Training Days

by Jane Frances

  “Don’t stop.”

  “Wha—?” Ally jerked her head around to find James at the entrance to the bedroom. His shirt was off and he’d loosened the buckle on the belt of his trousers.

  “I said”—James took a step toward the bed—“don’t stop what you were doing. I liked it.”

  Ally watched him approach, her cheeks hot in the knowledge she had been seen. She also felt somewhat affronted. Her moment had been private and nonsexual. But from the telltale bulge in James’s trousers he had seen it in a very sexual manner indeed. “Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?” she asked tightly, pulling her light cotton bathrobe over her shoulders.

  James rounded the bed and stopped right in front of her. From her seated position all she could now see was the bulge in his pants. “The door was open, Alison.”

  “Oh.” Mollified at what she knew to be true, she leaned back a little so she could meet his glance instead of talking to a big protrusion. “Well, you should have come in and asked if you could put some cream on my back for me, instead of sneaking around like a randy schoolboy.” She held out the tube of moisturizer.

  He took it, smiling indulgently. “Lie down and turn over.”

  Hmm. So no flapping coattails, no platform twirls and no silken lover’s language. Pretty much par for the course. Ally saluted him before turning over to lie facedown on the bed. “Yes, sir!”

  It was just as well James had decided on a career in architecture, since he would never have made it as a masseur. Ally yelped at the shock of cold, him squeezing a huge dollop of the very cold cream directly onto her back. His application technique was reminiscent of his dishwashing technique—fast and furious. “Good?” he asked, placing the tube onto the bedside table and lying down next to her.

  Experience had taught Ally that, if one wanted a male to repeat a certain task—such as the dishes, or a load of washing— it was wise not to criticize the current effort, no matter how crude. Right at this moment however, Ally was not certain she ever wanted him to do that again. She felt more like a scrubbed pot than anything else. And—she glanced to the bedside table— he hadn’t put the cap back on the tube of cream. So her tone was rather sarcastic as she reached to the table and groped around for the cap. “Oh, yes. Very good, thanks.”

  James wouldn’t have gotten far in a career in human behavioral sciences either, since her tone seemed to have sailed right over his head. Instead he sounded rather pleased with himself. “I’m glad to do it for you.” He followed Ally’s trajectory to the bedside table, pressing his chest against her bare back and rubbing his lips along the side of her neck. She could feel his erection against her buttocks. “Baby, you smell so good.”

  Ally shunted across the mattress a little, not yet ready for full body contact. She also moved her head away, finding James’s whiskers, which seemed to have sprouted farther since their last embrace on the train platform, increasingly irritating. “That tickles,” she lied.

  “Do you want me to shave again?” James asked as he stuck his tongue into her ear.

  “No.” Ally flipped over to face him, his question triggering a realization that she was being unduly hard on him. And she couldn’t pinpoint why. He was no different than normal. Maybe it was she who had changed? No! Ally told herself firmly. I’m exactly the same as I was before she . . . She grabbed James’s cheeks and kissed him hard on the lips. “I like you exactly the way you are.”

  Even before the embrace she knew she wasn’t in the mood. Now, feeling his bristles scratch across her cheek and the hardness of his body against hers, she was sure of it. She knew from previous declinations of his advances that James would accept her decision without argument. But still, she had kind of promised. And there was a portion of her consciously pushing her onward, telling her this was something she had to do, and do now. So she closed her eyes and began working her lips down his chin, to his neck. She curled her fingers through the dense covering of chest hair and trailed her nails farther down, across his stomach and past his navel, where a snail trail of dark, coarser hair began. James was breathing harder, in anticipation of what was to come next. He loved it when she slid her hand into his trousers and exclaimed over what she found.

  “Alison?” he said a moment later, when her hand still rested, unmoving, on his abdomen. Getting no reply he repeated, “Alison?”

  Ally just shook her head against James’s chest, unable to speak. She had no words to describe the sensation that had gripped her. It wasn’t just a case of not being in the mood. It was more than that. It wasn’t quite fear. It wasn’t quite dread. It wasn’t even quite distaste. It was a . . . wrong kind of feeling. She was lying beside the man she declared to love and it felt . . . wrong.

  She rolled off the bed and grabbed her bathrobe, which she had thrown onto the floor just before James attacked her back with moisturizer. “I’m not feeling well,” she said as she dashed, with head down, into the toilet.

  James knocked on the locked door a few moments later. “Alison? Are you okay?”

  “Not really,” she said weakly. She was sitting on the lid of the toilet seat, her head in her hands. She felt a little nauseous. Maybe she actually was ill and it was stopping her from thinking straight. Or maybe she was suffering a delayed hangover from all the gin she knocked back last night. “I think I might have caught something on the train.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Nothing at the moment,” Ally said slowly, choosing her words carefully. “But I’m sure I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

  There was a short silence, then, “Does that mean you want me to leave?”

  Ally’s head was awash with contradicting thoughts. She wanted to be alone to think, but she didn’t want to be alone with her thoughts.

  “Alison?”

  Ally flushed the toilet, not out for need, but for effect. “I think maybe it would be better if you did. You don’t want to catch anything I might have.”

  Another silence, then, “I’ll give you a call later tonight, okay?”

  Ally could hear the disappointment in his tone. And no wonder either. This wasn’t exactly the homecoming she had planned, or that he would have been hoping for. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault you are unwell.”

  “I’ll be fine tomorrow, I promise.”

  “We’ll take tomorrow when it comes. I’m going to put a glass of water by the door here, and then I’ll get going. And I’ll call you tonight.”

  James’s concern almost made Ally want to cry. How could she be such a bitch to such a nice man? Nice? Jesus, there was that word again. “Okay,” she replied, her voice small.

  Less than a minute passed before Ally heard the clink of glass against the tiled floor. “There you go. I’ll be off now.”

  “Okay.”

  “I love you, Alison.”

  Ally opened her mouth but no more words would come out. She pulled a wad of paper off the roll and blew her nose loudly. It wasn’t entirely a ruse, since she could feel tears threatening. They appeared in a flood the moment she heard the door to her apartment open and close.

  “What the hell have you done to me, Morgan Silverstone?” Ally threw open the toilet door, returned to the bedroom and threw herself on the bed. In the next moment she was off it again and dashing through the apartment, to her handbag, which she’d left on the kitchen bench. She emptied the entire contents onto the granite-look laminate and rummaged through them until she found the piece of screwed-up paper with Morgan’s number on it. She smoothed the paper until it was again readable then stared at the number for a very long time.

  As she stared she recalled—of all things—a snippet of advice from the very staid and totally humorless teacher who had delivered their sex education class in the second year of high school. “If you scratch an itch it will only get worse.” Of course, all the students thought this hilarious, assuming she was referring to sexually transmitted diseases. But no—without a hint of a smile, the teacher explained she was tal
king of the desire for sex—that once you have sex you’ll want to keep having it again and again. In other words, don’t start having sex. Of course almost everyone, including Ally, had ignored her advice. But now her words seemed to have a ring of truth to them. Morgan was her itch. And so it was better not to begin scratching it at all. Well, she had scratched a little already. But now that her days of training were over, she could leave the itch alone. And untouched, it would just disappear.

  Ally took another look at the piece of paper. It was the last link she had to Morgan. If she destroyed it, she’d effectively destroy any opportunity to get in contact with her again. She set her mouth, tore the piece of paper into tiny shreds and threw it into the dustbin.

  Then she slipped into some old tracksuit pants and a wind-cheater, made herself another pot of Earl Grey tea and took it to the drafting table that dominated a good third of her little lounge room. She retrieved her Kalgoorlie executive residence sketches and set them out. When she really wanted to, she could gain a very deep level of concentration—to the point she was largely unaware of anything happening around her. In fact, she was renowned for it. Conversations could be occurring over her head, the phone could ring and ring, and even when onsite, tradesmen could bang and crash all around her and still she’d be blissfully unaware of anything but her work.

  Since she had been a lot less productive over the last few days than she had planned, it seemed a useful skill to employ now. Ally bent to her task and as she became more involved she gradually forgot about the shreds of paper in the dustbin and any ideas she may have entertained about fishing them out and piecing them together again.

  She wasn’t so involved that she missed James’s call at seven

  p.m. She announced she was feeling much better and they made arrangements for him to pick her up in time for the charity auction that was being held the next day—Sunday—at his old school. After hanging up from his call she heated a can of chunky vegetable soup that was supposed to taste like homemade. Maybe it did, but to Ally it could have been soggy cardboard, so she tossed it into the trash, right on top of the shreds of paper.

  Then she went to bed and cried.

  She slept a little but woke before midnight. She went back to her drafting table until four then fell into an exhausted sleep that took her right through until ten a.m.

  Less than an hour later she was showered and dressed and waiting for James to arrive. Ally sat at the edge of the bed, one strappy sandal on her foot, the other in her hand, her thumbnail idly snapping at the metal buckle as she stared out of the window. Her view was uninspiring, dominated by the block of post-war boom period apartments on the opposite side of the street to her own, art deco-inspired building. An observer would be certain she was intent on the young mother standing on her balcony pegging nappy after nappy onto a portable clothes airer, but they would be wrong. The young woman had caught Ally’s attention for but a moment, just long enough for her to acknowledge the rare sight of cloth nappies in a world now dominated by the disposable. After that Ally entered dangerous territory and allowed her mind to wander. The focus of her vision shifted and the physical world blurred to become merely a backdrop to the sequence of images flickering at the forefront of her mind’s eye.

  There was Marge’s face at the moment Morgan invited Ally to bunk with her—round cheeks red with a network of broken capillaries, and eyes full of excitement and life. Then there was the bob of James’s Adam’s apple in his throat when he jutted out his chin to shave the thick stubble that grew overnight. That image switched to the graceful curve of Morgan’s neck in the moment before she had leaned in to kiss her. Then there were Morgan’s hands, her fingers curled around her glass of vodka and cranberry. James again, holding himself above her, momentarily still as he said, “James. My name is James.” His face disappeared to be replaced by Morgan’s. Her sleeveless shirt clung to her waist as she put her hands behind her back to latch the door of a wood-paneled room. Then Marge again, shaking her head, a look of disappointment on her face. And Kitty, arms folded, peering over the rim of her spectacles, her expression one of frowning disapproval. Mark flashed by. And Nick. And the English crooner, open-stanced, wanting Morgan. And news reporter Lucas, pausing to remove a strand of hair from Morgan’s face. His hand became Ally’s. Her fingers caught the strand of auburn hair, gently pushing it aside as Morgan leaned

  toward her lips—

  “Alison?”

  So involved was Ally in her thoughts that she dropped her sandal at the sudden interruption. “Yes?” she squeaked, heat flooding her cheeks. She looked down to her sandal, lying upside down on the floor. “I’m sorry. I was miles away and didn’t hear you come in. What did you say?”

  James gave a low laugh. “I hadn’t actually said anything yet.” He approached the bed and stood in front of her. “I was going to ask if you were ready.”

  “Just about.” Ally slipped her sandal on and did up the buckle. As she did she noted the high polished sheen of James’s black leather shoes and the sharp edge on the legs of his freshly pressed Armani trousers. She straightened slowly, smoothing the material of her dress over her thighs. James was already in his jacket—also Armani—the stark white of his shirt broken by a tie Ally had never seen before: plain maroon with a gold crest at the base. “Your old school tie?” she asked, lifting the tie to have a closer look at the crest.

  James shrugged. “It seemed appropriate.”

  Ally nodded, hiding a smile. She imagined Ned and Phil—his two old school buddies she would be meeting for the first time at today’s charity auction—would also be sporting the same tie. It was a man thing, she guessed. She wouldn’t be caught dead in any portion of her old school uniform. In fact she couldn’t. Unlike James, she hadn’t attended a private school, so there were no hats or ties or blazers to worry about, and she and her friends had had a ritual burning of their ugly school-issued blue wind-cheaters and shirts the night they graduated. “There.” Ally straightened the knot of his tie a little. “That’s better.”

  James held her at arm’s length and his brown-eyed gaze traveled over her face. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

  “Of course.” Ally looked at the point just below James’s eyes.

  “I told you. I think it was just a little bug I caught on the train. But I feel fine now. Honestly.”

  “Good.” James nodded slowly, a mixture of concern and relief crossing his features. He indicated with a slight nod in the direction of Ally’s front door. “Shall we?”

  Ally hooked her arm into his and nodded. “We shall.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Throughout the drive to the auction James was animated and talkative, obviously relishing the prospect of catching up with his school friends again. He described Phil, a talented rugby player who could have made it to the big leagues but who never realized his potential, choosing instead to follow in the footsteps of his banker father. He was married at twenty-five, had a child by twenty-six and now spent twelve to fourteen hours each day making profitable use of other people’s money. Then there was Ned, also the son of a banker, but a bit of a bohemian at heart. He was not academically inclined, preferring the arts to the sciences. When his father insisted he attend university Ned complied, but to his father’s immense displeasure, he opted to study toward a fine arts degree. His parents were long divorced, and his mother—in an act that probably had as much to do with upsetting her ex-husband as assisting her son—funded his purchase of a small gallery in Sydney’s Blue Mountains. His own painting never progressed past that of an amateur, but he did have a flair for picking talent in others, and he turned the gallery into a reputable and lucrative concern.

  James’s descriptions of these two quite different characters served to pique Ally’s curiosity, and by the time they reached the large iron gates of the school entrance her spirits were greatly improved.

  Once they were parked she turned in her seat and smiled at James. The display of his usually controlled exuberance r
eminded her of the days when they first met. It brought forth a rush of affection and on impulse she reached over to kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said.

  “What for?” he asked.

  Ally wasn’t quite sure how to verbalize what she was thinking. “For pulling me out of my funk.”

  James looked surprised. “I didn’t realize you were in one.”

  Ally stared at him for a moment, then shook her head and opened her car door. They were hardly halfway toward the assembly hall when they ran into Phil and his wife, Barbara. Phil certainly had the physique of a rugby player—barrel-chested, thick-necked and broad-shouldered. He also had the outward signs of an indulgent lifestyle: lots of lavish business lunches, expensive alcohol and cigars. His face was a little pudgy, his nose a little goutish, and he was suffering the spread around the middle that too many hours behind a desk brings.