Training Days

by Jane Frances

  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.

  “So, you’re leaving the train at Kalgoorlie?” Morgan asked, a little disappointed. The train was due to arrive in Kalgoorlie at around ten that night—only three hours away. That wasn’t going to leave much time for—Morgan stopped that thought from developing. Nothing was ever going to happen, even if Marie was traveling the entire distance to Sydney. They were in Australia, and so Marie was out of bounds. She was also very young, maybe not even yet eighteen.

  “Yes.” Marie nodded. “I will stay in Kalgoorlie for four weeks. I have work there.”

  Morgan learned Marie must indeed be at least eighteen since she had secured work in one of the city’s myriad of pubs. In exchange for her labor five days a week she would receive room and board, a little cash and a big opportunity to have a “real Australian outback experience.”

  “I wouldn’t quite call Kalgoorlie the outback.” Morgan glanced over the Work in an Aussie Pub promotional brochure that Marie dug from her bag. She had picked it up from the information stand at her backpacker accommodation and immediately applied, drawn in by the promise of an outback experience. “I hate to disappoint you, but while it’s out in the middle of nowhere, it’s actually a city. Don’t get me wrong though,” Morgan added quickly when Marie’s face fell. “It’s about as
Australian a city as you can get. It’s an old mining town that just happened to survive and thrive after the gold rush. They still mine gold there actually.”

  “You ’ave visited?” Marie asked.

  Morgan used a deliberate offhand tone. “Oh, yes. New York, Paris, London, Kalgoorlie . . . I’ve done them all!”

  Marie’s unsure smile indicated she did not grasp Morgan’s humor. “Did you like Kalgoorlie?” she asked finally.

  Morgan took a moment to choose her words. Kalgoorlie was not a city she would visit by choice. Sure, there were plenty of permanent residents, including families, but with mining still as its primary industry, by nature the place had a substantial itinerant population. Many worked the mines to earn quickly the deposit for a house or gather funds for investment, but just as many raked in the big dollars only to piss them away at one of the pubs that could be found on almost every corner. Morgan passed the Work in an Aussie Pub brochure back to Marie. “It’s a bit too much of a man’s town for me.” She almost added that she preferred the company of women but kept that thought to herself. If she were reading the signs correctly, Marie had already discounted Mark’s appearance in the lounge car and figured that out for herself.

  It appeared that Marie had done her calculations correctly. Her fingers brushed the tips of Morgan’s as she accepted the brochure. “Then it will be a long month, no?” she said as she met Morgan’s gaze.

  Morgan shifted a little in her seat, feeling the unmistakable pull of lust in her groin. As if in sympathy, she felt her phone— which was located at the bottom of the handbag she held on her lap—begin to vibrate through the lightweight material. The caller ID announced it was Kitty. Morgan scowled at it, wishing to God she was on any other train in any other country. Then she could invite Marie to her sleeper. She had absolutely no doubt Marie would say yes. Again she chose her words carefully. “There are plenty of women in Kalgoorlie too. I’m sure you’ll find some friends very quickly.” Morgan emphasized the word friends then smiled apologetically as she snapped her phone open. “Yes?” A few seconds later she snapped it closed again. “I’m afraid I have to go.”

  Marie looked a little suspiciously at Morgan’s phone. “D’accord . . . er, okay.”

  Morgan hesitated. Maybe Marie thought she was being given the brush-off, that since the phone had made no sound when it supposedly rang, there hadn’t actually been anyone on the other end. “I’m having dinner with some colleagues of mine. You might remember Mark—you met him earlier at the bar,” Morgan explained, pleased to extinguish any lingering doubts that Marie might have about his significance. “I wish I could stay and talk with you longer but . . .”

  “Non, non, non.” Marie held up her hands. “I understand.” Then she grinned playfully. “No worries.”

  As she had earlier, Morgan laughed, delighted. Against all her better judgment she dug into her handbag and pulled out a notebook and pen. “This is where I am.” She tore off the sheet with her carriage and compartment number written on it. “I should be back there in no more than two hours. If you want you can drop by before you leave the train. We can . . . talk a bit more . . . about Kalgoorlie.”

  “Thank you.” Marie gave the paper the merest of glances and slipped it into one of her numerous cargo pant pockets. “I would like that very much.”

  Morgan turned from Marie and her delicious French smile and walked down the aisle with a delicious French à bientot echoing in her ears.

  Dinner was also delicious, but Morgan was away for longer than she anticipated and it was close to ten p.m. when she turned the key to open her compartment door. Part of her was relieved it was so late. Before she had even reached the Gold restaurant car she regretted her impulsiveness and wished she had not handed over the piece of paper. That was not entirely true. More accurately, she was wishing she were not in a position where she had to regret giving her details to a good-looking woman. Now, since there was only a half-hour or so before the scheduled Kalgoorlie stop, there seemed little chance Marie was going to visit. If Marie had already stopped by she would have been disappointed, finding no one home, except for maybe the staff member who had, in her absence, transformed the seats into a narrow bed.

  Morgan sat on the edge of the mattress and tested it for firmness. It didn’t feel too bad—certainly better than some of the lumpy excuses for beds she had experienced in her travels—but still she frowned. The upper bunk was also made up for the night. Since Morgan had the compartment to herself for the journey she figured it was the product of an overzealous staff member, and so she began looking for the catch or clip or other mechanism that she could activate to raise the bunk back to its daytime home near the ceiling. Morgan found the button, but she also found the sign right next to it that stated only staff were to raise and lower the bunks. Imagining the upper bunk coming crashing down on her in the middle of the night because she had not secured it properly, Morgan took heed of the sign and decided to go in search of a staff member.

  She slid the door open and jumped in fright at the knuckles that appeared right in front of her face. “Holy shit!” she exclaimed, bringing her hand to the base of her neck. It was Marie, her hand poised to knock. “You scared the life out of me!”

  “Desolée . . . sorry.” Marie had her feet planted apart, her bag slung over one shoulder. She unclenched her hand, held it in empty air for a moment then ran her palm down Morgan’s cheek. “I did not mean to frighten you.”

  “Just bad timing.” Morgan closed her eyes to the caress. Marie’s touch was like her handshake, firm and warm. This was a woman who was very sure of herself.

  “Bad timing?” Marie took a step toward Morgan. Given that they were already standing close, this move brought their bodies within a whisper of each other. “You wish me to leave, chérie?”

  During her predinner cocktail—vodka and cranberry juice number four—Morgan had drifted into a daydream, imagining how Marie’s visit would play out, if she actually did visit. First she fantasized how it could be if only they were not in Australia. Marie would knock and Morgan would stand aside for her to enter. She would offer her a drink and Marie would decline, (which was just as well because Morgan had nothing but a room temperature bottle of water in her bag), and they would settle into a sexually loaded conversation before finally falling into each other’s arms for a brief but passionate encounter. Later, as she sipped on a crisp sauvignon blanc that perfectly complemented her main course of dhufish and sautéed snow peas, Morgan let the conversation of the other three crew members drift around her and daydreamed of the more realistic meeting; the one that must occur by virtue of their location. Again Marie would knock and Morgan would stand aside for her to enter. Again the drink offer and again the decline. Conversation, but this time full of subtle double entendres. The train would pull gently to a stop at Kalgoorlie, Marie would pick up her bag and they would say their good-byes—two Continental kisses on the cheek followed by a brief, light kiss on the lips. The second fantasy was very unsatisfying compared to the first, but it was all Morgan would allow herself.

  This, however . . . this was entirely unexpected. Marie had seemingly interpreted Morgan’s lack of response as an invitation to stay. The hand that still held Morgan’s cheek swept to the back of her neck and Marie pressed her body fully against Morgan’s as she met her lips with a hungry mouth.

  Morgan’s head told her to take a step back, to stick with fantasy number two, but her body told her otherwise, to find out what was behind door number three. She did take a step back, but only to pull Marie farther into the compartment. She groped for the sliding door, found it by touch and pulled it until she heard the latch click.

  Marie left Morgan’s mouth just long enough to give a knowing smile and toss her bag onto the floor. Then she returned, hands clasping Morgan’s hips and the tip of her tongue tracing the edge of Morgan’s lips. “You want me, non?”

  Morgan groaned when Marie’s tongue slid across hers. She grabbed Marie by the shoulders and push
ed her against the now-closed door. She ignored everything about sticking to fantasy number two, ignored that they were chugging across the land of her devoted public, ignored everything except the heat of this moment. Her words were hardly intelligible as she breathed into Marie’s mouth. “I want you, yes.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ally cradled her takeaway cup of black coffee in both hands. The liquid itself was awful—bitter and old-tasting—but at least it seeped some warmth into her palms. Night had fallen on a clear sky, but still it was surprisingly cool, given how warm the day had been. She noted the abrupt drop in temperature with more than just a casual interest. It was a point to consider when drawing up the plans for her latest project.

  Ally temporarily set aside her coffee and scribbled cold nights in her notebook. Usually she did not suffer from a bad memory, but with her burgeoning exhaustion it was best just to be sure. Last night she had arrived in Perth on the red-eye from Sydney and caught a few winks in an airport hotel before boarding a regional plane—a seventy-or-so-seater, but still far too small for her liking—bound for Kalgoorlie at six a.m. After the hourlong flight, she had just a moment to freshen up before being whisked away in a gigantic four-wheel-drive to a meeting with a potential client. The potential client was a Kalgoorlie-based executive for one of the nation’s largest mining operations, and as such he needed a suitable house. Not just any house, however. In a move that seemed to run counter to the exploitative nature of mining, this executive wanted a house designed to be in sympathy with its surrounds—not just aesthetically, but also environmentally.

  This was where she, Alison Brown, an architect who specialized in environmentally sustainable dwellings, came in. Only one day after the current month’s issue of Architectural Digest was released—the issue that featured an almost entirely energy self-sufficient trilevel house that she had designed for a property in tropical north Queensland—she received a call from the mining executive’s personal assistant. That was Friday of last week. Now, just five days later, she was sitting on the brink of what would be, to date, the largest project of her eight-year architectural career. Already, after spending the morning discussing her potential client’s wants and needs and the afternoon assessing his five-acre homesite, she had some concepts forming. The creative side of her was itching to get into action, and indeed over dinner and while waiting here at the train station she had committed some sketches to paper. But lack of sleep followed by a long day had taken its toll, and eventually Ally’s brain decided to shut down for the evening. It was at that point she went in search of caffeine and ended up with her cup of witches’ brew.