Training Days Part 13

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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.s all this on for you. Although I can't guarantee Ms. Silverstone will act on it."

"Thank you." Ally figured there was no use pus.h.i.+ng 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 b.u.mp 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 friends.h.i.+p 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 land-line 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 wis.h.i.+ng 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 sh.e.l.ls 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. "p.i.s.s 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 offsh.o.r.e 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. "b.u.g.g.e.r 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 d.a.m.n 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 ma.s.sive 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 pa.s.sed and another phone call from James. Obviously, until she spoke to him she wouldn't get a moment of peace. "h.e.l.lo."

"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 embarra.s.sed 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.

"Yes." Josh nodded for her to close the door and then for her to sit. He leaned forward in his chair, resting his arms on the desk and clasping his hands together. "Ally, you know my son, Paterson."

Ally nodded. Josh's teenaged son had visited the offices on dozens of occasions. She'd seen him sprout from a gangly kid to the rangy seventeen-year-old he was now. Only a month prior he'd come strutting into the office, proud as punch as he jangled the keys of his first "set of wheels," an ancient Torana sedan with holes in the upholstery, badly faded paintwork and an intermittent backfire. Ally was surprised it was even allowed on the road. Her insides froze. Surely nothing had happened to the kid in that deathtrap of a vehicle?

Josh clenched his hands more tightly together. "Paterson was arrested last night-"

"Thank G.o.d!" Ally blurted, relieved he was alive and well.

Josh threw her a very odd glance. "For possession of drugs-"

"Oh," Ally interrupted again, feeling a little foolish for her untimely outburst.

"And for driving a stolen vehicle."

"Oh," Ally repeated. She was awash with questions: were there others in the car, how was he caught, was there a chase, was anybody hurt, did Josh know his son was taking drugs, what drugs was he taking? But she didn't ask. It would be hard enough for Josh to have discovered Paterson had run off the rails, without having to suffer twenty questions about it from an employee. Come to think of it, why was Josh telling her all of this in the first place? Apart from the occasional "how was your weekend" query, they didn't usually discuss their personal lives at the office. Maybe, on this occasion, he needed a sympathetic ear. "I'm really sorry, Josh. It must have been very difficult for you and Helen."

Josh acknowledged her sympathy with a nod. "It's been a long night. But he's home with us now and his court hearing is on Wednesday, so hopefully this ordeal will soon be over."

"Really? That's fast." Ally had thought the court system was clogged with waiting periods extending into weeks and months. But maybe they fed the "simple" cases through quickly. Then she realized the timing. Josh would be on the other side of the globe next Wednesday. "Good to get it over and done with, I guess. But bad timing as far as the conference goes."

Josh shook his head. "I won't be going. I want to be there for Paterson . . . and I don't want Helen to have to deal with it all by herself."

Ally nodded. She'd also met Josh's wife, Helen, on a number of occasions. She was an artist, creating beautiful silkscreens, samples of which hung around the office. In Ally's opinion, Helen was almost as delicate as her creations. Not one to cope well in a crisis.

Josh unclasped his hands. "How's your latest project progressing?"

"Very well," she admitted, a little thrown by the abrupt change in topic. "I'll have the walk-through ready to run past you this afternoon. I promised the client initial plans by close of business tomorrow."

"Excellent." Josh nodded. "What else is on your plate at the moment?"

"Well, I'm in a holding pattern with the Boyden account while Mrs. Boyden waits until her planets are properly aligned for making a decision on the floor plan." Ally was pleased to see the eccentric behavior of one of her clients managed to raise a smile. "I've also got final plans out with the Changs, but they've promised me an answer by next Tuesday. There's a site visit for the final stages of the two-story in Quaker's Hill. That's on Friday. And also on Friday I've got an appointment with some potential new clients. I can't remember their names offhand."

"So nothing of a screaming urgency that only you can handle?"

"Not really," Ally said carefully. It was never wise to admit you were dispensable.

"And your pa.s.sport is up-to-date?"

Ally glanced sharply at Josh. "Pardon?"

"You'll need a pa.s.sport if you're going to take my place at the conference."

Ally's mouth fell open. She'd known something good was going to happen today. But Barcelona? Tomorrow? Fantastic!

Except for the thought of all that flying. And except for the fact her dialing permutations would also have to come to a halt. Maybe she could squeeze in a number here and there in between everything she would have to organize at the office. And probably a couple more tonight after she'd packed her bag and watched last Friday's episode of Bonnes Vacances, which, according to the television schedule, was to be repeated after the Thursday night movie finished at ten thirty p.m. But she couldn't use the phone in the plane, and she could kiss her job good-bye if Josh received a telephone bill for potentially hundreds of calls charged at international roaming costs. So all her other dialing would have to wait until she got back.

In a week.

So much for something good happening today. Barcelona. The whole idea sucked. But for Josh's sake she forced out a smile. "Really? Excellent."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

Midmorning on Friday Morgan settled into a quiet corner of the little departure lounge at Vanuatu airport and fired up Kitty's laptop.

As suspected, her Google search for "Alison Brown Architect Sydney" was immediately successful. Morgan scanned the first ten or so results and clicked on one particular entry that caught her eye. "Wow," she exclaimed softly when the page from the Architectural Digest Web site had loaded. If Ally had designed the house represented in the single photo then she was good, very good, at what she did. The short paragraph of text that accompanied the picture-it seemed one must subscribe to the magazine to get the full story-was enough to glean that Ally had indeed designed the featured home. It also gave the name of the company she worked for. Design for Tomorrow. Morgan immediately opened a new browser window and navigated to the White Pages phone directory. Within seconds she had a number and an address.

She glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes before boarding would begin. Plenty of time to make a quick call. But should she?

Morgan pondered the options. Ally could hang up on a phone call. But it would be a bit more difficult for her to avoid Morgan in person-especially in an office environment.

She decided to give her a surprise visit on Monday.

Within less than a minute Ally's office details had been transferred into Morgan's notebook. Then she closed down the laptop and hurried to the tiny newsstand to scour the shelves for the Architectural Digest magazine. She tucked a copy of the most recent edition-that which featured Ally's design-under her arm for closer examination on her flight to Fiji.

Mark, who was seated next to her during the flight, quirked an eyebrow when he discovered Morgan's latest taste in reading matter. "You looking to upgrade from that harbor-side shack you call home?" he asked.

"Something like that," Morgan said evasively, closing the pages a little so his view of the content was restricted.

Mark responded by s.h.i.+fting in his seat and peering more closely at the magazine. "Hey, is that our Alison Brown?" he asked, pointing to a caption next to the main picture on the first page of the six-page article.

Morgan feigned surprise and made a show of pretending to read it for the first time. "Why, I think it is."

"Great house," he said simply, without a trace of sarcasm. "She's good."

Morgan nodded, trying very hard to keep the enthusiasm from her voice and a smile from creeping across her features. She wasn't very successful. "Seems so."

Three days later her smile had yet to fade. She entered the small reception area of Design for Tomorrow and was greeted almost immediately by a young woman, probably in her twenties, with a shock of bright red hair and a nose ring.

"Good morning," the woman chirped, a cup of coffee in hand. She frowned a little, as if she recognized Morgan but couldn't quite place her. "How can I help you?"

"Good morning." Morgan couldn't help but focus on the nose ring. She had to force her gaze to s.h.i.+ft to the woman's eyes. "I was hoping I could speak with Alison Brown, please."

"I'm sorry, but she's not here at the moment."