Training Days

by Jane Frances

  Unfortunately, however, Ally did care. It was during her pre-lunch session of Morganastics that she admitted—in the time since she had been dragged kicking and screaming into the world of Morgan Silverstone—there had been a shift in her mode of thinking. She had never been impressed by celebrity. Sure, she could appreciate their work, whether it be a song, a movie or a piece of art, but she had never understood the tendency for so many people—such as Marge—to worship the ground their celebrity of choice walked on, or to want to delve into every aspect of their lives. She’d never bought a magazine or a newspaper because it headlined some celebrity morsel or scandal. She just didn’t care. But now . . . Morgan the out-of-reach celebrity was well and truly within reach. Under the Bonnes Vacances persona was a living, breathing, three-dimensional person. Not larger than life. Just a regular person. In the short time they had spent together Ally had decided she liked Morgan. Quite a lot, actually.

  Until she’d realized she’d been lied to just once too often.

  Or at least she thought she’d been lied to once too often. Ally took her attention off the chip, picked up her pencil and tapped the end of it on the table top. She sighed in frustration. This was the point that had been stretching her mental capacities throughout the day. She just couldn’t figure out if Morgan was telling the truth or not.

  Was Morgan a lesbian?

  Or wasn’t she?

  And did it really matter to her?

  Ally tapped her pencil on the table with an increased rhythm. Normally she would say no, it didn’t matter. She might not know any lesbians, but she did know she wasn’t a homophobe. Or was she? The thought of Morgan being a woman who liked— loved—other women, was . . . unnerving. Maybe she was only okay if someone was a lesbian from a distance? More strangely, when Ally shifted her thoughts to the idea of Morgan not being a lesbian, it too sat uncomfortably. She closed her eyes and imagined Morgan standing in front of her, in the dress she had seen her wear this morning, and saying “I’m not a lesbian after all. I like men.”

  How would she respond to that?

  Ally couldn’t think of a single thing she might say. With her eyes still closed, she mentally eyed Morgan’s face, her shoulders, stopping just shy of the beginning of cleavage.

  Ally’s eyes flew open. What she felt as she sat there imagining that Morgan was not gay was . . . disappointment.

  Jesus. That really was not a good thing to be feeling. She checked her watch again. It was three minutes past ten. She was late to her appointment. But it didn’t matter, because she had just decided she wasn’t going to keep it.

  Ally threw her pencil onto the table and grabbed her phone. Since the empty expanses were behind them and they were now traveling through the more densely populated eastern states there should be no more problems latching onto a network. There wasn’t and it answered after only three rings.

  “Hello, James. It’s Alison.” She closed her eyes again and imagined James as he relaxed in front of the television, an open book on his lap and a tumbler of Scotch by his side. His image was reliably comfortable. “I miss you.”

  Morgan had returned to the compartment she now shared with Kitty not too long after nine thirty—a lot earlier than expected. She had begged off joining the crew for a post-filming and post-dinner drink, preferring to be alone. The first fifteen minutes of her solitude had been used to good effect, removing her on-camera makeup, cleaning her teeth, reapplying her perfume and having a general freshen-up. She stayed in the clothes she’d worn for the filming of dining in Red, casual linen slacks and a collared, sleeveless shirt. It was a little cool so Morgan fished into one of her bags and pulled out a light cardigan. She didn’t put it on, instead standing in front of the mirror again and examining her appearance. She undid one of the top buttons on her shirt, pushed out her chest a little and checked the effect.

  She did the button up again.

  And she put on her cardigan.

  Then she sat on her freshly made bottom bunk and checked her voice mail. There were a couple of new messages since she’d last checked late that afternoon. Her agent sounded his usual excited self, announcing some “very exciting opportunity” and wanting her to call as soon as she got the message. She casually speculated over the reason. It wasn’t about a possible pay increase with the network—they’d only finished negotiating a new contract late last year and she was locked in, at a very generous salary, thank you, for the next three years. It couldn’t be because some company wanted her to endorse their product or service—that was strictly prohibited under the conditions of her contract. And it couldn’t be for any acting positions. Last Christmas she had dabbled in the world of theater, via a part as the Wicked Witch in a Christmas pantomime. Her performance had been so stiff she may as well have been the witch’s broomstick, so she and her agent had agreed it best she only step onto a stage when she was playing herself. So his call was probably for some new event someone wanted her to attend or host. Morgan turned up her nose. Exciting opportunity or not, she had enough things to occupy her time already. As it was, the afternoon of her one day off this fortnight—Sunday—had been booked for months. Of all things, she had agreed to be one of the “lots” at a charity auction being staged by the fundraising committee at a prestigious private school for boys in Sydney. The school was raising funds to buy computers for a very poor school in India, so it was for a good cause, but still, in addition to losing her Sunday afternoon, she would subsequently have to spend another of her precious free afternoons or evenings doing whatever the highest bidder wanted. Within reason of course. Morgan decided that whatever her agent was frothing at the mouth for her to do, she was going to decline. She also wasn’t going to call him now. It could wait until tomorrow. She went on to the next message.

  It was her mum. “Call me when you get home, dear.”

  “Yes, Mum.” Morgan added her mum’s name below her agent’s in her little notebook.

  By the time she had finished, there was a list of five names to call. She smiled at the last on her list. Audrey.

  Audrey had been, and still was, a lecturer at the university where Morgan had completed her journalism degree. She had also been the first of her four Australian lovers. Audrey, while trampling over all the boundaries in the sacrosanct teacher/student relationship, subsequently trampled all over Morgan’s heart by announcing a sudden attack of teacher/student morals. The breakup was not pretty. Morgan threatened to tell the dean, an act that could only end in either the sacking or forced resignation of her lecturer. Audrey, having full knowledge of Morgan’s ambitions to become a television journalist, and also knowing of the postgraduation cadetship she had managed to secure with one of the regional stations, subsequently threatened to write a revealing letter to the well-known bigot of a network manager and hence “shoot down her career” before it even got off the ground. Neither had followed through on the threats, but both kept their word not to see or speak to each other. Morgan swapped her lecture with Audrey for one at a different day and time, graduated without fuss and moved to South Australia to take up her cadetship. After a year or so, a chance meeting at Sydney’s Circular Quay saw their enmity dissolve into friendship. Now they called each other regularly and saw each other when they had the chance.

  Morgan never forgot the lesson Audrey’s threat had taught her, and in her early days of television she kept a low, low personal profile. When temptation did get the best of her she was selective, making sure her lovers had as much, if not more, to lose than she did if word of their affair got out. When first snagging her position at Bonnes Vacances, Morgan went a little wild. She was akin to a starved woman and the world her buffet. She feasted at every opportunity, only shaking her head at the Australian platter.

  Not that that stopped her from looking, of course. There surely was some very tasty-looking Australian eye candy out there. Speaking of which . . . Morgan checked her watch. It was five past ten.

  Ally was late. But not quite fashionably so. No need to send
out a search party just yet. Morgan set her phone aside and stood in front of the mirror again. She fussed with a strand of hair, aiming for a more messy, carefree look than a well-coiffed one. She removed her cardigan, undid her top shirt button again and sat back down on her bunk. She stood, paced a little in the confined space, stopped at the mirror again and once more fastened her top button.

  She checked her watch. Eleven past ten. The fashionably late should be turning up by now. Morgan bit down on her impulse to open the compartment door and scan the corridor. If Ally was on her way, then she’d know Morgan had been looking out for her. And that wasn’t the impression Morgan wanted to give. She wanted Ally to think her announcement this morning was no big deal, that it was simply a case of clearing the air, getting a niggling little annoyance out in the open so they could continue with their friendship.

  Friendship.

  Morgan plopped back onto her bunk, imagining a friendship with Ally. She dreamed of calling her for a chat, meeting her for a coffee, having lunch with her and a couple of other girlfriends. They were easy scenes to conjure. She could picture Ally reclined at her desk, one foot curled under her thigh, playing with her pencil as she smiled at whatever Morgan was relaying to her on the phone. Then her expression would become more serious and she would remove her tucked leg to sit with elbows leaning on her desk, intent on the conversation. And she could picture them at a coffee shop. They’d go to one of those book-shop cafés—the sort that always has nice comfy armchairs and low coffee tables. They’d pick a couch in a sunny spot near a window, and they’d sit facing each other, sipping on little espressos. They’d be critiquing the coffee—as they always did—and planning their next café stop, their plan being to visit every coffee venue in Sydney until they found the ultimate caffeine hit. Their lunches would be in warm, sunny spots. Modern venues with clean, cool lines, crisp napkins and oversized plates with marvelously presented food. By some unspoken agreement, they’d both always arrive early to these luncheons. Early enough for them both to share the highlights of the days since they’d last met and indulge in one or two of the private jokes they were sure to have by then. As their friends arrived, a glance would pass between them—one that spoke of regret that their company now had to be shared. And they’d linger long after their friends had gone. Not necessarily talking. But just easy with each other. Easy enough that Ally would not shy away when Morgan would reach across the table and lay her hand on hers . . .

  Morgan lifted her legs onto the bunk, lay back and closed her eyes. In her mind Ally’s hand had turned underneath hers and now clasped her palm lightly.

  “I like that,” Ally would say softly.

  “That’s good,” Morgan would respond. “Because I like it too.”

  They’d sit, just like that, just holding hands and looking at each other, while the tables around them emptied and the waiters began laying the places for the evening session.

  “We should go,” Morgan would say finally, having felt the eyes of the staff upon them, willing them to move so they could close up for the afternoon.

  Ally’s hand would clasp hers a little tighter. “I don’t want this to end.”

  “This what, Ally?” Morgan would ask. She’d gesture out the window. “This beautiful, sunny afternoon?” Then she’d look up to one of the wall-mounted speakers, through which the velvet jazz of Madeleine Peyroux was still being piped. “Or this song?”

  “No.” Ally would glance down to their hands. “This.” Her eyes would meet Morgan’s and she would lift Morgan’s hand to her lips, turning it over to kiss the palm.

  “It doesn’t have to end,” Morgan would whisper. “Come home with me.”

  Ally’s eyes would dart over Morgan’s features as if searching for something. Then her hazel eyes would appear to darken as her pupils dilated and she would whisper back, “I’ve been wishing you would suggest that all afternoon.”

  Christ. Morgan groaned, flipping onto her side and hugging herself. She was working herself into a state. And to what end, really? Ally had a partner—a male partner at that. From the little Ally had talked of him he sounded like a bit of a stuffed shirt, but still, he was there and his presence proved Ally’s heterosexuality. At least, it proved it to Ally. Morgan was not so sure. She sensed something in Ally that maybe Ally hadn’t even sensed herself.

  Or maybe she was just suffering a severe case of wishful thinking.

  Morgan checked her watch for the third time. Twenty-five past ten. Well past fashionably late and heading toward a no-show.

  She stood once more and paced. The span of the compartment was covered in only three steps, two if she lengthened it to a stride, but still she walked back and forth, the movement helping her to think. So far as she could see, there were two possibilities. Either Ally was afraid to come because Morgan’s disclosure that morning had made her face questions about her own sexuality. Or—and this was a very unwelcome possibility—that she had misjudged Ally completely. Instead of being an open-minded liberal she was homophobic and hence now wanted nothing more do with her.

  There was a soft rap on the door and Morgan exhaled in relief. She’d been worrying over nothing.

  “Morgan. It’s me.”

  Her relief turned in on itself. It wasn’t Ally. It was Kitty.

  There was another rap. “Open up.”

  “Sorry.” Morgan crossed the floor and unlatched the door. “I thought you had a key.”

  “I do.” Kitty grinned a little lopsidedly. There was wine on her breath. “But I thought I should be careful, in case you had another woman in here.”

  “Yeah, right.” For a single second she was glad Ally had not turned up. But then, if she had, Morgan would have taken “the Kitty factor” into account and suggested they grab some drinks and take them back to Ally’s compartment. She stood aside to let Kitty pass, taking the opportunity to scan the corridor. Apart from an elderly man holding onto the handrail as he shuffled along, it was empty. She glanced back inside. Kitty had dropped onto the bottom bunk—Morgan’s—and was sitting there, swaying slightly. Despite Kitty’s general low tolerance for alcohol, Morgan had never seen her get so pickled in only an hour. “I think you should have an early night.”

  “Me, too.” Kitty lifted her legs onto Morgan’s bunk and lay her head on the pillow.

  Morgan figured she would either have to assist Kitty up the ridiculously narrow ladder to the top berth or let her stay where she was. “You can sleep here tonight, if you want.”

  She checked the corridor again. The elderly man was still shuffling, but he was making progress. He was heading in the direction of Gold, and once he had taken a couple more steps— if Morgan wanted to take the same direction—she would either have to squeeze past him or shuffle along behind. She did want to take the same direction. So she stepped out of the compartment.

  “Where are you going?” Kitty asked, already half asleep.

  “To meet a woman.”

  “Yeah, right.” Kitty turned on her side and curled into a loose fetal position. “I may be drunk, but I’m not stupid.”

  “Good night, Kitty.” Morgan slowly slid the compartment door across. She heard Kitty’s soft snores even before it was completely closed. As she passed into Gold she rubbed her hands up and down her bare arms. She wasn’t cold, but still she shivered.

  Still two compartments down from Ally’s, Morgan noticed a little yellow Post-it note on her door. A note for her maybe? She quickened her pace.

  It read, “Thanks for your patience. You can make up my bed now.” The time written in the top right-hand corner: Ten twenty

  p.m. Morgan frowned. She imagined that Ally might have been busy working and so did not want her seat converted at the usual time, but the note had been penned twenty minutes after she was due to meet her. Morgan could understand that maybe she’d just lost track of time—after all, if her enthusiasm at their dinner with Marge was any indication, Ally was very revved up about her latest architectural project. But it was now
twenty to eleven. Even if she hadn’t left her room until twenty past ten, where the hell was she now?

  Morgan had just decided to pay a visit to the Gold lounge car, and failing that, to the Red lounge car, when she heard a rustling sound come from inside the compartment. It was not the rustle of bedclothes; it was a paper rustle. Ally was still in her room, and by the sound of it she was still working. So Ally’s bunk hadn’t already been made up and the note left there by mistake. The presence of the note negated any chance she had just lost all track of time. She was there because she wanted to be. Or, more accurately, because she didn’t want to be with Morgan.

  There were two possible courses of action that Morgan could take. She could quietly leave and hope that by morning Ally had worked through whatever was troubling her. Or she could stay and see for herself which of her theories was correct.

  Option one was probably the smartest. But Morgan hadn’t seen Ally since before breakfast, and knowing she was just on the other side of the door was too much of a temptation to resist, even if it meant getting yelled at . . . again.

  She fingered the Post-it before she knocked. “Housekeeping,” she called, mustering all of her acting skills.

  The rustle stopped, followed by a moment of total silence. “Go away, Morgan.”

  “I’m not leaving until you tell me why you didn’t keep our appointment.”

  Another complete silence. Then, “I didn’t keep it because I’ve got nothing I want to say to you.”

  “From the sound of your tone I think you’ve got an awful lot you want to say to me . . . you just don’t have the guts to say it.” Again Morgan waited. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest. She wasn’t used to being the antagonist, but here she was, provoking an argument. And Ally just didn’t seem to be biting. Morgan found that extremely frustrating. Speak to me, God damn it! “At least tell me what I’ve done to upset you. Was it what I said this morning, because if it was I’m—”