Training Days

by Jane Frances

  “Marie who?” the woman questioned.

  Jesus, how many Maries could they possibly have running around? Morgan quickly looked at Kitty before admitting, “I don’t know her last name. But she started working there a few days ago. She’s French.”

  “Oh, yes . . . Marie. Just a minute. I’ll go see if she’s in her room. Who can I say is calling?”

  “Morgan.”

  “Morgan . . . ?” The woman was obviously looking for a surname.

  Morgan wasn’t going to give her one. “Just Morgan. She’ll know who I am.” She put her hand over the phone again and said to Kitty, “They’re going to get her.”

  Kitty made a grab for the phone. “Let me speak to her.”

  Morgan slapped her hand away and turned her body so Kitty couldn’t reach the phone. She’d experienced the aftermath of her dealing with Ally, so there was no way she was going to let her loose with Marie.

  A familiar voice was suddenly at her ear. “Allo?”

  “Hello, Marie. It’s Morgan.”

  Morgan heard Marie take a sharp intake of breath. Had the woman who passed on the message decided—since she didn’t have a full name to give—not to give one at all? Or was Marie suffering a sudden case of nervousness from being in contact with the person she was trying to blackmail?

  There was absolutely no need to swap pleasantries, so Morgan launched straight into it. “I received a very interesting call from my employer this morning. Marie, would you like to tell me just what the hell do you think you are doing?”

  There was an extended silence, then a sob. “I ’ate it ’ere, Morgan. It is ’orrible! The men—they drink too much biere and they try to—” Morgan didn’t find out what they tried to do as Marie’s sentence was cut short by another sob. “And my room. It is worse than any ’ostel. It smells like old socks.”

  Morgan closed her eyes, the action a physical reinforcement for her mind, which was trying to close itself to the effect of Marie’s tears. It didn’t quite work, so Morgan reminded herself that this woman—upset or not at her current situation—had the power to make her life potentially very difficult. Or did she? Marie certainly didn’t have the “undeniable proof” of her lesbianism that she claimed. All she had was her word—that of a young backpacker—over hers—that of a respected television personality. Morgan’s eyes flew open, and she felt a sudden shift in the balance of power. “I understand that you might be very unhappy where you are,” she said firmly. “But you’re not under any obligation to stay. You can always just leave—”

  Another sob. “But I ’ave no money to leave! I must stay ’ere until I am paid.”

  Morgan felt the beginnings of anger. She’d been in tight money situations when she was around Marie’s age. Hell, as a student the money was always tight. She’d have been better off on the unemployment benefit than the paltry student allowance the government eked out to those trying to better themselves. But even when funds were so scarce that buying tampons was considered a luxury and she thought she could not face one more dinner of Vegemite sandwiches, she had never once asked anyone for money. Not even her parents. Instead she’d done as thousands of other students had and taken a crappy job with an even crappier hourly rate. “And so you thought I would be an easy way out for you?”

  “I just thought . . . when I saw you on television—”

  “That I would help you?”

  “Oui.”

  “To the tune of ten thousand dollars. Marie—that’s an awful lot of help.”

  “But chérie, I didn’t know your number so I called the station and asked for it. The mademoiselle who answered the phone would not give it to me—”

  “They’re not supposed to,” Morgan interjected.

  “—and she said she would leave a message for you to call me, but I did not believe that you would ever get it.”

  Morgan had to admit Marie was right in her assumption. If the network phone staff actually passed on the messages of everyone who called, she’d spend her days dealing with every crackpot and crank who wanted to speak to her. “So instead you thought you’d say something to make them sit up and pay attention?”

  “I just wanted to speak to you, chérie.”

  “Well, you are speaking to me.” From the corner of her eye Morgan noticed Kitty mouthing something. Figuring it was an impatient “what’s going on?” she ignored her. “So tell me what you want me to do.”

  “I want you to ’elp me, Morgan.”

  “You want me to help you?” Morgan asked incredulously. “Even after you blackmail me?”

  “Blackmail?”

  “What you are doing is called blackmail. I don’t know what you French call it, but over here it’s illegal.” Morgan took advantage of the ensuing silence to play her trump card. “Look, Marie. While you might think that what you are doing is the answer to your problems, it’s not. For one, I fail to see what proof you have of—”

  “We slept together,” Marie interrupted quickly.

  “Yes,” Morgan agreed. “We did. But when it comes down to it, it’s your word against mine. And I’m sorry, sweetheart, but in this race I’m going to win. Without concrete evidence, you’re going to end up looking like a wet-behind-the-ears con artist. I, on the other hand, have got plenty of powerful people who will back me up against anything you say.”

  Morgan placed her hand over the phone as she exhaled forcefully. This was not easy.

  There was an extended silence on the line followed by, “I ’ate you, Morgan Silverstone.”

  “Well, I don’t like you very much at the moment either.”

  “You liked me enough to fuck me.”

  This time Morgan inhaled deeply, using the moment to arrange her thoughts. “I tell you what. I’ll organize a ticket for you to get back to Perth. And also for a few nights accommodation at the place you were staying at before—”

  “At the ’ostel?”

  “Yes. At the backpacker hostel.” Morgan shook her head at Marie’s disappointed tone. What did she expect—the Hilton? “That will give you enough time to get a job and earn some money to continue your travels.”

  “I don’t want to go back to Perth. I ’ave already seen Perth.”

  “Okay,” Morgan said slowly, trying to keep her patience. It was like dealing with a petulant child. To think she’d found this woman sexy. “Where, then?”

  “Sydney.”

  Morgan balked. Sydney was the location of the Bonnes Vacances studios. It was also the city where she lived. But she’d hardly be there over the next weeks, so there was little chance Marie would be successful in any efforts to try to see her. “Okay . . . Sydney it is. I’ll make the arrangements this morning and you can be on the next train that goes through from Perth. Are you happy with that?”

  “Oui, chérie.”

  “And we can forget this ever happened?”

  “I will never forget you, chérie.”

  Morgan ignored the endearments. “You’ll hear from someone about your train ticket and Sydney accommodation by the end of the day.”

  “You will not call me then?” Marie’s voice was flat with disappointment.

  “I would rather not, no. Good-bye, Marie.”

  “Au revoir, Morgan.”

  Morgan snapped her phone shut, Marie’s accent echoing in her ears. It certainly didn’t have the same effect on her as it had a few days ago. “Well.” She glanced up at Kitty, who was boggle-eyed with curiosity. “That’s taken care of. She’s just a dumb kid who thought she’d try to grab a bigger pot of money than she could carry.”

  “Kid?” Kitty’s expression turned to one of horror. “What do you mean, kid?”

  “Stop being such a worrywart.” Now that the emergency was averted she could relax enough to smile. “She’s over eighteen. She’s working at a pub, remember.”

  “Morgan . . .” Kitty paused, her expression one of warning. But her curiosity got the better of any lectures she might feel appropriate to give. “I want to hear everything t
hat was said. Word for word.”

  Morgan related the entire conversation, ending with her promise to purchase a train ticket to take Marie to Sydney. “And as far as I know the next train from Perth doesn’t arrive in Sydney until Wednesday. We’re off to Vanuatu that day so we won’t cross paths.”

  Kitty nodded, seemingly satisfied with the outcome. But she shook her head at Morgan’s idea of also arranging short-term accommodation at a backpacker hostel. “Put her somewhere nice. Not five-star, but a decent hotel. That way she’ll have trouble finding anything to complain about.”

  Morgan was more than a little surprised at Kitty’s suggestion. It was a good one. Underpromise and overdeliver. She smiled crookedly. “You know, Kitty, sometimes you’re actually handy to have around.”

  “Don’t get too carried away though.” Kitty turned to face herself in the mirror. She frowned at her reflection and removed the hairpin that was clinging onto the remains of her bun. “Since it’s going onto your credit card.”

  “You mean the network’s not going to spring for it?” Morgan said jokingly.

  Kitty didn’t see the humor. “You’re damn lucky you’ve gotten away with this, Morgan. But just in case something does happen, we won’t have to explain why the network was paying for a hotel to house your floozy.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Kitty shook her hair free, frowned at her reflection again then turned to face Morgan. She pulled her phone from her pocket. “Because I’m going to call Joseph back right now and explain to him it was all a big mistake and it’s been sorted. I don’t want to have to eat my words farther down the track.”

  “You won’t.” Morgan grabbed her toiletry bag and a towel. “I promise.” On impulse she gave Kitty a quick hug. “Thanks.”

  “And don’t think I’m going to make the arrangements for you,” Kitty warned as Morgan slid the compartment door across. “You can do that yourself.”

  “I will. Right after my shower.” Morgan nodded. She hurried down the corridor, adding to herself, “And right after I’ve found Ally and spoken to her about last night.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Ally was packing her bag in readiness for the train’s arrival in Sydney when there was a succession of three sharp raps on her compartment door. She immediately stopped, half-folded jeans in hand, and stood motionless, willing Morgan to go away. She knew it was Morgan; she’d fully expected her to pay a visit sometime that morning. That was exactly the reason why she had locked her compartment door on her return from breakfast.

  Which was just as well. The rapping ceased, replaced by a rattle as the latch was tried. That too stopped and finally Morgan’s voice filtered through the door. “I know you’re in there, Ally. Please just let me speak to you.”

  Some little part of Ally was tempted to pull the door across, but she resisted and stood steadfast, biting down on her lip so she wouldn’t reply, even with a “Get lost.”

  There were a few more raps and another plea from Morgan for her to open up, but Ally’s technique of pretending she just

  wasn’t there eventually worked.

  Silence fell.

  Not realizing she had been holding her breath, she gave a relieved exhalation. Then she drew in a sharp breath as a shuffling sound came from the base of the door and a small piece of paper appeared on the carpet.

  She ignored it and turned back to her packing. But not even half of her clothes were neatly repacked into her case when she dived upon the note, unable to resist seeing what it said.

  Morgan had simply written, “Call me anytime.” Underneath, she’d added a mobile phone number. And that was it.

  Ally stared at it. To her it smacked of the type of note men had passed to women in bars in the days before mobile phones and PDAs. “Fat chance, sweetheart,” she muttered. She screwed up the piece of paper, threw it into the corner of the room and continued with her packing.

  Once her belongings were organized, Ally had a quick wash at her basin and settled into her seat. Now, with only forty minutes until they pulled into Sydney station, there was nothing left to do but wait for the train to arrive. Ally sat down and immediately her gaze drifted to the crumpled up piece of paper on the floor. She forced herself to look away and focused instead on the chip in the wood paneling that she had spent so much time staring at yesterday while doing her Morganastics. Another session was the last thing she wanted right now so she opened the venetian blinds and placed her attention on the view from the window. They were already traveling through the outskirts of the city, clickety-clacking through suburbia. But which suburb Ally could not exactly tell since most of the houses that backed onto the railway line were really only notable for their rundown, almost derelict, appearance.

  There was precious little chance they would pass within sight of any of Sydney’s more aesthetically appealing attractions, and right now Ally found the shabbiness of the view rather depressing. So she stared down at her hands instead.

  Even that was not the best of ideas. The first thing she thought of when she looked at them was how Morgan’s hips had felt within their grasp. The softness, how her hands had molded so well to the womanly curve, even through the material of that very sexy sleeveless shirt she had been wearing . . .

  Christ almighty! So much for avoiding the Morganastics. Ally threw her head back into the headrest and stared at the ceiling.

  That particular section of the compartment was apparently safe, so Ally stared at it for the remainder of the journey. As she did, she conjured images of James and their meeting at the station. It would be a romantic meeting, she decided, just as it ought to be when couples meet on train platforms. The tails of James’s knee-length overcoat would be flapping behind him as he hurried to greet her and she would drop her bag as he lifted her off the ground to twirl her ’round and ’round.

  “Ha ha!” For the first time that day Ally not only smiled but laughed out loud. James may very well be wearing his knee-length overcoat, but she couldn’t quite picture him in a midst of a romantic twirl. Romantic or not, it would definitely be nice to see him again though.

  Nice. Ally screwed up her nose at her repeated use of that benign word. She really ought to find a more descriptive adjective. Extremely exciting. Yes. That was better. Ally thought it extremely exciting to be seeing James again.

  She held on to that term until the announcement came over the PA system that they were due to arrive at Sydney’s Central Station in five minutes. She could hear lots of movement in the corridor—probably the same passengers who’d been desperate to board the train were now just as desperate to alight—and so she stayed seated, with her door locked, until the train had ground to a complete halt and most of the shuffle of feet past her door had ceased. Even then she waited for a minute or two before rising from her seat and unlatching her door. On a sudden impulse she bent to the floor and picked up the screwed-up piece of paper. She shoved it into her handbag as she hurried down the empty corridor, peering out of the large windows as she walked, hoping to catch a glimpse of . . . of James.

  She saw him as soon as she alighted from the carriage. He was standing back from the crowd, head slowly turning from side to side as he scanned the platform looking for her. “James!” she called, holding a hand up in the air and waving. She saw him smile and nod in recognition as he moved sedately through the crowd to greet her.

  “Alison.” He drew her into his arms and kissed her on the cheek. His skin felt raspy against hers. If she didn’t know better she’d have assumed he’d left the house unshaven. But she did know better. James’s skin—apart from the first hour immediately following his fastidious morning shave—was always like that.

  Strangely, it had never bothered her as much as it did right now. Nevertheless, Ally ignored the scratchy sensation that spread around her mouth and kissed him back, not on the cheek, but on the lips. She pressed against him, feeling the strength of his body and breathing in the familiar spice of his aftershav
e. She held onto him, laying her cheek against his chest and feeling his heartbeat against her ear, regular and even. She hadn’t got her flapping coattails or her platform twirl, but she did get his arms around her. Most importantly, she got a feeling of reassurance that this was how it should be. That order had been restored. Ally clung onto him even more tightly.

  James’s hands moved to her shoulders, pushing her away to hold her at arm’s length, an expression of bemusement on his features. “Are you okay, Alison?”

  “I’m fine.” Ally laughed a little at her very uncharacteristic clinginess. She let him take her bag then latched onto the crook of his arm, steering him in the direction of the exit. “Just take me home. I want to have a bath and then I want to show you how much I’ve missed you.”

  The smile that spread across James’s features displayed he was not averse to that idea at all. “Right, then. Let’s go.”

  They walked arm-in-arm across the platform, and because Ally had no checked luggage to collect, they steered well clear of the crowded baggage-claim area. Despite her attempts not to, she could not help but cast a quick glance in the direction of the throng of people waiting to collect their suitcases. The small group on the periphery was unmistakable. Two men, one tall and lanky. Two women, one pacing around talking into her mobile phone. The other, a tall brunette with a melting mouth . . .

  Ally touched her fingers to her lips, the tingly feeling that ran through them no doubt a residual effect of James’s whiskers. She leaned farther into him, resting her head against his shoulder and squeezing his arm. Suddenly aware the tall brunette had turned and was looking straight at her, Ally tilted her head up to James and smiled. And she hoped, not just for James’s sake but for the sake of anyone who happened to be watching, that it was a look of absolute devotion.

  Two hours later—one of which had been spent sitting in Sydney’s abominable traffic—Ally was home. She’d unpacked her case while the bath was filling. James had brewed a pot of Earl Grey tea while she organized her clothes, so she drank that while she soaked. Now she was in her bedroom, applying her moisturizer. She applied it in long, slow strokes, her mind attuned to the feel of her own body under her hands. Her legs: soft and smooth, with only the finest traces of hair appearing since her last date with a tub of wax. Her stomach: also soft and not quite flat, but with a gentle curve that led to another, that of her Venus mound. On the upward stroke she could feel the rigid outline of her ribs and the contrasting pliability of her breasts. Ally held one in her hand as she applied the moisturizing cream. She’d given her breasts lots of attention over the years, but always with a critical eye. She’d judged them for their size, their shape, how they looked in this bra or that, this bikini, that bathing suit. Now she closed her eyes, running her hand over the soft tissue, cupping it, stopping with her palm across her nipple and feeling it react under her own touch. She dropped the tube of moisturizer to take her other breast in hand, caressing it, feeling its weight, watching the skin pucker as she traced her fingertip around the areola. They’re beautiful, she realized, fully appreciating their uniqueness for the first time. A flash of memory—of a similar womanly softness pressing just above hers—caused Ally’s breath to catch in her throat. She stopped what she was doing and bent down to frantically rub some moisturizer into her feet.