Training Days

by Jane Frances

  By the time she’d finished with that, she was what could be called fashionably late. And that didn’t worry Ally at all. In fact, she idled down her carriage, even stopping to peer into the darkness from one of the large windows that flanked the corridor. And when she entered the Gold class lounge car and was immediately greeted by a wave, she was pleased in the knowledge that Morgan had been looking out for her, even though she was already surrounded by a small group of people, one of whom was Marge.

  Inexplicably, as she approached, she felt a little twinge of regret for having insisted that Marge join them for dinner. She set the feeling aside for examination at a later point, caught the eye of a wandering waiter and ordered a gin and tonic.

  Hours later Ally toyed with the wrapper of the chocolate that had accompanied their post-dinner coffee. It was the best coffee she’d had since leaving Sydney, and although midnight was approaching she was seriously considering ordering another one. She looked around the table to her dining companions. “Another coffee, anyone?”

  “Definitely.” Morgan pushed her cup toward the middle of the table.

  “Dearie me, no.” Marge mimicked Morgan’s actions, pushing at her cup. “If I do I won’t get a wink of sleep.” She clutched the strap of her handbag and edged out of their booth from her seat next to Ally. “I’ve had a marvelous night, bless you, dears. But this old stick had better leave you young ones to it.”

  Both Ally and Morgan stood, exclaiming how Marge wasn’t old at all, and after lots of cheek-kissing and numerous expressions of thanks, they wished her a good night.

  “I’ll come to see you off tomorrow.” Ally had promised to meet Marge before she disembarked at Adelaide early the next morning.

  Morgan clasped Marge’s hands within her own. “It’s been a pleasure.”

  Ally smiled as she saw Marge’s eyes fill with emotion and draw Morgan into a hug guaranteed to expel the air supply in her lungs. She laughed when Marge trundled toward the exit and Morgan sat down, gasping for breath.

  “You’ve made her very happy.”

  Morgan clutched at her ribs, grimacing. “Any happier and I’d be dead.”

  Ally ignored Morgan’s theatrics, motioning for the waiter and nodding when Morgan suggested they order cognac to accompany their coffee.

  “I’m going to be drunk, you know.” Ally looked a little dubiously to the potent alcohol when it was delivered to their table. In addition to her predinner gin and tonic, she had consumed a glass of white wine with her appetizer, a red with her main course and a port with her dessert.

  “You’ll be fine.” Morgan picked up her cognac. “Here’s to Marge.”

  “To Marge,” Ally agreed. “I told you she was a nice woman.”

  “I never doubted it. In fact I never doubt anything you say, Alison.”

  “Ally,” Ally corrected, suddenly feeling awkward under Morgan’s gaze. It seemed it was becoming a habit, her having experienced more than a few bouts of self-consciousness over the course of their dinner. One such bout had occurred when she posed with Marge for one of the numerous photos they took that night. Seated in their booth, she had leaned toward Marge, ready for the photo, when Morgan peered from behind Marge’s pocket digital camera. “Perfect.” The gaze that accompanied her smile had been so . . . disconcerting, Ally couldn’t hold the look. On review of the digital camera display they had needed to pose again because Ally had lowered her eyes at the moment Morgan pressed the button. Similarly, when she played camerawoman and was framing a picture of Morgan and Marge, she snapped either too early or too late, again thrown off balance by Morgan’s expression. Now, Ally twisted her cloth napkin in her hands. “Only James calls me Alison.”

  “A partner’s privilege?” Morgan asked.

  Ally dropped the napkin to take a sip of her cognac. “Hardly. It’s his choice. He sees the shortening of names as rather crass.”

  “So God help anyone who would call him Jim?”

  “Exactly.” Ally placed her glass on the table and toyed with the handle on her cup of coffee.

  She’d called him Jim once. It was during sex. James had stopped what he was doing, held himself upright over her and said, “James. My name is James.” Then he began doing what he had been doing before. Ally had found this extremely funny and started giggling.

  “In fact, he got so insulted the time I did it, I’m surprised he actually asked me out again.”

  “How long have you been together?”

  Ally took a sip of her coffee and looked directly at Morgan. Instead of answering the question she asked one of her own. “Why didn’t you tell Marge you were seeing Nick?”

  “I . . .”

  Ally held Morgan’s gaze, willing her to give what she hoped was an honest answer. It was over dessert that Marge—openly curious about anything to do with her idol—had brought up the subject of partners by first inquiring of Ally’s status. Upon discovering that Ally, an architect, was dating another architect, she seized onto the idea of pairing up with another of the same profession, declaring, “The last time I read TV Week you were seen with that lovely young man who’s a reporter on the news.”

  “Lucas,” Morgan offered.

  Marge bobbed her head up and down.

  “We just went to a film premiere together. Nothing more.”

  Marge looked disappointed that there was no romantic attachment as apparently indicated in the tabloids. “So he hadn’t asked you to marry him?”

  Morgan laughed disarmingly. “Not that night, he didn’t.”

  Marge’s eyes opened wide, interpreting the comment to mean that he had proposed at some stage. Ally had no idea who this Lucas was that they were talking about, but she sat a little straighter, interested to know the details of this supposed romance.

  Morgan shook her head. “No. No. I was kidding. Lucas has never proposed to me.”

  “Bless you, dear. You shouldn’t tease me like that.” Marge leaned a little over the table, begging Morgan to share some secret details. “But there is someone special in your life?”

  Morgan glanced at Ally then scooped a large spoonful of chocolate mousse and brought it to her mouth. “No. There’s no one special right now.” She briefly looked at Ally again before dropping her gaze and filling her mouth with mousse.

  Now, Morgan again lowered her lashes.

  “Morgan?” Ally prompted.

  Morgan shifted a little uncomfortably. “Nick and I aren’t actually together. That was just a story that Kit . . . that we fabricated to throw you off the trail.”

  Ally frowned. This whole Nick business was odder by the second. Why manufacture a romance between her and Nick if she and Mark were actually together? Ally didn’t know either of them from a bar of soap so it made little difference to her which one Morgan slept with. Hmm. Unless, of course . . . “Is Mark married?” she asked.

  Morgan appeared surprised by the question. “No.”

  “So why are you two hiding behind Nick?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You and Mark. Why do you want to keep it a secret?”

  “You think it was Mark with me last night?”

  Ally scoffed. “Well, it sure wasn’t Nick.”

  Morgan seemed at a loss for words. “Mark and I are not . . .” She fell silent for a full three seconds. “Last night I was . . . um . . . I’m a—”

  “It’s okay.” Ally discovered she was unable to watch Morgan squirm. It was all quite obvious to her now. Morgan and Mark weren’t an item any more than Morgan and Nick were. It had just been a one-night thing. Good friends who momentarily became bed buddies. And while Mark may not be married, maybe he had a significant other waiting for him at home. And probably Nick didn’t so he had been set up as the stooge. For some reason Ally was pleased with the thought that Morgan had never slept with Nick, and that Mark had only been a once-off. “Like I’ve said so many times now . . . It really doesn’t matter to me. So can we just declare the topic closed?”

  Morgan smiled wanly, but she
made the motion of buttoning her lip.

  They both lifted their cognacs and downed the contents in one swallow. And they both put their glasses on the table and curled their fingers around the handles of their coffee cups and sat in contemplative silence.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Morgan hovered for at least a minute in front of the compartment that Mark and Nick shared. When she did eventually knock on the door she was greeted by a bleary-eyed Nick. After apologetically explaining she wanted to talk to Mark alone, he groggily gathered his shower accoutrements and shuffled down the corridor.

  “Can’t it wait?” Mark yawned. He shoved his pillow over his head and snuggled deeper into the bedclothes. “I haven’t even had my first cigarette yet. And you know I can’t think without it.”

  “No. It’s about last night.”

  “Hmm.” There was another yawn followed by a muffled, “How did it go?”

  “Well—” Morgan stopped short. She wasn’t going to talk to a pillow. Her sudden silence worked. The pillow was thrust aside and Mark turned over to regard her sleepily from his position on the top bunk. With his attention at least partially grabbed, she took a deep breath and blurted, “Ally thinks it was you with me the other night.”

  Mark frowned, becoming a little more alert. “What?”

  “I said—”

  “I know what you said. I’m just wondering why she would think that.”

  “Well, she knows it wasn’t Nick because she saw him on the platform at the time I was . . . busy. So, I guess she was using the process of elimination.”

  “But of course you set her straight.” When Morgan shifted uneasily Mark’s voice took a warning tone. “Didn’t you?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Mogs!”

  “I did try.” Morgan shifted again, this time reaching behind her to hold onto the edge of the wash basin. “Honestly I did—”

  “Well, you obviously didn’t try very hard.” Mark flung the covers off and swung his legs over the side of the bunk. The ceiling of the compartment was not exceptionally high, so he sat hunched over. The slumped posture was in direct opposition to his current, thoroughly rankled expression. As if to get the two in sync, he leapt from the bunk, stood up straight and squared his shoulders. “You know why I didn’t agree to Kitty’s pairing of us in the first place. I tell you, Morgan, if this gets out and I lose my chance with Rebecca—”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Morgan said quickly. “Ally won’t say anything. She told me she wouldn’t . . . and I trust her on that.”

  Mark folded his arms. “If you trust her so much why didn’t you come out to her like you told me you were going to?”

  “I don’t know.” Morgan shook her head, not exactly sure of the reason herself. “It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her, and then, when the moment came, I just couldn’t do it.”

  “Well, you sure don’t have a problem with it at other times,” Mark said sarcastically. “Not with that French bird, or your little Swiss Miss, or that chick in Tokyo, or—”

  Morgan cut Mark short from listing the participants in her recent escapades. “That’s not the same and you know it. With them it was more of a . . . mutual acknowledgment.”

  “Mutual acknowledgment,” Mark echoed, again shaking his head. “I wish I could get some woman to ‘mutually acknowledge’ she wants to sleep with me.”

  “I know a lot of women who think you’re terrific.”

  “Don’t try to butter me up,” Mark warned, although she saw his chest puff slightly at her comment. “And don’t try to change the subject. Look”—he sat down on the edge of Nick’s unmade bottom bunk—“I know it’s hard for you, being . . . what do you call it?”

  “In the closet?” Morgan offered.

  “That’s it. In the closet.” Mark nodded. “And while I understand how you might have changed your mind about doing it at the last minute, I don’t understand how you could sit back and let her believe something that directly affects me.”

  “But it doesn’t, really,” Morgan argued. “I truly believe she’s not going to tell anyone.”

  “Maybe not. But maybe she’ll just tell her other half and maybe he’ll just casually mention it to someone. And . . . you know how these things get round. More than that,” Mark continued, “I happen to think Ally is an all right chick and maybe I don’t want to have to lie to her when I see her next.” He folded his arms, his expression as serious as Morgan had ever seen it. “In fact, I won’t lie to her when I see her next. If you don’t tell her she’s wrong about you and me, then I will.”

  “Are you threatening me, Mark Baker?”

  “Damn right I am.”

  Morgan sagged a little. While she didn’t like confrontation generally, her distaste was compounded when she was in opposition to someone she considered one of her close friends. “Okay,” she said, defeated.

  “Come on, Mogs.” Mark stood up and gave her a friendly punch on the shoulder. “You can do it. And if you can’t bring yourself to tell her you were with a woman, then just say it was someone who left the train at Kalgoorlie. You don’t have to mention their sex.”

  “Okay,” she said again, feeling a little stronger.

  “Now go away and leave me alone.” Mark yawned widely and scratched his stomach through the ragged T-shirt he called his pajama top. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”

  “Okay.” Morgan turned to leave the compartment, smiling for the first time since she’d entered it. She hurried back to her own compartment, announced herself through the closed door and entered to find Kitty half-dressed, facing the window and putting her hair into its usual bun.

  Having shared accommodations with her producer on countless occasions, they had both seen each other in various states of undress almost as often. Normally, Morgan never paid any attention to it, her feelings toward Kitty totally sexless. But now she found herself staring at Kitty’s bare back. Did Ally’s muscles move in the same way when she reached up to arrange her hair? she wondered.

  “You’re up early,” Kitty commented, half turning, a hairpin between her lips.

  “Yes,” Morgan stammered, her gaze sliding downward to the curve of breast that Kitty’s movement had revealed. She actually had to tell herself to stop staring. “My stomach’s upset.” That was the truth. Her insides were suddenly gripped by a churning sensation.

  “Are you sick?” Kitty turned to face her fully. “Because we’ve got a very full schedule today.”

  “I know.” Despite her attempts not to, Morgan’s eyes strayed to Kitty’s breasts. She had to admit they were exceptional. Firm and smooth, with two cherry-red nipples that seemed to be sitting up and begging for a caress. Every woman is different, she told herself firmly. Even if on the surface they are physically similar. Goodness knew, she’d seen enough unclothed women in her life to know that to be true. Having finally convinced her brain to stop interpreting the current visual input as a preview of Ally’s assets, she lifted her gaze to Kitty’s face. “I’ll be fine, I promise. I just have to get something out of my system.”

  With that, she fled the compartment, hoping Kitty would interpret her words and sudden departure as proof she was making a dash to the toilet.

  The toilet was not her destination at all, which turned out to be just as well, since each facility she passed appeared to have a little queue waiting outside—even in Gold where the passenger-to-toilet ratio was much lower. Clearly, it was morning rush hour. Once outside Ally’s door, Morgan wished she had made a bathroom stop as she had a sudden urge to pee. It’s just nerves, she told herself. The very same symptom had plagued her in the early days of her on-screen career. Back then, she thought she would wet herself each time someone called “action.” Now, she did as she had in the past, taking a series of calming breaths and mentally talking herself up.

  She knocked.

  “Just a minute.” Ally’s voice came from the other side of the door.

  She waited.

  She kept breathing
.

  And by the time the door slid across Morgan felt her poise return. “Hi, Ally. I wanted to speak to you, if I could.”

  “Oh.” Ally glanced to her watch, seemingly torn. “I’m supposed to meet Marge in a few minutes to say good-bye. I was just on my way there now. Can it wait . . . or would you like to walk and talk?”

  Shit. Morgan had forgotten the appointment Ally had made with Marge last night. Morgan had already said her good-byes to Marge, explaining, truthfully, that she had a breakfast meeting scheduled this morning to run over the final details before their big day of filming. And it was a big day. At Adelaide, a special carriage would be hooked onto the train, taking an eccentric and usually media-shy English crooner to Sydney. They were to film the carriage as it was attached, have an on-camera chat with the crooner before he boarded, and another once he was settled into his private carriage with king-size bed and full-sized bathroom. Finally, Morgan would be filmed trying out the luncheon delicacies prepared by an on-board chef to the crooner’s advance order. Once that was done, she had a brief respite to freshen up and change her outfit before conducting some interviews with the Red class passengers she had scouted in the lounge car on the first day of the journey. Come dinnertime, she would be filmed dining in Red, something that promised to be a big letdown after her private-carriage, chef-created lunch.

  She said, “Can we meet after dinner tonight? Say at about ten p.m.?”

  “Sure.” Ally closed the door behind her and turned the key in the lock. She grinned. “That’s right. Lucky you gets to feed at the cattle trough tonight.”

  Morgan barely moved out of the way when Ally stepped into the corridor and she felt the loose cotton sleeves of Ally’s shirt brush against her arm. It made the hairs on her forearm stand on end. “It’s not that bad, is it?”

  “I couldn’t comment about dinner as I’ve never experienced it. But if breakfast is any indication . . .” Ally trailed off, leaving Morgan to fill in the blanks. She nodded down the corridor. “Sorry, Morgan, but I really have to go.”