Training Days

by Jane Frances

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Morgan wished she’d been able to shower before her meeting. It certainly would have helped boost her confidence a bit. That had been well and truly rattled by the presence of reporters at the airport. They were waiting for her, so word must have leaked out about her altered travel plans.

  “Ready?” Michael, her agent, asked when she emerged from the bathroom located near the conference room where she was to meet her fate.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be to face a firing squad.” She smiled wanly. She’d had a quick freshen-up and pulled on a clean but slightly crumpled shirt that she’d packed into her cabin bag. But her confidence was still at a low, low ebb.

  Michael placed his hand at the small of her back and steered her toward the large double doors. “Stick to your guns and you’ll be fine.”

  “You’ll back me up?” Morgan asked him for the fifth time since they’d met at the airport and discussed how they were going to proceed.

  “Of course,” Michael said, applying a little more pressure with his hand. “All the way.”

  They entered the conference room to find the gathering a near replica from when her last contract had been signed. Around the table sat Joseph, her executive producer; Maxwell and Sophie, two network directors; Claude, from legal; and Carlo, from public relations. The circumstances of this meeting had set their expressions in a completely different manner to that of the contract signing.

  Morgan, donned in her day-old jeans and crumpled shirt and feeling the grit and grime of long-haul travel on her skin, acknowledged their guarded greetings and took a seat, preparing herself for the onslaught.

  The very first question—posed by Maxwell as he pushed an enlarged computer-printed version of the article across the table toward her—was totally unexpected. “Is there any truth in this?” he asked.

  It was unexpected because Joseph had already asked her exactly the same thing when he spoke to her by phone in Barcelona. She’d have thought he would have relayed the reply to his superiors by now. Maybe he had and Maxwell just wanted to hear it from her own mouth. Or maybe Joseph hadn’t yet told him, giving her a last opportunity to change her mind. She hadn’t. Against Kitty’s and Joseph’s—but thankfully not Michael’s—advice, she had decided it was high time she stood up and be counted.

  As she’d told Michael and Kitty and Joseph, she was sick of lying, sick of hiding, sick of denying who she was. She’d declare herself today and ride out the consequences, whatever they might be. What she hadn’t told them about was Ally. Seeing no advantage to dragging Ally with her through the media-slung mud, she’d decided to keep their relationship a secret, at least until the dust settled and the public’s interest turned in a different direction. Only three people knew of Ally’s existence: Kitty, Mark and Nick. Only Mark knew of Ally’s importance to her.

  “There is some truth to it,” she said slowly, trying very hard to maintain eye contact with Maxwell. “I am a lesbian and I did sleep with Marie. But all the details around those two facts have been twisted and embellished to such an extent they bear no resemblance to what actually happened.”

  Morgan held her breath as she waited for Maxwell’s response. He leaned forward in his seat, clasped his hands together on the desk and looked at her intently. “Who else have you told this to?”

  “My producer, Kitty Bergen. To Joseph”—Morgan nodded to her executive producer and then to Michael—“and to my agent, Michael Potter.”

  “That’s it?”

  Morgan held her gaze steady. “That’s it.”

  Maxwell glanced to director Sophie and legal Claude, who both nodded slightly, as if confirming some predetermined agreement. Then he fixed his attention on Morgan again. “We’ll issue a statement tomorrow saying you have denied everything. And, just to show how seriously you’re taking these accusations, you’ll initiate legal proceedings against the company who produces this rag.”

  Morgan’s mouth fell open. “But I don’t see how . . . what about the recording of the conversation? That’s physical evidence. I can’t deny that, even if I wanted to.”

  Claude shrugged. “We can get proof it’s been faked.”

  “No,” Morgan said firmly, wondering blackly just how this “proof” would be obtained. “I won’t do it.”

  “You’ve hidden it all these years,” Sophie interjected. “What’s the problem now?”

  “The problem now”—Morgan looked in turn to each person around the table—“is that while I may have hidden my sexuality, I never outright denied it. Now the proof is out there and I can’t take it back. In fact I refuse to take it back. I’ll make whatever statements are necessary to expose the article for the rubbish it is. But I won’t tell the world I’m not a lesbian.”

  “You don’t have any choice,” Maxwell said gravely.

  It was at this point Michael cleared his throat. “Err, excuse me. But I think Morgan does have a choice here.” He pulled a copy of her contract from his briefcase. “I’ve been over this with a fine-toothed comb, and nowhere does it state you have control over what she does in her private life.”

  Claude began flipping pages of his copy of Morgan’s contract. Nearly an hour later, after he had stopped flipping pages because there were no more left to flip, it was acknowledged that Michael was “technically” right. Like it or not, they couldn’t dictate what Morgan did outside business hours.

  It was then that Sophie, who Morgan was fast pinning as homophobic, came up with the brilliant idea that since she’d been on location when this incident occurred it wasn’t technically “private life” time. It was company time. This prompted everyone to start talking at once, debating where the workday ended while on location. If it ended at all. To Morgan’s dismay there was general agreement that—since the network paid for everything except their personal expenses while they were away—they were constantly on company time and should be acting in an appropriate manner. Sophie even spouted Kitty’s favorite line: “We must keep the reputation of the network intact.”

  “Oh, puh-leese!” Michael interjected with a roll of his eyes. “If that’s the case then half your people should have their contracts canceled just from their behaviour at the last Logies after-party.” He pointedly tapped the picture of the extremely drunk starlet that had accompanied the tabloid article. “If I’m not mistaken this underage little angel still wanders up and down these hallowed corridors. Does she not?”

  No one said a word.

  Michael directed his next question to Maxwell. “Just exactly what action do you plan to take if Morgan refuses to participate? You can’t revoke her contract for refusing to lie. And neither can you revoke it because she’s gay. Everyone here knows that’s illegal.” Before Maxwell could reply, Michael continued, “And it may also be a very, very bad idea from a P.R. perspective.”

  “Carlo . . . ?” Maxwell turned to the representative from the public relations department. “What’s the latest take?”

  Carlo, who Morgan had known and liked for the three and a bit years he’d been with the network, scratched nervously at the back of his scalp. If Morgan didn’t know better she’d interpret the action as portent to bad news. But she did know better.

  She practiced deep-breathing before every performance. Carlo scratched himself.

  He flashed a brilliant smile around the table and a covert wink in her direction.

  For the first time since the meeting started she allowed herself to relax a little. Obviously, it wasn’t all bad news.

  “The vast majority of calls taken since yesterday have been outstandingly in Morgan’s favor,” he said as rose and took a step behind him to the panel of controls on the wall. He dimmed the lights a little and then returned to his seat, where he pressed a single key on his laptop. The large screen at the narrow end of the conference room was suddenly lit with figures and graphs. “As you can see, the number of calls to the network has increased by over six hundred percent of normal. Of this increase ninety-eight percent were in
direct relation to Morgan. And of these”— he paused and smiled in Morgan’s direction—“over eighty-nine percent have been in her support.”

  Carlo’s expression sobered and again he looked in turn to each person around the table.

  “As you are all no doubt aware, word quickly got out that Morgan’s presence on Bonnes Vacances is currently in question. These are some of the reactions we received.” He pressed a key and the screen changed. Text this time. Some caller comments.

  Morgan leaned forward, reading the screen faster than Carlo read it out loud. “Keep Morgan on the air. My Friday nights would be ruined without her.” From Steven, in Ringwood, Victoria.

  “So what if Morgan is gay. She still gives the best travel advice. And she’s easy to look at too.” From Tim, in Esperence, Western Australia.

  “Eight years I’ve been watching Bonnes Vacances. Take Morgan away and I’ll never watch it again. You go, girl!” From Jenny in Sydney, New South Wales.

  “Morgan, bless her, is one of the kindest women I have ever had the good grace to meet. She is the main reason Bonnes Vacances is such a wonderful show and I would be proud to call her my daughter.” From Marge, in the Adelaide Hills, South Australia.

  Morgan blinked. Surely that couldn’t be the Marge? From the train.

  Carlo scratched his chin before he read out loud the comment from Marge. “This woman insisted that she traveled on the same train as Morgan—a fact we have since verified through the train company. She was very . . . verbose . . . in her praise, telling us that Morgan’s conduct was exemplary”—he scratched again, this time near his temple—“and that she couldn’t do enough to help out a friend and fellow traveler of hers who was in a bit of strife.”

  Jesus. Morgan felt her insides tie into a tight knot. Please, please, please don’t mention that I offered Ally to bunk in with me.

  Carlo gave her the merest of glances and a teeny eyebrow raise, then he pressed a key and the screen changed to a new set of positive caller comments. Morgan exhaled in relief. Carlo was on her side. And, like the public relations specialist he was, he focused on the positives. He didn’t deny the existence of the negatives; he just didn’t give them any undue attention. In actual fact, he probably would not have given them any attention at all, had Sophie not directly asked about negative feedback from the viewers.

  Morgan mentally prepared herself for a dose of bigotry and hatred while Carlo rustled through a sheaf of papers. From his comments while he continued to sort through his papers, it seemed that the percentage of people against her was relatively small.

  Small maybe, but extremely vocal in their opposition. Morgan cringed when Carlo began to read an excerpt from one such call.

  “Miss Silverstone should be removed immediately and permanently from our screens,” he quoted a woman who hailed from the same area as Marge. “It’s the promotion of this type of perversity that is the root of all the problems in our society.”

  “Stop it right here.” Maxwell held up his hand to Carlo. Then he waved it in the direction of the screen. “I think we’ve seen enough from the public. Obviously their views are skewed”—he peered at Morgan—“in your favor. But there are other issues at hand here.”

  “What could be a bigger issue than the opinion of your viewers?” asked Michael.

  Maxwell stared for a moment at Michael, a superior look on his face. He obviously thought it a stupid question. “There’s the small matter of our advertisers . . .”

  Oh, hell. Morgan inwardly cringed. Here we go. Money.

  Worse yet, Sophie was the director in charge of advertising and sponsorship. Morgan watched her rustle through the sheaf of papers that sat in front of her. And her hopes struck bottom with Sophie’s expression before she commenced on her report. It was smug and self-satisfied.

  Things were no longer looking so good.

  Ally was unable to sit still. She moved from the couch to her drafting table, wondering at the possibility of concentrating on some work, just to take her mind off this awful waiting.

  It seemed forever since she’d received a call from Morgan advising her plane had landed.

  “Good luck,” Ally had said softly, matching Morgan’s hushed tone.

  “Thanks, baby,” Morgan replied. “I’ll speak to you as soon as my meeting finishes.”

  That call had been over four hours ago. What on earth could they have to talk about for all this time?

  Although, Ally thought as she moved away from her drafting table again, if they were picking through everything that had been written or said since the tabloid hit the newsstands, then they could be at it well into the night.

  Ally sat at her dining table, where she’d strewn copies of every daily paper she’d found during her out-of-office excursion to buy a lunch of takeaway Japanese. Of these, at least half had made mention of the tabloid article. To what end, Ally wasn’t sure, since they had nothing new to report, except to say the network had issued a firm “no comment” and that the star herself was not available to confirm or deny the story, being on location “somewhere in Europe.”

  At least she won’t get pounced on by the media when she arrives, Ally had thought as she read the reports while picking at her box of sashimi.

  Once home and flicking from channel to channel trying to catch every one of the evening television news reports, she realized her assumption had been premature. A news presenter announced, “Troubled star of Bonnes Vacances Morgan Silverstone is back on Australian soil this evening . . .” The image of the presenter disappeared to be replaced by footage shot at the airport. Morgan, wearing dark glasses and with her head down, was pushing silently through a mass of reporters, all sticking their microphones in her face, shouting questions at her.

  Ally’s heart went out to her. She was already stressed enough as it was, without having to suffer a mob of rabid reporters. And how on earth did the media find out, not just that she was arriving early, but on which airline and at what time?

  All the network channels—with the exception of Morgan’s own—made mention of her return to Australia. And all speculated over her “immediate future,” one even mentioning “the star, rumored to be next year’s presenter at the Logies” was also “rumored to be at threat of being dropped from her show.”

  “Where do they get this stuff from?” Ally wondered out loud as she shifted her attention from television screen to computer screen, firing up her laptop and Googling “Morgan Silverstone.”

  “My God,” she exclaimed as she started delving into the results. Kitty had not been exaggerating Morgan’s popularity. Whole sites were dedicated to her, created by fans who’d taken their Morgan-worship to the extreme. They had picture galleries and video clips, Morgan message boards and downloadable screensavers. Ally was currently most interested in the message boards. As expected, all were humming with new activity. The majority of the comments were highly positive, the participants declaring their continued devotion and announcing dire consequences for the network ratings if they dared pull Morgan from their TVs. Others had taken great umbrage at the possibility that their idol was a lesbian, with one particularly prolific messenger posting comment after comment about the evils of homosexuality. He or she made constant reference to an episode of Bonnes Vacances aired a few weeks prior, one that had featured family-friendly holidays. Morgan’s segment had focused on a five-star camping ground where she was filmed going down a kid-sized waterslide, the final person in a chain of laughing, excited children. “Those types of people should be kept as far away from our future generation as possible,” the post announced. Ally noted with satisfaction that the messenger was shot down in flames by others making subsequent posts, but still she was both surprised and saddened to discover that such rampant homophobia still existed.

  That discovery prompted Ally to temporarily shift her attention from Morgan to herself. Were any of her friends, family or acquaintances homophobic, she wondered? And would their opinion of her change from one moment to the next becau
se she announced herself as a lesbian? Offhand she couldn’t think of anyone who might be that narrow-minded, but maybe she was just being naïve.

  “Too bad for them if they do,” Ally said resolutely as she rose from her computer. “If they can’t see I’m exactly the same person I was before they knew, then that’s their problem.”

  Still, as she settled back in front of the television to see if the network had prematurely carried out their threat and pulled Morgan from this evening’s show, she began to feel worry niggling at the back of her mind. After all, she wasn’t exactly the same person anymore.

  For one, she was rapidly turning into a liar.

  She’d lied to Josh about the demise of her mobile phone; she’d lied to James on goodness knew how many occasions since she’d left the train from Kalgoorlie. And today she’d lied to the entire office, both about what she’d done on her last night in Barcelona (early dinner and an early night), as well as throughout the Morgan-related conversation when Kirsty announced at their staff meeting that a woman she hadn’t recognized at the time, but who turned out to be Morgan Silverstone (“you know—the one who’s all over the news at the moment”) had made an appointment to see Ally the following Monday. Ally’s surprise at the appointment was genuine, Morgan not having mentioned anything about it to her. But surprise soon turned to anguish when Josh subsequently brought up Ally’s purchase at auction and the newspaper photo showing her and Morgan together. Kirsty had already mentioned that Morgan made the appointment based on a friend’s recommendation, so Ally thought madly for an explanation to this apparent contradiction.

  “Actually,” she said, smiling a little nervously. “I recommended myself when we met after the auction. When she discovered what I did for a living she mentioned she was looking to build and so I thought a little self-promotion wouldn’t hurt.” Ally shrugged and this time her smile was self-effacing. “Probably she decided not to advertise the fact I have a big head.”