Training Days (6 page)

Ally recalled mentioning something to James about good karma befalling her for sparing the crab. And she recalled James’s scoff. Despite his post-coital levity, he still didn’t believe in karma and other such “hocus-pocus.”

Right now, neither did Ally.
Karma, my ass
, she thought as she gently lifted herself from her seat. Marge shifted and so Ally stopped still halfway to standing. Luckily, Marge did not wake. Last night she had discovered the woman could talk the hind legs off a donkey. But, she also discovered when Marge finally stopped talking long enough for her to get a word in, she was a kindly woman with a sympathetic ear.

On hearing Ally’s plight, Marge had clucked and tut-tutted and shaken her head in disgust. “That’s terrible, dear.” She patted her arm consolingly. “To think the booking office could be allowed to make a mistake like that. I should have a word with my friend, Morgan Silverstone, for you. Bless her, such a lovely woman. I’m sure she could do something to help you, dear.”

Ally’s ears had pricked up at the name. “Morgan?” she repeated.

“Oh yes, dear. You
must
have heard of Morgan Silverstone. She’s traveling on the train while they do some filming for
Bonnes Vacances
. Such a wonderful show. I watch it every week.”

“I think I might have heard the name.” Ally didn’t watch much television—she just didn’t have the time—but she had caught segments of the popular travel show once or twice. Not enough to put names to the faces of any of the presenters though. She wondered if Morgan Silver-something was the same Morgan who had effectively ousted her from her compartment and into cattle-class hell. Probably. Typical trumped-up mediapersonality behavior. Too bloody good to share space with a plebian nobody such as herself. “I doubt she can do anything to help though.”

Too tired to think anymore, Ally had closed her eyes and nodded agreement that Marge should indeed have a word with her superstar friend. Marge’s voice continued to drift around her for the moments it took Ally to doze off. By the time she jolted awake only a few minutes later, Marge had fallen asleep. Ally pulled the thin blanket that lay over her knees to her chin and tried for sleep again. She had adjusted her seat as far back as it would go, but just as in an airplane, sleep proved impossible. In an airplane, her sleeplessness was largely due to a dread fear the tin can they were bolting across the sky in might at any moment fall back to earth. Despite the tin can she was currently in already being securely at ground level, sleep was no closer. Ally just couldn’t sleep sitting up. Especially when surrounded with snores and grunts and farts and sneezes and all the other revolting noises that human beings make. She had dozed and woken countless times during the night.

Now, having given up on sleep altogether, she continued to rise from her seat as quietly as possible. She retrieved her overnight bag from the overhead compartment and hurried to the end of the carriage where the toilet and shower was located. At this hour, she was sure to beat the morning queue to bathe. And so far as the toilet was concerned, she wanted to get there before the farter came and expelled whatever was causing the continued production of noxious gases.

A hot shower did wonders to Ally’s psyche. As did the fact she had taken her sweet time, shampooing her hair—twice—and for once leaving the conditioner in for the amount of minutes recommended by the manufacturer. She had moisturized every inch of her body, had cleansed, toned and moisturized her face, plucked a few stray eyebrows, finger-dried her hair and scrutinized her nails. Once they were buffed she dressed slowly, applied some perfume and left the bathroom clean, but with a lingering mix of floral fragrances. Outside, a man with a towel slung over his shoulder stood waiting. Fully aware of his impatience, Ally grinned a hello, flounced past him and took both herself and her overnight bag in the direction of the diner car.

As expected, it was yet too early for the breakfast service to have begun. Ally slid into one of the American diner-style booths, dug her notebook and pencil from her bag and lay them on the table. She also retrieved her mobile, tried to check her messages and realized with dismay that she was out of network range. The mobile was set aside—she would try again later—and she flipped open her notebook. Being the type that was more or less brain dead before her morning coffee, by the time she had reread the notes made the previous day, her attention had already begun to wander. She rested her chin on her hand and contemplated the view outside the window. Day was breaking over the Nullabor Plain, a vast expanse of almost-nothingness nearly four times the size of Belgium. The name was derived from the Latin
nullus
meaning none, and
arbor
, meaning tree.
Rather apt,
Ally thought as she gazed out to the famed treeless plain. It was also the home of the longest straight stretch of railway track in the world. A whole 478 kilometers—297 miles— without a bend. Ally wondered if they were traveling on the straight stretch right now. If so, she hoped the train driver had something to keep his wits about him. Like a nice hot cup of coffee. She turned her attention to the canteen-style serving area. Speaking of coffee . . . wasn’t it about time this mob opened for business?

But no, the security grille was still well and truly clamped down. Ally sighed and for the umpteenth time since having her sleeper carriage privileges revoked, her thoughts turned dark. She pulled her notebook toward her and started scratching out a letter of complaint that would have even the mildest-mannered consumer advocate screaming from the rooftops.

Her letter was almost completely drafted when she heard the grille on the canteen lift. At the same moment, from the corner of her eye, she saw a middle-aged woman entering the diner car. In a move that ran completely counter to her usual hang-back nature, Ally slid quickly out of her booth and bolted to the canteen. She still had forty-nine and a bit hours to kill, but this particular morning she was damned if she was going to wait in a queue for a coffee.

Begrudgingly, she handed over one of her white drink vouchers in exchange for the coffee. She grabbed a plastic stirrer from the dispenser on the counter and was just in the middle of debating whether to take white, brown or lump sugar when she was interrupted by an “Excuse me?”

Ally decided on lump sugar and took two paper-wrapped cubes. After such a poor quality sleep she needed all the energy boosts she could get. “Yes?” she said without looking up, concentrating instead on unwrapping and depositing the lumps into her black coffee.

A hand appeared near the counter, outstretched in an offer to shake. “Kitty Bergen. I think we met last night.”

Oh, great. It’s you again
. Ally ignored the hand, instead slowly stirring her coffee and staring into it. “Yes?” she repeated.

“I was wondering if you managed to find your compartment?”

Ally finally glanced up. Was this woman for real? “Oh, yes,” she said sarcastically, returning her attention to her coffee. She took a sip and edged past Kitty, wanting only to return to her booth.

Annoyingly, Kitty followed. “Good, good,” she said, either unaware of Ally’s tone, or choosing to ignore it. “I’m glad that little problem got sorted out. I told my friend—”

“Morgan?” Ally offered as she sat back down.

“Yes . . . Morgan.” Kitty continued, smiling a little nervously, “I told Morgan about the mix-up and she was quite . . . embarrassed by the whole affair.”

Ally took a sip of her coffee. It was as disgusting as the Kalgoorlie train station brew, but it gave the caffeine hit needed to sweep aside the morning fuzziness. One more sip and Ally’s brain was ticking madly.
Ah-hah.
It seemed her sexed-up not-tobe compartment companion
was
the
Bonnes Vacances
Morgan Superstar-stone . . . or whatever she was called. And it seemed she was worried she may end up in the gossip columns.

Even if Morgan had had the entire national soccer team in there, Ally couldn’t care less. And she certainly wouldn’t bother ringing the media about it. Hell, since her mobile phone was out of network range, she couldn’t even if she wanted to. “Well, as you said, it is her compartment.” Ally shrugged. “She can do whatever she likes in it”—she took another few sips of her coffee—“with whomever she likes.”

When Ally glanced up to Kitty to issue her a saccharine smile, she found the woman regarding her with an oddly quizzical look. Or maybe it was just the impression given by the glow of the fluorescent strip lighting in the ceiling. Whichever it was, Kitty’s demeanor changed entirely and she flashed the same too-bright smile that she had given Ally outside Morgan’s compartment last night. “Actually, Morgan asked me to ask you if you would join us for lunch today.”

“Oh, I don’t—”

“One o’clock in the Gold restaurant.” Kitty didn’t give Ally time to finish her refusal. “I’ll clear it so you have no trouble getting in. What’s your name? I’ll need it to tell the staff.”

“Alison.” Ally took another sip of coffee.
Why did I just tell her my name?
she wondered.

Kitty peered over the rim of her spectacles, looking for more information. “Alison . . . ?”

Now Ally felt like she was back at school, being interrogated by the headmistress. Again she spoke without conscious consent. “Alison Brown.”

“Alison Brown,” Kitty repeated, as if to commit the name to memory. She nodded, obviously pleased with her arrangements. “Well, I have to fly. I’ll see you again soon. One o’clock. We’ll be waiting.”

Just as in her schooldays after receiving a scolding, Ally gave a defiant “yes, sir!” salute, but Kitty missed it, not looking back as she headed in the direction of the rear of the train.

Ally slid to the window side of the booth seat and again gazed out to the dawning landscape. So . . . now she was scheduled to have lunch with a sexed-up superstar and a frightening flashback from school.
Oh, well
, she thought.
If nothing else, at least I’ll get to see how the Gold class lives
.

Wanting to see as little as possible of Kitty, Morgan purposely arrived late to breakfast. Late enough for Kitty to have already filled Mark and Nick in on the previous night’s activities, it seemed. Morgan had hardly sat down when Mark elbowed her in the ribs. “Busted!” he mouthed, grinning.

It was while Morgan was buttering a piece of toast that she learned Kitty had been up and about for hours. She’d been working her way through the carriages, looking for a staff member who could tell her where Mystery Woman was, when she stumbled across her in the diner car. Morgan was reaching for a pot of thick-cut marmalade when Kitty announced she had invited the woman—Alison—to lunch. “Why?” she asked, popping the lid on the jar of conserve.

“Because she was just too offhand about the whole episode— especially with her comment that you could do what you want with
whomever
you want,” Kitty replied. “I get the feeling she was letting me know she knows something she shouldn’t.”

“I don’t see how inviting her to lunch will change anything,” Morgan argued.

“Yeah, Kitty,” Mark chimed in. “What are you going to do?

Get out your thumbscrews and torture it out of her?”

Morgan snickered behind her toast.

Kitty shook her head and smiled at Mark. “No. No thumbscrews today. Because, as of lunchtime today, you are officially Morgan’s boyfriend.”

Mark dropped his Vegemite-smothered English muffin. It made his knife clatter loudly against his plate. “No way.”

“Yes way.” Kitty adjusted her spectacles and gave her “don’t argue with me” look. “It’s the perfect solution. That way, if Alison goes mouthing off to anyone and this gets into the press, it’ll just look like an office love affair. It happens all the time and no one will think twice about it.”

Normally laid-back Mark set his lips in a thin line. “I’m sure Rebecca will think twice about it.” He half-turned in his seat and said apologetically, “Sorry, Mogs. But I’m not wrecking my chance to get some ass just to save yours.”

Morgan nodded, needing no convincing. Mark had been chasing Rebecca—the supposedly natural blonde and supposedly naturally well-endowed studio sound engineer—for at least two months now. And she was getting very close to saying yes to a date. Apart from not wanting to interfere in Mark’s love life, Morgan thought Kitty’s plan ill-conceived and rather adolescent. “I don’t expect you to, Mark.” She folded her arms, signaling that that was the end of it.

But Kitty wasn’t done. “Fine.” She turned to Nick, who had been staring into his juice for the duration of the conversation, apparently trying to pretend this wasn’t happening. “Nick?”

“Oh, no.” Nick’s head jerked up and he waved his hands in front of him. “Don’t look at me.”

“You’re not married, are you?” Kitty asked, knowing full well that he wasn’t.

Nick adjusted his long legs under the table. “No.”

“No girlfriend or significant other? No one special you have your eye on?”

Again Nick shifted his lanky frame. “Well . . . no.”

“It’s settled then.” Kitty downed the last of her coffee, then folded and placed her napkin on the table. “Nick, you’re it. Now come on, everyone.” She motioned for Nick to stand so she could edge out of the booth. “We’ve got work to do.”