Training Days (32 page)

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.

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.

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.