Training Days

by Jane Frances

  Accompanying the article was a photo of Marie, looking all innocent and downcast, hands in her pockets, her backpack beside her on the ground. Next to that was a file photo of Morgan, taken at this year’s Logies awards. She wasn’t looking into the camera but rather smiling at the other woman in the picture—one of the starlets in a popular long-running series. Morgan had her arm draped around the starlet’s shoulder, and the starlet, who Morgan remembered as almost at the stage of being falling-down drunk, had a distinct “what’s happening?” expression. In the context of this article, the image screamed “lecherous lesbian.”

  What didn’t appear in the article was any reference to Morgan’s side of the story. There was just a single sentence in the very last paragraph that read, “Morgan and her agent were unavailable for comment.”

  “Bastards,” Morgan muttered under her breath. If the reporter who wrote the story had actually tried to contact either herself or her agent, then he or she hadn’t tried very hard. Fair enough, she was deliberately difficult to get hold of, especially while on location, but it didn’t take a super sleuth to seek out and find her agent. And if Michael had been contacted and questioned then he would have definitely told her about it.

  She didn’t want to look at the article anymore, but she couldn’t help it. Like most all of her counterparts, she’d suffered at the hands of the media, having exaggerations and untruths printed at her expense. And, like most of her counterparts, she’d grinned and borne the publicity, acknowledging, for good or for ill, that the media machine was an unavoidable aspect of her job. But never before had she been targeted like this. With each word she read and reread came an increasing knowledge that she could be witnessing her career going down the toilet.

  Kitty’s voice intruded on her thoughts. “I don’t know what the little tramp got paid for this, but I hope she thinks it’s worth it.”

  Morgan turned to look at her producer. “Go on, Kitty,” she said flatly. “Say it.”

  Kitty folded her arms and peered at Morgan over the rim of her spectacles. “Say what?”

  “I told you so.”

  Kitty’s continued gaze was steady, but Morgan was almost sure she saw her eyes soften for just a moment. Then they hardened again and Kitty said brusquely, “What’s the point? What’s done is done. Now we just have to do what we can to salvage the situation.” Her mobile was sitting next to her laptop. She reached around Morgan to pick it up then started pacing across the floor. “Joseph’s got his P.A. arranging your flights back to Sydney so she should be calling me soon. But in the meantime we should—”

  “Hang on,” Morgan interrupted, confused. “What do you mean my flights back to Sydney? When?”

  “Hopefully first thing in the morning.”

  “But Portugal . . . ?”

  “Morgan.” Kitty paced back across the room, stopping to stand directly beside her. “Portugal will have to wait for another time. If there’s another time.” She sighed heavily. “They’re thinking of pulling your segments from this week’s show and getting one of the other presenters—Troy, I think—to reshoot the leadins you did last week.”

  “They’re pulling me?” Morgan asked faintly.

  Kitty shook her head. “They haven’t decided exactly what to do yet. But they’re making arrangements in case they do.”

  Kitty went on to describe what had been happening on the other side of the planet in the few short hours since the tabloid had hit the newsstands. The phone lines at the network had been running hot, some in support of Morgan, others enraged that anyone practicing such perversions be allowed on TV. The staff manning the phones had been instructed to give no more information than a “we’re looking into it and until we have we’re making no comment,” but that hadn’t stopped two radio stations from picking up on the story, or for reporters from all manner of publications to come crawling out of the woodwork, looking for more details, new angles, new dirt.

  Kitty pointed to her laptop. “I can almost certainly guarantee you’re the subject of lots of cyberspace discussion too.”

  “But I’m just . . .” Morgan’s head was spinning at the level of attention this was getting. “All I do is present a travel show.”

  Kitty harrumphed. “Save the false modesty, Morgan. You’re up there with Vegemite and Tim Tams. The Australian public has been watching you week after week for years. They care about you. A lot of them idolize you. So when something like this breaks, it breaks big. Remember that cricketer whose text messages were intercepted?”

  Who could forget. The story of the married Australian fast bowler who’d been caught sending numerous X-rated SMSes to his mistress had been in the news for weeks. Australians were mad on their sports and took it—and their sports stars—very seriously. So seriously that the cricketer’s off-field antics actually bounced other, much more newsworthy items right off the front page. But he’d survived the onslaught. After publicly apologizing to his wife . . . Morgan balked again. Surely the network wasn’t expecting her to make a public apology to Marie?

  Kitty snorted derisively when hearing this theory. “Hardly! Like I said, they don’t really know what they want to do yet. But they do want to speak to you—in person—so that’s why we’re getting you back home as soon as possible. And hopefully, since the network’s been actively spreading the word that you’re overseas and not due to return until Monday, you won’t be trampled by reporters when you arrive at the airport.” Kitty jumped slightly as the phone she still held in her hand began to ring. She looked at the display. “It’s Becky.”

  Shit. Shit. Shit. Morgan set her elbows on the table and rubbed at her temples while she listened to Kitty speak to Joseph’s personal assistant. She stared dismally at the computer screen. What a difference a day makes. To think that this time last night she’d been in a state of euphoria and now . . .

  Ally! Morgan’s thoughts leapt to her for the first time since being hit with the news. She had to talk to her, to warn her of what she’d arrive home to. Thank goodness there was nothing to connect them, so she would at least be saved the scrutiny of the nation. And thank goodness Morgan had already given Ally her side of the Marie story so it wouldn’t come as a complete surprise. Morgan wasn’t worried that Ally would actually believe this piece of journalistic trash, but who knew what else would be dragged out—or made up—about her. If enough mud about Morgan was thrown in Ally’s direction, maybe some of it would stick . . .

  Morgan leapt from her chair.

  Kitty put her hand over her phone and demanded, “Where are you going?”

  Morgan’s standby excuse came in handy yet again. “My tummy’s upset. I need the toilet.” She dashed out of Kitty’s room before she could offer the use of her own facilities.

  Too late, she realized she was too early. Ally was still well over an hour away from arriving in Singapore. Morgan stamped her feet in frustration as she was switched to voice mail. She hung up and closed her eyes, gathering her thoughts, trying to think of a text message that would prompt Ally to call her with urgency, without unduly worrying her. “Pls call me as soon as u get this. It doesn’t matter the time. Am awake here n thinking of u.”

  She pressed the key to send her message. Then she checked her own.

  “Jesus.” She muttered as she retrieved her missed calls. There were dozens. Four were from her agent, in each his voice getting more high-pitched and excited. Three were from her executive producer and another two from his P.A. There were also messages from a good number of her friends. And from her mum. From Lucas. From Audrey. It seemed just about everyone who knew her number suddenly wanted to speak to her.

  Morgan’s stomach turned into a tight knot. Kitty had been right. She really was in deep shit.

  Ally sat in the transit lounge at Singapore airport, phone held to her ear, aghast at what she was hearing. “They’re pulling you off the air?”

  “They haven’t actually decided on that yet, but apparently it’s in the cards. I guess the network figures that mayb
e the less I’m seen, the quicker people will forget. You know, the short memory of the public and all that.”

  Ally’s heart pulled at Morgan’s too-bright tone. She knew it was purely for her sake, this trying to pretend the situation less than it actually was. But if the network was thinking of pulling her, even temporarily, obviously things were bad. “Morgan, I’m so sorry. What can I do?”

  Morgan gave a long, drawn breath before she replied. “Just don’t believe everything you read or hear.”

  “There’s a reason I don’t buy the tabloids,” Ally said firmly. “If I wanted to read a piece of fiction, I’d pick up a book.”

  “Not all of it’s fiction, Ally. That’s the problem. They wrap their crap in enough truth to make it believable.”

  “Just as well I’ve got you then, to tell me which bits are the wrapping and what’s just filling.” Ally’s heart skipped at the little pleased noise that came through the telephone. “But I actually meant, what can I do for you?”

  The reply was immediate and determined. “Nothing, baby. I don’t want you involved in this.”

  “But I am involved. I’m involved with you.”

  “No one knows that.” Morgan hesitated for just a moment. “And I want to keep it that way.”

  “But—”

  “Please just trust me on this,” Morgan interrupted, her voice low. “I love you, Ally. All I need is for you to be there for me. I’ll handle the rest.”

  “Can I at least be there for you when you arrive?” Ally clung tightly onto her phone, wishing she was already beside Morgan instead of having this conversation in the midst of strangers in one of the busiest airports in the world. But at least she didn’t have to wait until Monday to see her. She was now arriving late Friday afternoon, flying back via London and Dubai.

  “Baby, I’ve got a meeting with the network immediately after I arrive.”

  “I’ll drive you there,” Ally said immediately.

  “My agent has already insisted he drive me,” Morgan said softly, apologetically. “He wants to talk to me before I speak to

  the bigwigs. But afterward . . . if it’s not too late . . .”

  “It doesn’t matter how late it is. I want to see you.”

  “I can’t wait to see you, either. I love you, Ally.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Ally disconnected from the call feeling quite bereft. This was definitely not what she’d been expecting when she’d found Morgan’s SMS waiting for her on arrival at Singapore.

  Just as she had on countless occasions during her long journey so far, she closed her eyes and concentrated on each glorious moment she had spent with Morgan in Barcelona. In the plane such thoughts had helped take her mind off the fact she was tens of thousands of feet above the ground, and combined with her preflight sleeping tablet and a shot of vodka, she’d spent at least a small portion of the trip in a warm and happy buzz. Now, however, even calling forth the most erotic image of Morgan could not lift her spirits.

  Ally felt so bad for Morgan and what she must be going through, that she could almost cry. She walked the long corridors of the transit terminal, up and down, up and down, trying to figure out something she could do to help her out of this mess. Not a single thing came to mind. All she could do was be there with her love and her support. More to the point, she would be there—not just in the background—but unseen.

  Which was exactly what she’d agreed to do, even before this disaster occurred.

  For the first time Ally seriously considered the implications of the closet that she’d agreed to live in with Morgan. Sure, it had its upsides; not having to immediately think about the reactions of friends, family and colleagues to her sudden “change in lifestyle” was definitely one of them. But on the reverse of that, neither could she share with them her newfound joy. Ally wanted to shout her love from the rooftops. But instead she’d have to whisper it in secret.

  Of course, Ally thought as she continued to pace the corridors, this whole catastrophe may just blow Morgan’s closet to smithereens. Unless it was decided that she deny all the claims made against her—and given the existence of the recorded conversation Ally didn’t see how that could be easily done—Morgan would be effectively outed. In that case, there would be no further need to keep their relationship a secret.

  Ally smiled a little, imagining Morgan turning up at her offices on her days off and them striding out together for lunch at a restaurant where they would openly hold hands.

  Then her smile faded at the edges. How could she be thinking of her own selfish desires at a time like this? From what Morgan had described, the article had next to painted her as some sort of sexual predator with a predilection for the young girls. Being able to hold hands in public was a miserly trade-off for suffering that kind of rumor.

  That final thought took her to outside a large newsagent. Ally hurried inside and scoured the range of international publications for the tabloid in question. It wasn’t there. She sighed. She’d have to wait until she got to Australia to pick up a copy.

  “Jesus Christ,” she muttered under her breath when she did finally get to read the article. She was reading it while waiting in the taxi queue at Sydney airport, having bought the tabloid at the first newsagent she found open after leaving immigration. The further she read, the more infuriated she became. The Morgan described in the article was not the Morgan she knew. Nowhere close.

  When she was the next up for a taxi Ally tore the article from the page and handed the rest of the publication to the man behind her in the queue. He was so surprised at the offering that he accepted it.

  Ally stepped into the taxi, gave her address and rode the entire distance with her chin resting on her fist, the suburbs of Sydney passing in a blur as she tried to focus her thoughts. But she was just too damn tired. She’d really had little to no sleep for the past forty-eight hours and hadn’t slept a wink during the seven or so hours of her flight from Singapore to Sydney. The flight had been turbulent and so most of it had been spent in frozen terror. The rest of it had been spent turning Morgan’s situation over and over in her mind.

  It was nearly midnight when she stepped gratefully out of the taxi and headed wearily toward the entrance of her apartment block, dragging her suitcase behind her. With each step, each sleepless hour caught up with her a little more and she was tired to the point of exhaustion, so much so that the light shining from her lounge room window on the third floor did not register.

  That didn’t happen until she unlocked her front door. Fear clutched at her stomach. Had she disturbed a prowler? She stood, frozen with fright, as a shadow moved across the hallway floor.

  “James!” She exhaled in pure relief when his familiar figure appeared in the doorway leading to the lounge. Relief just as quickly turned to annoyance. “What are you doing here?”

  He took one step closer. “I came to get my things.”

  “At midnight?” Ally frowned. She’d called him the night before she left for Spain, advising him of her unexpected trip and suggesting it might a good idea if he came to collect his belongings while she was gone. “You’ve had nearly a week to do that, yet you choose to do it now?”

  James nodded toward her bedroom door. “And I brought all yours. They’re in there.”

  “Thank you.” Ally rubbed at one of her temples. “But I’m really tired and I’ve got a big day at work tomorrow. So I’d like to go straight to bed. Alone,” she added, in case James entertained any ideas she was extending an invitation.

  “Did you hear the news about your little friend?”

  “Pardon?”

  James took another step closer to her. “Your friend. Morgan.”

  He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a folded sheet of newspaper. “This was in today’s news.”

  Ally controlled herself from snatching what she already knew to be the tabloid article. Instead she calmly took the paper from his hand and opened it slowly, scanning it as if seeing it for the first time.r />
  She handed it back. “This is rubbish, James. And since when did you start reading the tabloids?”

  “I don’t,” James said evenly. “Phil rang me this morning. Barbara had seen the article and thought I might be interested . . . since you bought Morgan at auction just the other week.”

  Ally could feel the blush of guilt creep up her neck. “I fail to see the connection—”

  “Neither did I.” James opened out the paper again and pointed to the paragraph that gave details of the train—right down to the date—where Morgan met Marie. “Until I saw this. This is the same train you were on, is it not?”

  Ally bit on her lip. Then she straightened her shoulders and said airily, “So she was on the same train as me. So what?”

  James rubbed at the stubble of his day-old beard. “And you didn’t think of mentioning that to me at some stage? Like maybe before you paid five thousand dollars for a bit of her time?”

  Ally was at a loss for an explanation, so she pounced on the money issue. “Will you quit it with the five-thousand-dollar thing! I told you . . . it’s my money. I can do what I like with it!”

  James looked at her long and hard. “Is she the woman you kissed?”

  Ally’s mouth went dry. Judging from his expression, he knew. Or at least he thought he knew. She turned back to the front door, not only to grab at the handle, but to avoid having to hold his accusing gaze. “I’m through with this conversation. Please leave.”

  Just as with all the other times Ally had thrown him out of her apartment, he left without further argument. But he did turn around in the moment before Ally closed the door. “Good-bye, Alison.”

  It was said with finality. Ally held the door open for a moment longer than she needed, watching him walk toward the stairwell, knowing it was probably the last she’d see or hear of him. She closed the door quietly, getting the distinct feeling she was also shutting the door on her old life.

  Ally was not exactly sure how she felt about that. And right now she was just too damn tired to figure it out. She left her suitcase where it was and put herself to bed.