Training Days (25 page)

Her hopes plunged with the voice. It was some offshore telemarketing center wanting to know if she was happy with her car insurance. Morgan had long ago learned that a firm but polite “I’m not interested” usually did the trick. But she wasn’t in the mood for polite right now. “Bugger off!” she barked and disconnected.

No more unknown callers called that evening. Morgan picked at her room service dinner and placed the nearly untouched plate outside the door. She took her phone to bed with her, and instead of turning it off as she usually did, she turned the ring volume back on and set it to maximum. That way she was sure not to miss a single call, even if it occurred in the middle of the night.

Morgan lay with her phone in hand, staring at the ceiling, hating that she was putting her life on hold in the hope of receiving a call. It was time for some proactivity. She decided—if Ally had not reconsidered and called by the time they left Vanuatu for Fiji on Friday morning—she would commandeer Kitty’s laptop while they were waiting at the airport, hopefully hook up to the Internet via a wi-fi connection and Google Ally. Morgan knew her full name: Alison Brown. She knew her profession: Architect. And she knew where she worked: Sydney. Google could almost certainly find her based on that degree of information, and if not, well, she’d just have to make a directory search on all the architectural firms specializing in sustainable housing in the Sydney area. Surely there couldn’t be too many. So, one way or another she was sure to get Ally’s office phone number and address. Morgan was flying in from Fiji on Sunday, so on Monday morning, before she hopped back on a plane—this time to Barcelona in Spain—she’d drop into Ally’s office and pay her a personal visit.

Yes, that was a damn good plan. Satisfied, Morgan turned onto her side and fell asleep with her phone still clutched in her hand.

Ally woke with a feeling of well-being on Thursday, having slept surprisingly well the night before. She bounced through her preparations for the day, ate a massive bowl of cereal, downed a coffee and an orange juice and arrived at the office feeling she could just about take on the world.

Something good was going to happen very soon. She could feel it in her bones. Maybe today she’d hit the jackpot with her permutations. Ally pulled out her phone and considered trying the next sequence of numbers. But it was a little early to be disturbing people—even strangers. Instead she booted up her computer, had a look at the picture that lay under her keyboard, made herself another coffee and got down to work.

At eight thirty she reached for her first phone call of the day. But she didn’t pick it up, a glance to the display of her desk phone telling her it was James.

Ally felt rather bad for not answering but she let it ring out.

Fifteen minutes later he tried again. Ally wondered why he didn’t try her mobile number and then remembered he hadn’t been included in yesterday’s SMS and e-mail sends. She didn’t pick up.

Another fifteen minutes passed and another phone call from James. Obviously, until she spoke to him she wouldn’t get a moment of peace. “Hello.”

“I miss you.”

“Will you please stop calling me every few minutes?”

“I haven’t.”

“I know you have. Your name keeps appearing on my phone.”

James gave a little embarrassed cough. “I’m sorry, Alison. But I just wanted to speak to you. To see if you’ve reconsidered.”

“No, James, I haven’t.”

There was a silence over the line, then, “Who is she?”

That was the first time he had asked that question. Ally was not going to answer. She changed the subject, her tone a little brusque, indicating she was not in for a discussion. “I have all your things packed and ready. When would you like to come over and pick them up?”

“Alison . . .”

“And when can I come over to pick up mine?”

“Let’s have dinner tonight and we can talk about it then.”

Ally hesitated. She knew if she accepted it would get James’s hopes up. But she also knew if she didn’t, there was a great possibility she’d be barraged by phone calls until she did.

It was time to take a tough line. “I’m transferring all my calls to reception, so there’s no point calling me again today. I’ll phone you tonight and we can talk a little then. ’Bye for now.” She hung up before he could reply and immediately dialed Kirsty, who in addition to her drafting tasks took all the general inquiries, both over the phone and front of office. “Can you please take my calls today? If James calls, tell him I’m busy and can’t be disturbed. But I’m expecting a call from a Morgan, so if she calls you can switch her straight through.”

If Kirsty wondered why Ally didn’t want to speak to James, she didn’t ask. Ally would have to break the news of her split to staff eventually, but not right now. Right now she really wanted to get her 3-D rendering of the Kalgoorlie residence completed, hopefully before her five o’clock meeting with Josh. She wanted to wow him with her six-bedroom, four-bathroom, open-planliving, solar-powered, ranch-style masterpiece before he left for Barcelona tomorrow.

At nine thirty she was disturbed by Kirsty, who popped her head around her door. “The boss just came in. Said he wants to see you.”

“Okay.” Ally looked up and frowned. Why didn’t Josh just pop his own head ’round the door like he normally did? “I’ll be there in one minute.”

In less than that she knocked on his door.

“It’s Ally.”

“Come in.”

“You wanted to see me?” she asked, immediately noticing he looked quite drained. Normally no one would guess he was close to fifty-five. Today he was showing every one of his years.

“Yes.” Josh nodded for her to close the door and then for her to sit. He leaned forward in his chair, resting his arms on the desk and clasping his hands together. “Ally, you know my son, Paterson.”

Ally nodded. Josh’s teenaged son had visited the offices on dozens of occasions. She’d seen him sprout from a gangly kid to the rangy seventeen-year-old he was now. Only a month prior he’d come strutting into the office, proud as punch as he jangled the keys of his first “set of wheels,” an ancient Torana sedan with holes in the upholstery, badly faded paintwork and an intermittent backfire. Ally was surprised it was even allowed on the road. Her insides froze. Surely nothing had happened to the kid in that deathtrap of a vehicle?

Josh clenched his hands more tightly together. “Paterson was arrested last night—”

“Thank God!” Ally blurted, relieved he was alive and well.

Josh threw her a very odd glance. “For possession of drugs—”

“Oh,” Ally interrupted again, feeling a little foolish for her untimely outburst.

“And for driving a stolen vehicle.”

“Oh,” Ally repeated. She was awash with questions: were there others in the car, how was he caught, was there a chase, was anybody hurt, did Josh know his son was taking drugs, what drugs was he taking? But she didn’t ask. It would be hard enough for Josh to have discovered Paterson had run off the rails, without having to suffer twenty questions about it from an employee. Come to think of it, why was Josh telling her all of this in the first place? Apart from the occasional “how was your weekend” query, they didn’t usually discuss their personal lives at the office. Maybe, on this occasion, he needed a sympathetic ear. “I’m really sorry, Josh. It must have been very difficult for you and Helen.”

Josh acknowledged her sympathy with a nod. “It’s been a long night. But he’s home with us now and his court hearing is on Wednesday, so hopefully this ordeal will soon be over.”

“Really? That’s fast.” Ally had thought the court system was clogged with waiting periods extending into weeks and months. But maybe they fed the “simple” cases through quickly. Then she realized the timing. Josh would be on the other side of the globe next Wednesday. “Good to get it over and done with, I guess. But bad timing as far as the conference goes.”

Josh shook his head. “I won’t be going. I want to be there for Paterson . . . and I don’t want Helen to have to deal with it all by herself.”

Ally nodded. She’d also met Josh’s wife, Helen, on a number of occasions. She was an artist, creating beautiful silkscreens, samples of which hung around the office. In Ally’s opinion, Helen was almost as delicate as her creations. Not one to cope well in a crisis.

Josh unclasped his hands. “How’s your latest project progressing?”

“Very well,” she admitted, a little thrown by the abrupt change in topic. “I’ll have the walk-through ready to run past you this afternoon. I promised the client initial plans by close of business tomorrow.”

“Excellent.” Josh nodded. “What else is on your plate at the moment?”

“Well, I’m in a holding pattern with the Boyden account while Mrs. Boyden waits until her planets are properly aligned for making a decision on the floor plan.” Ally was pleased to see the eccentric behavior of one of her clients managed to raise a smile. “I’ve also got final plans out with the Changs, but they’ve promised me an answer by next Tuesday. There’s a site visit for the final stages of the two-story in Quaker’s Hill. That’s on Friday. And also on Friday I’ve got an appointment with some potential new clients. I can’t remember their names offhand.”

“So nothing of a screaming urgency that only you can handle?”

“Not really,” Ally said carefully. It was never wise to admit you were dispensable.

“And your passport is up-to-date?”

Ally glanced sharply at Josh. “Pardon?”

“You’ll need a passport if you’re going to take my place at the conference.”

Ally’s mouth fell open. She’d
known
something good was going to happen today. But Barcelona? Tomorrow? Fantastic!

Except for the thought of all that flying. And except for the fact her dialing permutations would also have to come to a halt. Maybe she could squeeze in a number here and there in between everything she would have to organize at the office. And probably a couple more tonight after she’d packed her bag and watched last Friday’s episode of
Bonnes Vacances,
which, according to the television schedule, was to be repeated after the Thursday night movie finished at ten thirty p.m. But she couldn’t use the phone in the plane, and she could kiss her job good-bye if Josh received a telephone bill for potentially hundreds of calls charged at international roaming costs. So all her other dialing would have to wait until she got back.

In a week.

So much for something good happening today. Barcelona. The whole idea sucked. But for Josh’s sake she forced out a smile. “Really? Excellent.”

Midmorning on Friday Morgan settled into a quiet corner of the little departure lounge at Vanuatu airport and fired up Kitty’s laptop.

As suspected, her Google search for “Alison Brown Architect Sydney” was immediately successful. Morgan scanned the first ten or so results and clicked on one particular entry that caught her eye. “Wow,” she exclaimed softly when the page from the
Architectural Digest
Web site had loaded. If Ally had designed the house represented in the single photo then she was good,
very
good, at what she did. The short paragraph of text that accompanied the picture—it seemed one must subscribe to the magazine to get the full story—was enough to glean that Ally had indeed designed the featured home. It also gave the name of the company she worked for. Design for Tomorrow. Morgan immediately opened a new browser window and navigated to the White Pages phone directory. Within seconds she had a number and an address.

She glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes before boarding would begin. Plenty of time to make a quick call. But should she?

Morgan pondered the options. Ally could hang up on a phone call. But it would be a bit more difficult for her to avoid Morgan in person—especially in an office environment.

She decided to give her a surprise visit on Monday.

Within less than a minute Ally’s office details had been transferred into Morgan’s notebook. Then she closed down the laptop and hurried to the tiny newsstand to scour the shelves for the
Architectural Digest
magazine. She tucked a copy of the most recent edition—that which featured Ally’s design—under her arm for closer examination on her flight to Fiji.

Mark, who was seated next to her during the flight, quirked an eyebrow when he discovered Morgan’s latest taste in reading matter. “You looking to upgrade from that harbor-side shack you call home?” he asked.

“Something like that,” Morgan said evasively, closing the pages a little so his view of the content was restricted.

Mark responded by shifting in his seat and peering more closely at the magazine. “Hey, is that
our
Alison Brown?” he asked, pointing to a caption next to the main picture on the first page of the six-page article.

Morgan feigned surprise and made a show of pretending to read it for the first time. “Why, I think it is.”

“Great house,” he said simply, without a trace of sarcasm. “She’s good.”

Morgan nodded, trying very hard to keep the enthusiasm from her voice and a smile from creeping across her features. She wasn’t very successful. “Seems so.”