Training Days (15 page)

Then just as suddenly, the hands that had provided a burning heat on Morgan’s hips were pushing her away. “Get away from me!”

A little stunned at the abrupt rejection, Morgan took a step back, hitting the base of the door with the heel of her sandals. She watched Ally swipe at her mouth with the back of her hand then brush at her clothes like she was swatting away a terrifyingly large crawling insect. The woman was freaking out. “Ally. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.” Ally’s voice was choked and in the brief moment she met Morgan’s gaze there were tears glistening in her eyes. “I’m not like that. I’m not . . .” She turned to face the

window and her shoulders heaved. “Get out, Morgan.”

“Ally, please.”

“I said get out!” Ally spun around. She had managed to swallow her tears, her eyes now as wild as that of a newly caged animal. “Get out now! And don’t come near me again. Do you hear?”

Any words she said now were sure to be ineffective. Maybe tomorrow, after Ally had time to process what had just occurred between them . . . Morgan nodded silently and reached behind her and pulled the door open.

“Shit!”

When Morgan turned toward the corridor she discovered what had caused Ally’s last curse. It was a member of the train staff, fresh linen and pillows in hand, standing directly in front of the door. Morgan wondered how long he had been there, and how much he had heard.
Fuck it
, she thought. Right now, she really didn’t care. “Excuse me, please.”

He took a step out of her way, his expression unreadable. Either he had heard nothing or the staff had been well trained in the art of diplomacy.

“Thank you,” she said as she left. She headed straight for the Gold lounge car and ordered herself a double vodka and cranberry juice. And when that was finished, she ordered another.

Ally woke with a pounding headache. She reached over to the teeny shelf next to her bed and felt around for her wristwatch.

She groaned. It was only six a.m. A mere four hours had passed since she’d fallen onto her bed. Definitely not enough sleep for someone who’d consumed as much gin as she had the night before. In fact, given that her head spun when she sat up, she was probably still drunk. Ally lowered herself back onto her pillow and closed her eyes, hoping for sleep to return. But it didn’t. She lay awake staring at the ceiling for another hour before admitting, drunk or not, she may as well rise and officially begin her day.

A hot shower helped a little, as did the two headache pills she fished out of her toiletry bag. But neither were enough to negate the alcohol still in her system and she weaved rather unsteadily back to her compartment. She really needed some food.

The acquisition of nourishment presented somewhat of a problem. Breakfast service had begun in Gold, but there was no way she was going to risk going there. That’s where Morgan and Co. would take their breakfast, and, not knowing their schedule, there was a real possibility they would either be there already or arrive just as Ally was applying a layer of thick-cut marmalade to her buttered toast. The breakfast service had also begun in Red, but she had to pass Morgan’s compartment to get to the diner car. She’d passed it the night before, only minutes after Morgan left her room. Since she’d seen Morgan head farther into Gold, presumably to the lounge car, she had felt safe enough, grabbed her purse and left the attendant to make up her bunk. Her purse still held a swath of drink vouchers, unused since her upgrade to Gold had also included complimentary beverages. Ally had used every single one of the remaining vouchers last night, sitting alone in a corner closest to the bar, downing gin after gin and completely ignoring anyone who attempted conversation with her. She’d staggered back to her room not long before two and fallen into the dead-like sleep that is the realm of the truly drunk.

Room-delivered breakfast packs were only available when the train was making an early-morning stop, so that was not an option today. And the chances of staying her hunger until the train arrived in Sydney at ten this morning were slim.

A protest from Ally’s tummy forced a decision. She chose what she considered the least risky option—Red—and hurried through the carriages as fast as wobbly legs and a head full of cotton wool would allow. She hoped the original agreement of free meals still stood. Reverting back to Red dining was bad enough, but paying for the privilege was an outright insult.

Soon enough she discovered she had revoked her free Red dining rights with her move to Gold. She took the one seat still vacant in the diner car. It was next to a middle-aged man who smelled like he hadn’t showered for the duration of the journey.

Ally poked at her watery scrambled eggs and buried her nose into her coffee cup, preferring the aroma of the burnt fluid to that of her current companion.

There was only one consolation to her sad and sorry state— and that was that it would all be over in just over two hours. In just over two hours she could kiss this damn train and all its stinking occupants good-bye. A bad choice of words. Ally wouldn’t be kissing anyone good-bye,
especially
Morgan Silverstone. After all, she’d already done that last night. Freshly mortified at her own actions, Ally buried her nose farther into her cup, wishing she could disappear into its murky brown depths. “I am not a lesbian,” she repeated over and over to herself. “I am not a lesbian. I am not. I am not.
I am not
.”

And in just over two hours she could prove it. Because in just over two hours she would be off this train, out of Morgan’s life and she would be with James again. Her hangover must have been particularly bad, because even that thought was not particularly comforting.

Ally picked miserably at her eggs and imagined the delectable Gold breakfast treats the
Bonnes Vacances
crew were feasting on. And she wondered if Morgan liked marmalade. The thick-cut kind. The kind that was her personal favorite.

Morgan was feeling quite crappy. Over the years she had developed a reasonably high tolerance for alcohol, but not so much so that she could punish her system as heavily as she had last night and not feel any aftereffects. Of course, her feeling out of sorts was compounded by the events immediately prior to her vodka and cranberry binge. Morgan sat with her legs dangling over the edge of the upper bunk she had miraculously managed to maneuver her alcohol-sodden body onto late last night and held her head in her hands.

A headache pounded at her temples. She needed to pee but didn’t quite trust her feet to find the ladder rungs to descend from the bunk. And Ally hated her. Surely she couldn’t feel any more miserable if she tried.

The urge to relieve the pressure in her bladder quickly became irresistible. Morgan clenched her pelvic floor muscles as tight as she could, ignored the ladder and launched herself from the top bunk. The resulting curse when she bent her left little toe the wrong way on landing was partially drowned out by the annoying opening chords of Beethoven’s
Sixth
that Kitty had set as the tone for her mobile phone. Morgan fumbled in the half dark of the compartment for the phone, but the sound came from Kitty’s pants pockets, which she was still wearing having fallen asleep fully clothed the night before.

Morgan shook her by the shoulder. “Kitty. Your phone’s ringing.”

She left Kitty to dig around in her own pants and hurried to the toilet hoping that, just for once, there would not be a queue. There wasn’t and Morgan took that as a sign the rest of the day would pan out equally well.

Unfortunately, it seemed it just wasn’t to be. Morgan slid the door of her compartment across to find Kitty—her clothes crumpled and her slept-upon bun in complete disarray—worriedly pacing the floor as she held her phone to her ear. The worried expression and pacing around was nothing new to Morgan, since Kitty always made out things to be worse than they were. But today . . . there was an added something in Kitty’s demeanor that made her comply without argument when Kitty pointed to the bottom bunk and mouthed, “Sit!”

Morgan had entered toward the end of the conversation. She half listened as Kitty said, “I agree it is a very difficult situation.” And then, “I understand completely, sir.” And finally, “I’ll speak to her right now and call you back immediately.”

That last comment prompted Morgan’s ears to prick up. Were they talking about her? When Kitty clipped her phone shut and turned bloodshot but highly alert eyes to meet her own bleary orbs, Morgan was convinced she had been the topic of the

conversation.

“That was Joseph.”

“Yes . . . ?” Morgan nodded. Joseph was the show’s executive producer. “What does he want?”

“Well,” Kitty said, pocketing her phone, “he was very interested to know why he had received a call from the network reception this morning relaying a message from someone who claims to have undeniable proof that you are a lesbian.”

“What?” Morgan felt her insides all turn liquid and commence a stomach-wrenching whirlpool. They were in constant mobile range now. Surely Ally hadn’t called? No. Despite her current anger, she was a bigger person than that. If anyone it would be the sheet-toting train attendant from last night.
Bastard.
She should have known from his poker-faced expression he was trouble.

“Yes,” Kitty interrupted Morgan’s thoughts. “It seems that French backpacker you were sure wouldn’t have ‘a single moment’ to watch television found the time to catch last night’s episode of the show.”

“Marie?” Morgan said faintly. She’d never have thought . . .

“That’s the one.” Kitty nodded. She paced the length of the compartment twice before stopping immediately in front of Morgan. “I must have been completely stupid to believe your placations about her. She’s a French person in a non-Frenchspeaking country. Don’t you think she would have pounced on a show called
Bonnes Vacances
? She probably thought it was some frog program and tuned in . . . and then she saw you.”

Last night being a Friday Morgan thought it a definite that Marie would have been on duty at her Kalgoorlie pub. But then, they probably had televisions dotted throughout the venue. Although she’d have imagined they’d have been tuned into the latest boxing bout or football match, not a travel show. “But, even if she did, I didn’t think—”

“Oh, come on, Morgan! Get with the program, will you. Just because you fuck someone doesn’t mean they can automatically be trusted with your secrets.” Kitty shrugged like it was a foregone conclusion. “She’s a financially challenged backpacker who saw an opportunity and took it.”

“You mean she wants money?”

Kitty nodded. “Ten thousand and she keeps quiet.”

“Ten thousand,” Morgan echoed. “Dollars?”

“No. French francs,” Kitty said sarcastically. The demand would have been much less grand had it been the now defunct pre-Euro currency, their face value around six times less than that of the Euro. “Of course dollars. You’re just lucky she doesn’t realize you’re one of the most popular faces on Australian TV, or she might have asked for more.”

“And if we don’t pay?”

“Apparently she’s going to the press.”

“Do you think she’s bluffing?”

Kitty shrugged. “Who knows? It seems she’s got nothing to lose.”

Morgan dug into her pants pockets—like Kitty she had fallen asleep fully clothed—and pulled out her mobile phone. “I’m going to call her.”

Kitty turned disbelieving eyes to Morgan. “Don’t tell me you actually swapped numbers with the little tart?”

“No.” Morgan dialed directory assistance and held the phone to her ear. “But I know the name of the pub she’s working at—”

“It’s nine in the morning! I don’t think even the pubs in Kalgoorlie open that early,” Kitty blustered. “Besides, what the hell good do you think talking to her is going to do?”

“It damn well can’t hurt, can it? And she’s got room and board where’s she’s working, so unless she’s left for an early morning tour, she’s most likely going to be there.” Morgan held her hand up to stop Kitty from saying anything more and gave the name of the pub to the voice recognition machine the phone company now used in their quest for efficiency and cost savings. Of course, when it repeated what it thought it had heard, it was completely incorrect, so Morgan held onto the line until she was transferred to a real person. Within a few seconds she had been switched through to the pub. “Good morning,” she said to the woman who answered the phone. “May I speak to Marie, please?”

“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.”