Training Days

by Jane Frances

  “Five thousand dollars . . .” Josh’s voice intruded on the silence as Ally read the text for the second time. “That’s a bit rich, isn’t it?” He paused, the twinkle in his eye in opposition to the stern set of his mouth. “Obviously, I’m paying you far too much.”

  Ally, stunned to see the photo there at all—wasn’t it just supposed to be in the school newsletter?—stopped midsentence in her excuse about it being a donation for the children. She folded her arms. “If you paid me half of what I’m actually worth, I could have made it ten.”

  That caused Josh to erupt into laughter. “Nice try.” He reached across the desk and presented her with a colorfully printed box. The photo on the front gave away the contents. It was a new phone. “While you were dozing this morning I was out getting you this.”

  “Thanks.” Ally turned the box around in her hands. It looked like a pretty snazzy phone with a largish color LCD screen. From all the bullet points listed next to the picture, it was also packed with features, most of which she was never likely to use. “I’ll go get it charged up straightaway.” She pointed to the line of numerals printed above the barcode. “Is this my new number?”

  “Only if your SIM card is as drowned as your phone.” Josh grinned, obviously still finding the supposed circumstances behind the death of her phone amusing. “The sales assistant told me there’s a chance—if you didn’t leave your phone floating in the loo for too long—that it might still work. You did keep your SIM, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.” Ally planned to drop her mobile into the recycling box at her nearest phone shop but as yet hadn’t done so. “I’ll try it as soon as the new one’s charged up.”

  Josh nodded, closing the paper and folding it. “Tea and read” was over, his attention already moving back to the massive twenty-two-inch flat-screen monitor that sat at one end of his desk. “Any chance we can have a catch-up tomorrow afternoon, to make sure everything’s in order before I leave?”

  “Sure.” Josh was flying to Barcelona on Friday to attend a global conference on sustainable housing. He’d be gone for nearly a week, arriving in Spain on Saturday morning, sightseeing until the two-day conference commenced on Monday, and then flying back on Wednesday, arriving in Sydney on Thursday. If it weren’t for the awfully long flights both before and afterward, Ally would have loved to attend such an event and soak up a bit of Spanish sun into the bargain. But taking into account airfares, accommodation and conference fees, sending one delegate was expensive enough. Sending two, especially in a firm the size of theirs, was madness. Ally would keep an eye on things while he was gone, and he could tell her all about the new developments in their field of specialization when he returned. “Five o’clock?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  Ally reached for her bag and stood to leave, her eyes fixed on the folded up newspaper. “Are you finished with that?”

  Josh peered over the rims of his spectacles as he held it out. “I guess you may as well have some tangible evidence of your investment.”

  Ally snatched the paper from his hand and stalked out of his office. She closed her own office door behind her and thumbed through the paper until she found the page she wanted. She extracted it, folded it so the photo of her and Morgan was face up and placed it under her keyboard. Satisfied she could now safely glance at it whenever she felt like it; she pulled her new phone from the box and plugged it into the new charger. Then she pressed the button on the hard drive of her computer.

  She looked under her keyboard twice in the time it took for her computer to boot up.

  Within two hours her new phone was fully charged; she’d inserted her old SIM, but it was as dead as her old phone. Thank goodness she’d backed it up or she’d have to spend half the morning plugging names and numbers into her new handset. As it was, she had to contact all and sundry to advise of her new number. Plus she’d have to order new business cards.

  There was one other hiccup in the transition from her old phone to the new. She’d deleted Morgan’s number from her phone memory before she backed up her SIM. So now that she had finally admitted she actually did want to speak to her, she couldn’t. Not immediately anyway. Ally closed her eyes and racked her brain, trying to recall Morgan’s number. One would have thought, given she’d spent so much time staring at the piece of paper that had been slipped under her compartment door, that the number would be hard-wired into her brain. But it wasn’t. Not in its entirety anyway. For the life of her she could not recall with certainty the last three digits.

  Three digits effectively meant nine hundred and ninety-nine permutations. Or was that one thousand? Whichever, it was an awful lot of dialing. Even if she struck it lucky after only ten percent of the possibilities, that was still one hundred numbers. Ally sat at her desk, staring at the beginnings of her 3D rendering of the Kalgoorlie executive residence.

  The television network! She could ring there. Once she’d explained who she was and that she’d bought Morgan at auction, they were sure—if not to give her Morgan’s number directly—at least to pass on a message to call. Ally opened up her online phone directory, found the network number and dialed.

  Fifteen minutes later, ten of which were spent on hold, she placed her receiver back on its cradle. She wasn’t overly confident her message would ever reach Morgan, primarily because the woman she spoke to must have had a “tea and read” herself that morning. Either that or she was kept informed of all publicity regarding the network’s stable of stars so she could effectively field incoming calls. At the mention of the words Morgan and auction the woman’s tone turned suspicious, and even more so when Ally indicated she was the winning bidder and hence needed Morgan’s number.

  “You’ve yet to give me anything that anyone reading the article wouldn’t already know,” the woman said tiredly as Ally ran off a string of information about herself.

  Ally thought furiously for something only she and Morgan would know, without it being of too personal a nature. “Tell her I’ve decided who I want to take on the Harbor Bridge Climb with me.” No one except Morgan, the reporter and herself would know she’d also successfully bid on the bridge climb since no reference was made to it in the article.

  “Harbor . . . Bridge . . . Climb,” the woman said slowly, as if she were writing the details down. Her tone distinctly sounded as if she thought Ally was a nutcase. “Right, Ms. Brown. I’ll pass all this on for you. Although I can’t guarantee Ms. Silverstone will act on it.”

  “Thank you.” Ally figured there was no use pushing for a firmer promise than that. And she hung up, silently cursing Eva, the school reporter, for having decided Morgan’s record price at auction was worthy of a wider audience than that of her newsletter. If only the story had been published one day later . . . or Ally had had her “lightbulb moment” one day earlier. Or even better . . . if only she hadn’t deleted the number from her phone in the first place.

  Ally dismally admitted that random dialing was probably her best hope. Either that or by some miracle she would randomly bump into Morgan on the streets of Sydney. The odds of that were slim, given that Morgan spent so much time away. And the odds of it happening today or tomorrow were nonexistent since, if Ally’s memory of Morgan’s immediate schedule served her correctly, she should be halfway to Vanuatu by now.

  Ally turned her attention back to her 3-D rendering. None of this speculation was getting her any closer to meeting her Friday deadline for the Kalgoorlie residence. And her business cards weren’t going to order themselves.

  Ally took care of the phone-related business first. She transferred all her backed-up information onto her new SIM, then sent a bulk text message to her entire phone book advising of her new number. She followed that with a quick e-mail to her entire address book. On both counts she filtered James from the list of recipients. Not the best step in light of wanting to maintain a friendship with the man maybe, but she figured that being at least a little non-contactable was best for the moment. Finally, she rang the copy shop
and ordered new business cards. The copy shop handled all the firm’s short-run printing needs and so had their existing business card templates on file. It was a simple matter of inserting the new number and sending the file to print. Ally would be couriered her new cards within twenty-four hours.

  With all that taken care of, she took a deep, calming breath, settled her gaze and her thoughts onto her computer screen and concentrated. Except for toilet breaks and to recharge her coffee mug, she barely left her office for the rest of the day, not even stopping for lunch. Her ears were attuned to her telephone and she suffered flashes of hope each time it rang. The hope was in vain. None of the calls were from Morgan. Each time she hung up she took a little peek at the photo under her keyboard.

  She left the office at six and drove straight home. Her landline was ringing as she fumbled her key in the lock, but it stopped before she reached it. The caller ID didn’t recognize the number and no message was left. Ally made a pot of tea and tried telephone number permutations 000 through to 020, all to no avail.

  By the time she put herself to bed just before midnight she had systematically worked her way through her apartment, gathering James’s belongings. She had also systematically tried dialing up to permutation 090. And she’d found the official tourism site for Vanuatu and systematically surfed through all its contents, wondering which hotel Morgan was staying in, which beaches she was lying on, which restaurants she was eating in. Whatever she was doing, she was sure to be happy doing it since—according to the Web site—Vanuatu topped the list in the Happy Planet Index.

  Ally fell asleep wishing she was in Vanuatu too.

  Considering she was in the happiest place on the planet, Morgan wasn’t feeling particularly cheerful. In fact, she was decidedly gloomy. She was alone in her hotel room and had been for hours, begging off a night on the town in favor of some peace and quiet. Kitty—currently holed up in her own room—had nodded approvingly at Morgan’s decision. The fewer chicks that left their hotel nest, the less likely she was to have to go chasing after them later. Mark had been disappointed, wanting to experience the local kava—a legal narcotic drink made from the root of the pepper tree. When Morgan told him he could just go without her, or go with Nick, he had punched her on the shoulder.

  “Come on, Mogs,” he urged. “You’re the only one here who I want to get all sleepy and numb with.”

  Morgan reminded him they would actually be filming her knocking back a few coconut shells of the stuff early tomorrow evening, so he could try it himself afterward. And they could be pleasantly numb together then.

  “It’s supposed to be a great de-stressor,” Mark continued. “You’ve been uptight all day. You need to loosen up a bit.”

  “I said no.” Morgan could feel her phone vibrating in her pocket. She pushed Mark toward the door of her room. “Now go away.”

  Mark quirked an eyebrow, sensing that a motive other than an early night was keeping Morgan in the hotel. “Did you hook up with that chick while I wasn’t watching?”

  “No, I did not.” Almost immediately after stepping off the plane they had stepped onto a yacht moored in the harbor at Port Vila, the capital city of Vanuatu. The beauty of the natural harbor and the crystal-clear quality of the water took precedence for filming, so Morgan had numerous breaks from being in front of the camera. They shared the vessel with a half-dozen tourists, one of which was a chatty Texan. Female. Good-looking. And, as Mark pointed out when he sidled up to Morgan to see if she’d noticed the attention, definitely interested. But even the woman’s slow Texan drawl couldn’t arouse more than a fleeting interest. “Like I told you on the boat, I just wasn’t into her.” Her phone was still vibrating, but it would switch to her voice mail at any second. She opened the door and hustled Mark out of it. “Piss off. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Once alone, Morgan pulled out her phone and checked the caller ID. It was an unknown number. Usually she would ignore such calls, but not now. Not since Ally had disconnected from her previous number. She answered each call with a surge of hope, praying that Ally had reconsidered and wanted to speak to her.

  Her hopes plunged with the voice. It was some offshore telemarketing center wanting to know if she was happy with her car insurance. Morgan had long ago learned that a firm but polite “I’m not interested” usually did the trick. But she wasn’t in the mood for polite right now. “Bugger off!” she barked and disconnected.

  No more unknown callers called that evening. Morgan picked at her room service dinner and placed the nearly untouched plate outside the door. She took her phone to bed with her, and instead of turning it off as she usually did, she turned the ring volume back on and set it to maximum. That way she was sure not to miss a single call, even if it occurred in the middle of the night.

  Morgan lay with her phone in hand, staring at the ceiling, hating that she was putting her life on hold in the hope of receiving a call. It was time for some proactivity. She decided—if Ally had not reconsidered and called by the time they left Vanuatu for Fiji on Friday morning—she would commandeer Kitty’s laptop while they were waiting at the airport, hopefully hook up to the Internet via a wi-fi connection and Google Ally. Morgan knew her full name: Alison Brown. She knew her profession: Architect. And she knew where she worked: Sydney. Google could almost certainly find her based on that degree of information, and if not, well, she’d just have to make a directory search on all the architectural firms specializing in sustainable housing in the Sydney area. Surely there couldn’t be too many. So, one way or another she was sure to get Ally’s office phone number and address. Morgan was flying in from Fiji on Sunday, so on Monday morning, before she hopped back on a plane—this time to Barcelona in Spain—she’d drop into Ally’s office and pay her a personal visit.

  Yes, that was a damn good plan. Satisfied, Morgan turned onto her side and fell asleep with her phone still clutched in her hand.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Ally woke with a feeling of well-being on Thursday, having slept surprisingly well the night before. She bounced through her preparations for the day, ate a massive bowl of cereal, downed a coffee and an orange juice and arrived at the office feeling she could just about take on the world.

  Something good was going to happen very soon. She could feel it in her bones. Maybe today she’d hit the jackpot with her permutations. Ally pulled out her phone and considered trying the next sequence of numbers. But it was a little early to be disturbing people—even strangers. Instead she booted up her computer, had a look at the picture that lay under her keyboard, made herself another coffee and got down to work.

  At eight thirty she reached for her first phone call of the day. But she didn’t pick it up, a glance to the display of her desk phone telling her it was James.

  Ally felt rather bad for not answering but she let it ring out.

  Fifteen minutes later he tried again. Ally wondered why he didn’t try her mobile number and then remembered he hadn’t been included in yesterday’s SMS and e-mail sends. She didn’t pick up.

  Another fifteen minutes passed and another phone call from James. Obviously, until she spoke to him she wouldn’t get a moment of peace. “Hello.”

  “I miss you.”

  “Will you please stop calling me every few minutes?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “I know you have. Your name keeps appearing on my phone.”

  James gave a little embarrassed cough. “I’m sorry, Alison. But I just wanted to speak to you. To see if you’ve reconsidered.”

  “No, James, I haven’t.”

  There was a silence over the line, then, “Who is she?”

  That was the first time he had asked that question. Ally was not going to answer. She changed the subject, her tone a little brusque, indicating she was not in for a discussion. “I have all your things packed and ready. When would you like to come over and pick them up?”

  “Alison . . .”

  “And when can I come over to pick up mine?”
/>   “Let’s have dinner tonight and we can talk about it then.”

  Ally hesitated. She knew if she accepted it would get James’s hopes up. But she also knew if she didn’t, there was a great possibility she’d be barraged by phone calls until she did.

  It was time to take a tough line. “I’m transferring all my calls to reception, so there’s no point calling me again today. I’ll phone you tonight and we can talk a little then. ’Bye for now.” She hung up before he could reply and immediately dialed Kirsty, who in addition to her drafting tasks took all the general inquiries, both over the phone and front of office. “Can you please take my calls today? If James calls, tell him I’m busy and can’t be disturbed. But I’m expecting a call from a Morgan, so if she calls you can switch her straight through.”

  If Kirsty wondered why Ally didn’t want to speak to James, she didn’t ask. Ally would have to break the news of her split to staff eventually, but not right now. Right now she really wanted to get her 3-D rendering of the Kalgoorlie residence completed, hopefully before her five o’clock meeting with Josh. She wanted to wow him with her six-bedroom, four-bathroom, open-planliving, solar-powered, ranch-style masterpiece before he left for Barcelona tomorrow.

  At nine thirty she was disturbed by Kirsty, who popped her head around her door. “The boss just came in. Said he wants to see you.”

  “Okay.” Ally looked up and frowned. Why didn’t Josh just pop his own head ’round the door like he normally did? “I’ll be there in one minute.”

  In less than that she knocked on his door.

  “It’s Ally.”

  “Come in.”

  “You wanted to see me?” she asked, immediately noticing he looked quite drained. Normally no one would guess he was close to fifty-five. Today he was showing every one of his years.