved from the lounge car, the more likely she would find a free toilet. She passed through to what was the first of the upright seating carriages.

“What does a girl have to do to take a pee ’round here?” she muttered on discovering that, yet again, the toilet was occupied.

She was at the stage of need where she’d have to cross her legs if she waited in the one spot, so she made one more desperate flee to the next carriage. The toilet was vacant. She ducked in.

A few minutes later, with her kidneys now taken care of, Morgan was able to give her immediate surrounds a bit more attention. The seats were like those of most modern long-distance trains. They looked remarkably similar to airplane seating, and with not too much more leg room. Many of the seats in this particular carriage were littered with reading matter, rugs, pillows and other nonvaluable oddments that indicated they were occupied but temporarily vacated. Morgan surmised the passengers were either crowded into the lounge or diner cars, or trawling up and down the narrow corridors, stretching their legs.

Morgan checked the number on the carriage door to see exactly where she was. Carriage four. Since she had been steadily moving toward the front of the train, that meant seat number twenty-seven in the next carriage was home for camera-wielding Marge. It was too close to dinnertime to become ensconced in another difficult-to-escape conversation, so Morgan retraced her steps. She would be passing this way tomorrow morning anyway, for an early interview with one of the train drivers, so she would call a hello to Marge on the way past.

The mere thought of Marge seemed to make her materialize. She was close at the heels of another woman of around the same age so she was only partially in view, but the voice was unmistakable. The leading woman wore a suffering expression and Morgan wondered how long she had been listening to tales of, bless him, husband Fred. Morgan’s sympathy for the woman’s plight was, however, not enough to provide her with an avenue of escape. Morgan noticed the two seats closest to her were vacant. She flung herself into the one next to the aisle, and although now facing the opposite direction to Marge and her companion, she picked up the magazine lying on the next seat and stuck her nose into it.

She stayed with head bent into the magazine until Marge’s voice, which continued unabated, disappeared with her voluminous frame into the next carriage. With a loud sigh she tossed the magazine back where she found it. Only then did she notice the set of khaki-clad knees close to hers. Morgan lifted her gaze to the person sitting immediately opposite her, in one of the two backward-facing seats, and immediately raised her eyebrows in surprise.

It was the Frenchwoman.

Morgan gave a crooked, embarrassed smile. Of all the seats she had to dive into like a criminal, it had to be this one. Maybe she could redeem herself with some French. “
Bonjour
.”

The woman smiled back, obviously amused, if somewhat bemused, by Morgan’s unexpected visit. “
Bonsoir
.”

You gotta love how the French can’t help but point out your language mistakes
, Morgan thought a little sourly. She nodded in acknowledgment of the correction, considered explaining her actions but decided against it, holding out her hand instead. “
Je m’appelle
Morgan.”

The woman’s grip was firm, warm and dry, and the eyes that met hers steady. “Marie.”

“
Enchantée
.” Morgan held both Marie’s hand and her gaze a little longer than necessary. It had the desired effect. There was a renewed flash of interest in Marie’s eyes.

“
Parlez-vous français
?” Marie asked, her expression hopeful.

“
Pas vraiment
.” Morgan shook her head, and her lack of French language skills forced her to switch back to English. “Only enough to order a coffee and a croissant.”

This time Marie’s eyes lit up. “You ’ave visited my country?”

Morgan had probably been to France over a dozen times during her five years with
Bonnes Vacances
. “Once or twice. It’s very beautiful . . . they make good espresso too,” she said as she looked pointedly at the empty cardboard cup that lay wedged between the window and what she assumed was Marie’s overnight bag.

“
Bof!
” Marie exclaimed disgustedly, “The coffee ’ere. It is ’orrible!”

Morgan laughed. “I know. I should have warned you.” She searched her brain for the French version of sorry. “
Desolée
.”

Marie paused, apparently searching for words. She looked very pleased with herself as she said, “No worries.”

Morgan laughed out loud. English spoken with a French accent really was delightful. “So, Marie . . . apart from our fabulous coffee, what brings you to Australia?”

Morgan learned that Marie, having finished school last June, had taken a gap year before starting university. She was using the year to travel and so far had been through India, Thailand and Indonesia. She’d flown into Perth from Bali less than a week ago. In the days since then she made a tourist-bus dash to see the otherworldly rock formations of the Pinnacles, and on the same tour saw the dolphins come into shore at Shark Bay. During a day spent at Perth’s own island getaway, Rottnest, she’d fallen in love with the bohemian atmosphere in the port city of Fremantle. Her next stop was Kalgoorlie, then on to the Eastern States and, finally, New Zealand.