by Jane Frances
That Eva asked if it was okay with them both that she take some photos confirmed she was the amateur school reporter she declared herself to be. A professional reporter would snap first and ask permission later.
“A little bit more now.” Eva encouraged Morgan and Ally to stand closer together because she also wanted to get the banner image of the big-eyed Indian boy into the frame. She peered from behind her camera and smiled appreciatively when Morgan took a step nearer Ally and angled her body slightly toward her. “Excellent.”
After half a dozen snaps, Eva let her camera dangle and pulled out her notebook. Her initial questions were aimed at Ally: What was her full name? What did she do for a living? How did she come to be at the auction? Ally was a little wide-eyed, like a doe startled by a car’s headlights, but she answered the questions well, succinctly, giving no more information than necessary.
Eva went on to ask if she was a fan of Bonnes Vacances and, particularly, of Morgan.
Ally faltered. “I don’t have much time to watch TV,” she said slowly. “So I have only seen the show once or twice. And as for Morgan . . . well . . .” Ally glanced quickly over to her then looked away. “I really don’t know her at all.”
“So what prompted you to put in such a large bid?” Eva probed, her pencil poised over her notepad.
“Err . . .” Ally glanced at Morgan again, longer this time, as if searching for an answer. Then her gaze shifted to the banner that hung on the stage. “For the children,” she said quickly.
Eva nodded approvingly as she wrote that down. “One last question, Ms. Brown . . .”
“Yes?” Ally smiled gratefully, obviously pleased the interview was soon to be over.
“Just how do you plan on spending your time with Morgan?”
Ally’s smile all but vanished and the trace that was left looked strained. A blush spread up her neck. “Umm . . . I’m not really sure yet,” she said finally.
“You also bid successfully on the Harbor Bridge Climb today, I believe?”
Ally looked like she didn’t know whether to be pissed that Eva had exceeded her question limit or relieved at the change in topic. “Yes.”
“It’s supposed to be quite spectacular. Have you decided who will accompany you?”
Morgan glanced sideways at Eva. She could sense the woman would be delighted if Ally announced her as her climbing companion. It would make a nice angle for her article. But Eva was to be disappointed.
“No,” Ally said flatly.
Hmm. Eva may be disappointed, but Morgan certainly wasn’t. That Ally hadn’t said outright she was going to take James had to be a plus—in her favor. But then again, maybe James was afraid of heights. Or maybe she had a friend, or a sibling, or a niece or nephew that she might like to take. Whatever, Morgan still thought it a plus, and she smiled brightly when Eva turned the questions in her direction.
Morgan slipped into interview mode, agreeing that it was a fabulous result and saying, quite honestly, that she’d not expected anywhere near the price she finally fetched. She answered a few more questions about her career with Bonnes Vacances and then, sensing Ally’s impatience for this ordeal to be over, deftly brought the interview to a close.
The moment Eva had disappeared into the crowd, Ally made a move as if to leave.
“You’re not going, are you?” Morgan blurted, confused. She was sure Ally would want to stay and talk to her, if only to set a date for their auction-win rendezvous.
Ally shrugged. “The reporter’s gone.”
“Exactly. So now we can speak openly.”
Ally shook her head, looking down to her hands. “I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
Exasperated, Morgan asked, “So why did you bid?”
Even without the benefit of being able to see Ally’s expression, Morgan could sense her discomfort. “Like I told Eva . . . for the kids.”
Morgan didn’t believe a word of it. When Ally had finally raised her head her cheeks were a splotchy red, making a mockery of her defiant tone. “Are you okay, Ally?” she asked gently.
There was an extended pause then, “Actually, no. I’m not.”
“I’m sorry if I—”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Ally said sarcastically. She half turned and scanned the hall as if looking for a means of escape. She found one, standing on her tiptoes and waving in the manner meant to grab someone’s attention.
Morgan followed the direction of the wave and she saw the tall figure of James working his way through the lingering crowd. Within a half a minute he would be upon them.
Desperate not to lose this chance to speak to Ally alone, she grabbed her elbow and started talking quickly. “Look, Ally. I’m sorry if I pushed myself onto you on the train. I obviously made an error of judgment and I’m sorry it has upset you. What I’d really like is for us to forget everything that has happened before and to start over”—she nearly tripped over her next words, knowing they were not altogether true—“as friends. And since you’ve effectively purchased three or four hours of my time . . .” She trailed off, leaving the idea hanging in the air, willing Ally to take hold of it.
Ally looked torn.
“Just think about it,” Morgan urged, hating the hint of desperation in her tone. This was not like her at all. “You’ve got my number.”
Ally shook her head. “No, I don’t.”
“Did you not get the paper I—”
“I did.” Ally nodded. Then she said a little sheepishly, “But I kind of ripped it into shreds and poured a can of soup over it.”
“Oh,” Morgan replied rather dumbly, wondering at the thought processes that had led to such actions. But she didn’t have time to ask or comment. James arrived to stand by Ally’s side. With a feeling that was also very out of character for her— it was somewhat akin to envy—she watched Ally snake her arm around his waist and smile up to him.
“James,” Ally said, nodding in Morgan’s direction, “this is Morgan.”
James extended his hand and shook hers warmly. “Pleased to meet you.”
Ally shot a fleeting glance at Morgan. “We were just discussing how we might meet. But it seems we have a clash of schedules for the next month at least, so it’s proving rather difficult.” She issued Morgan a look that defied her to say otherwise.
Totally deflated that Ally was making publicly sure there would be no contact in the near future, Morgan nodded, adding apologetically, “I travel a lot.”
James was in the middle of saying how that was a shame, but he was sure the schedule conflict wouldn’t last forever, when Morgan regained her composure. Two could play at this game. She pulled her phone from her purse and looked Ally squarely in the eye. “As I said, my schedule’s not quite set in concrete. I’ll give you a call when I have it sorted. What’s your phone number?”
When Ally relayed her number James pulled out his phone and asked, “Doesn’t your number end in a six and not a nine?” He pressed a few buttons and was soon exclaiming in his correctness.
“I never dial my own number.” Ally’s voice was apologetic but the look she threw James said she was anything but . . . and that he had better watch out when they got home. She repeated the number, accentuating the final numeral, six.
Morgan quickly entered it into her phone memory and, smiling, gave her number to Ally, who reluctantly punched it into her phone.
“Correct?” Ally asked icily, presenting her phone to James.
“Correct,” he confirmed, seemingly unaware or unconcerned at Ally’s tone.
“Lovely meeting you both.” Content in the knowledge she now had a means of contact with Ally, Morgan shook both their hands. “But I really must get going. I hope to hear from you soon . . .” She glanced at James then settled her gaze a little mischievously on Ally. “Ally.”
Morgan turned away and went in search of William. When she found him he gave his heartfelt thanks, exuberantly proclaiming her a major part of the auction’s success.
“No. Tha
nk you,” she countered, holding his hands within hers. “You have no idea how much being here has meant to me.”
And she took her leave, happily smiling at everyone she passed on her way out of the hall. Once in her car she cradled her phone in her hand, tempted to try out the number she had been given, just to hear Ally’s voice.
But she didn’t. Instead she turned her car engine over and headed out of the school gates, determined to let Ally make the first contact.
The call Morgan had been wishing for came at eight the next evening, just minutes before Michael was due to pick her up for their dinner meeting with the Logies committee.
“Hello,” Morgan breathed into her phone. She wanted to end her greeting with “Ally,” not only for the personal touch, but because she liked the sound of it as it rolled off her tongue. She’d been saying the name out loud intermittently all day, each time she had a moment alone. But now she didn’t indulge her desire. The caller ID might say Ally, but anyone could be on the end of the line. James, for example.
“Morgan?”
“Yes.” Morgan sat on an arm of her couch and closed her eyes to the view of the harbor that the lounge room of her Piper Point apartment afforded. “How are you, Ally?”
“I’ve just called to tell you I’m deleting you from my phone memory, and I’d appreciate it if you’d do the same with my number.”
“What?” Morgan’s eyes flew open. The city lights twinkled and the bridge lights formed a glittering arch, well deserving of its nickname of “the coat hanger.” Morgan detached herself from the familiar view and focused on the reflection in the window. She saw herself on the edge of her couch, running a hand through her hair. If she looked more closely at her eyes, they would have shown a wild desperation. This was not at all what she had expected. “Ally, please. Don’t do this.”
The response was flat. “I have to.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t live this way.”
“What way?”
“Thinking about you all the time. Wanting to call . . . wanting to see you.”
“Then call me.” Morgan’s heart jumped to her throat. “See me.”
“I can’t.”
“Ally . . . please!” Morgan pleaded. She thought wildly, trying to figure a way to make her change her mind. An idea jumped out at her. “What will James think if you never make a claim on what you bought at the auction?”
“What James thinks is none of your business” was the sharp reply.
“Ally!”
There was a pregnant pause during which Morgan leapt up to pace in front of her window. Finally Ally’s voice resumed. It was but a whisper. “See me tonight.”
Oh, God, no. Not tonight. “I can’t tonight. I’ve got plans. But tomorr—”
“Forget it.”
“Ally, please listen. Tonight is . . . important to me. Let’s meet tomorrow. I should wind up around six. I can meet you anywhere you—”
“Forget it.” Coldness had crept into Ally’s tone and Morgan knew she had closed herself off. “I’m deleting you from memory. And I don’t want you to call me ever again. Good-bye.”
The line went dead. Morgan stared at her phone, and despite the explicit instruction not to call, she retrieved Ally from the received-calls list and set it to dial. She was switched to voice mail. Morgan left a message for her to please reconsider and call back.
Morgan left her phone switched on throughout her Logies meeting. It vibrated four times, but covert checks revealed that none of the calls were from Ally. So she ignored them. She left another voice-mail message when her meeting ended and another when she got home. She also left a message early the next morning, before she drove to the studios. But when she tried again at the first break in between her recording sessions, she was switched through to a recording that very politely suggested she should check the number she had dialed.
Morgan did—twice—and both times received the same recording. It seemed that Ally had gone further than her threat of deleting Morgan’s details from her contact list. She had even gone further than blocking Morgan from calling her mobile. Evidently, she had either canceled her mobile phone contract or done something to her SIM card—the sliver of technology that sat behind the battery and contained all the subscriber information, including the phone number—that rendered it useless.
From what Morgan had gleaned of Ally during their time spent together on the train, she had a busy professional life with frequent client contact. Her phone would be an important business tool. But obviously that fact had been overshadowed by Ally’s desire to have no further contact with Morgan.
Morgan turned her phone off and dropped it into her handbag, took herself to the toilets and, for the first time in goodness knew how long, she put her head in her hands and cried.
Not too long later, Morgan contemplated her reflection in the large mirror that hung above the wash basin. She would be retouched by the makeup artist before the next session of shooting began, but for now her pride told her she had to try to eliminate the evidence she had been crying. “What have you done to me, Alison Brown?” she asked under her breath as she carefully wiped away the streaks of mascara from under her eyes.
She dabbed at her eyes a few more times and discarded the mascara-stained tissue. Then she dug into her bag, found her bottle of redness-reliever formula and administered a few drops into each eye. That done, she rested her hands on the edge of the wash basin and took another long, hard look at her reflection.
Despite her efforts, any fool could see she’d shed some tears. Her mouth set into a grim line, she dug into her bag again, this time to pull out her phone.
Within the push of a few keys the Ally entry was deleted. She put the phone back in her bag, snapped the catch shut and thought forward in time to the next day. Come tomorrow she’d be winging her way out of Australia to Vanuatu, voted as the happiest place to live on the planet. Morgan hoped the island nation lived up to its reputation. Because she sure could use some cheering up right now.
Preferably by some delicious Vanuatu island beauty.
Or not. It didn’t matter really. So long as she wasn’t Australian.
Or French. For the moment she was off them too.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ally flinched as she closed her office door behind her. She had just finished deceiving her boss. Actually, deception was far too soft a word to describe what she’d done. Destruction of company property coupled with an outright lie was more fitting terminology. Initially she hadn’t intended to cause any damage to her mobile phone. All she’d wanted to do was make sure Morgan couldn’t keep calling, so, after deleting voice-mail message number four she’d put a block on her phone. But she’d very quickly realized that the block was only good if Morgan dialed from her mobile. She could call from any landline or pay phone, or any other phone for that matter. Plus, Morgan’s number had to be stored in Ally’s phone in order for the number to be blocked and so was sitting there for retrieval should she ever be tempted. Despite telling herself she would not be tempted, there was a niggling voice in her head telling her that she would . . . so blocking her phone was not enough. She needed a new telephone number. And the best way of getting one, without having to answer curly questions from her boss, was for her SIM card to suffer some sort of mishap. Because the card was safely tucked inside her phone and—having figured Josh would never believe it had simply grown legs and walked away—this morning she had purposely destroyed her entire mobile phone by running it under the tap in the office bathroom until some of the electronics short-circuited. It hadn’t taken long.
She had blushed profusely when embarrassedly presenting her still-wet phone to Josh. She explained how she had been desperate for the toilet, made a dash with her phone still in hand, placed it on the women’s sanitary bin, but accidentally knocked it when she stood to flush. And it fell in. The circumstances she described made the blush feasible and he swallowed the whole story, even her proclamation that—thank goodn
ess—she had backed up her SIM card only the week before. In actual fact, she had arrived at the office a good half-hour earlier than normal and backed up her SIM before giving her phone a cold shower.
Ally was relieved that Josh seemed to find the incident more amusing than annoying. Deciding not to push her luck, she shut herself in her office and hardly made an appearance all day. She also refused to dwell on the reason why she had taken such a drastic and dishonest action, choosing instead to bury herself in her work.
James called her on the office line at lunchtime, both to apologize for upsetting her the night before and to see if—as they had arranged before their argument—she was still going to spend the night at his place. He also asked why he was unable to get through on her mobile. Ally broadened the audience of her lie by telling James about dropping her phone down the toilet. She also said yes, she would be spending the night with him. She hung up from the call, bent to her work again and didn’t give him another thought all afternoon.
Come the end of the day she was putting the finishing touches on the first pass of her Kalgoorlie executive residence. Tomorrow she could start inputting it into the 3-D-rendering program that would enable her client to virtually “walk through” his house. She packed up her bag and flicked off the light switch in her office, feeling quite pleased with her progress. Halfway to her apartment in Croyden she remembered she was supposed to be in Balmain. She turned her car around, aimed it for James’s townhouse and let herself in.
She initially kept her “waiting for James at James’s place” routine, bringing in the mail and placing it on the dining table, pouring herself a glass of wine and poking her head in the fridge to see what she might use in the preparation of dinner. She found the makings for a simple stir-fry and was halfway through transferring the ingredients onto the kitchen bench when she began loading them back into the fridge. Ally took herself and her glass of wine upstairs, removed all her clothes and lay down on James’s bed.
