As at Kalgoorlie, there was also an hourlong, train-operated whistle-stop tour at Adelaide. While one could not make an informed judgment of a city in one hour-and even less so when viewed from a coach window-the previous day Ally had booked herself a place on the tour with the idea of using it as a brief reconnaissance. If she liked what she saw, she would suggest to James they pay the city a visit during the next holiday weekend.

The coach was waiting, but Ally found herself standing on the platform, unable to take the steps necessary to follow her fellow tour companions. Her current immobility was bizarre. She'd had no trouble moving her feet as she accompanied Marge onto the platform when the train pulled into the station. Neither had they caused her any problems when she and Marge walked together to retrieve her suitcase from the rows of baggage that the handlers quite efficiently extracted from the train. And so too had they obeyed the orders to put one in front of the other and cover the distance necessary to be introduced to Marge's husband, Fred. In fact her feet shifted often during the ensuing ten minutes of Marge-dominated chat, seemingly itching to get on the move again. But when Marge and Fred had disappeared through the station doors and Ally had made a slow turn, looking for the tour group, her feet stopped still the moment she was facing the tracks. And since then they had refused to respond to the directives issued by Ally's brain. Instead, they stayed put, as if suddenly glued to the cement.

Ten yards away and directly in her line of sight was the Bonnes Vacances crew. Nick balanced a camera on his shoulder and Mark held aloft a boom. Kitty stood a few feet back watching as Morgan shook the hand of a man that Ally presumed was the English crooner. Behind them a maroon-colored carriage that looked at odds with the relatively modern train was slowly being shunted into position.

Ally was vaguely aware of a last call for the whistle-stop tour being announced over the public address system. She really should get moving if she wanted to do her Adelaide recon. But her feet were still fastened to the platform.

And her eyes were fixed on Morgan. She had changed her outfit from the jeans and jumper she had worn that morning. Now, although the morning was cool, she was in a light, summery dress that crossed over at the cleavage and flowed out until just past the knees. She was talking animatedly to the crooner, that smile of hers lighting her face. Even from this distance, Ally could see that the smile reached her eyes. And even though the crooner's back was to her, Ally could tell by his open-bodied stance he was more than a little interested in the woman who stood before him. He was probably also weighing his chances of glimpsing more than was being offered by the current drape of material.

Men, Ally thought scornfully. Got their minds on one thing only.

Inexplicably, Ally felt something very close to jealousy rush through her. But what did she have to be jealous of? It wasn't as if it was James who was leering at Morgan. Actually, she'd be very surprised if James had ever leered in his life. In all their time together-nine months now-James had never done anything to make Ally feel threatened or jealous. She felt secure with him. Safe. Ally's eyes bored into the bald patch that extended almost all the way down the back of the crooner's head. You can't blame him for being interested. She folded her arms. She sure is a stunning-looking woman. Ally tilted her head to one side, refocusing on Morgan. And she sure doesn't look like a lesbian.

Immediately Ally felt her indignation rise at the notion that Morgan was yet again playing her for a fool. Then, just as quickly, her ire dissolved and it was with a somewhat self-effacing smile that Ally admitted she really had no idea what a lesbian looked like. She didn't even know any lesbians, or, if she did, she didn't know it. Her experience was limited to what she'd seen on television, in movies and from the sidelines two years ago at the Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras. She could discount the likes of Sharon Stone and Elle Macpherson being cast in lesbian roles as Hollywood's catering to the male audience. But the Mardi Gras . . . if the women she had witnessed there were an indicator of real life, then lesbians came in as many varieties as their heteros.e.xual counterparts. Including real stunners. So Morgan could be telling the truth after all.

And that surely would go a long way toward explaining why Morgan and everyone around her had been madly flapping about trying to cover up the details of her Kalgoorlie station indiscretion. It didn't fully explain it though. While Ally's "I don't care what you do behind closed doors" att.i.tude was not shared by everybody, any dent in Morgan and her show's supposedly huge popularity would most likely be small and short-lived. After all, it wasn't the Dark Ages anymore. So why the big fuss?

Maybe there was a girlfriend in the wings? But no, Ally dismissed that idea. Just last night Morgan had told Marge that there was no one special in her life right now. Ally had a second thought. Morgan may well have a girlfriend, but she was kept as secret as her s.e.xuality. And the secret girlfriend would be pretty p.i.s.sed off to discover her partner had been cheating on her while at work.

Ally was still contemplating the likelihood of a behind-thescenes girlfriend when she realized the filming in front of the newly attached carriage was winding up. The boom was lowered and Nick removed the camera from his shoulder to hold it by his side. Morgan shook the hand of the crooner, smiling and nodding as if in thanks. Then her face lit up again and she rushed forward, past the crooner, past Kitty, to greet what looked like yet another television crew. The camera being toted by a short, stocky woman displayed the same network logo as Nick's, as did the bag carried by the person lugging the boom. Both logos had the word News tacked on the end.

So, there was a news crew here.

Ally's speculation at what was possibly newsworthy at eight in the morning at the Adelaide train station came to an abrupt halt. She opened her eyes wider, a knot twisting in her belly. Right before her eyes, Morgan practically threw herself into the arms of a suited man-the reporter maybe?-who was accompanying the news crew. Whatever the newsworthy event was, it had either happened already or was yet to happen, since Morgan and the suited man started walking arm-in-arm away from the other crew members. The man-just shy of Morgan's height, probably around Morgan's age-paused for a moment, laughed and pushed a strand of hair from Morgan's eyes. It was a very familiar gesture, and one that suggested intimacy. The knot in Ally's stomach twisted. She's d.a.m.n well lied to me again.

Morgan and the man were heading in her direction, toward the station. Ally wasn't going to hang around and find out how Morgan would talk her way out of this one. She willed her feet to move, and finally they obeyed.

Two minutes later she was back in her compartment. She slammed the door across, fully prepared to throw herself onto her bunk. But some staff member had been in her compartment in her absence and the bunk had already been converted back to daytime seating.

f.u.c.king efficiency freaks. Ally threw herself into the seat instead and sat with her chin on her knuckles, not knowing whether the tears that threatened were angry tears, or disappointed tears. She decided they were a little of both. She was angry at Morgan for having lied . . . again, and disappointed that she had lied . . . again. Whoever said the train was the best way to travel obviously had never traveled on one with Morgan-frigging-Silverstone.

Sitting and fuming did not make the time pa.s.s quickly and it didn't take too long before Ally was bored with it. Restless, she headed for the restaurant carriage, where they were still serving breakfast. Morgan was not present, nor was any of the Bonnes Vacances crew. Just as well, Ally thought as she took a seat in the one and only vacant booth available. As she waited for her toast and coffee to arrive, she again sat with her chin on her knuckles, dreaming up a thousand things to say to Morgan when she next saw her. None of them were particularly nice. She lingered as long as she could over her meager breakfast, ordering a second coffee and then a third, but it was still only nine a.m. when she wandered back to her carriage. There was still one more hour before the train would pull out.

Maybe she could take a stroll around the streets. Or maybe not. She wouldn't get far in an hour and since the train didn't stop at the central Adelaide station but at Keswick, they were two kilometers shy of the city proper. Even at a brisk pace she'd just reach the city before having to turn back. She'd have to visit Adelaide sight unseen with James-or, more likely, not visit at all.

James.

Ally decided to give him a call. She settled into her seat and dialed. It rang. But not too surprisingly, he didn't answer. At this hour on a Friday he was usually ensconced in one of his partner meetings. James was the "Tymeson" in Ernst, Small and Tymeson, an architectural firm that specialized in low-rise residential property. At forty, he was the youngest partner in the firm and had in fact not long been awarded partner status when Ally first met him. They met over a tray of exotic nibbles at an industry c.o.c.ktail party. It may have been the high that James was on due to his promotion, but on that occasion Ally found him enthusiastic about their shared profession, charming and talkative. She agreed to a post-c.o.c.ktail dinner, which he followed up three days later with another dinner invitation. At their third dinner-this time at the iconic Summit restaurant-he sealed a deal on behalf of his firm with some Singaporean property developers. That night also seemed to seal the deal on their relationship. Nothing was ever formalized-certainly not by engagement or even with a spoken agreement of their pairing. They just slipped into exclusivity. Friends began inviting them as a couple and they accepted or declined as a couple. It was a.s.sumed that Ally would attend James's client dinners just as it became the norm for them to spend their nights together, either at Ally's Croyden apartment or James's Balmain townhouse. Sometimes Ally wished the early days of their relationship had been filled with a bit more excitement, a bit more spontaneity. But as James liked to point out, excitement was usually the result of either speed or the unexpected-or the unexpected occurring at speed. And spontaneity was for those who didn't have a plan. In other words, consistency and reliability undertaken at a respectable pace was the ethos James lived by. To date it had not done him any harm. He was successful, respected, steadfast. He was a good man. He was . . . nice.

Ally held her mobile to her ear, only partially listening to the message that would lead her into James's voice mail. Nice. That was also the word she had used to describe someone else very recently. And that someone lived by a completely different ethos than James.

Morgan.

Ally didn't want to think about her, so she didn't. She left a short message for James then checked her own voice mailbox. There were sixteen new messages. That should keep her well occupied for a while. And after that she'd get down to some serious work on her Kalgoorlie design.

Yes. That was a good plan for the day. And come tonight she'd rap on the door of the person she wasn't thinking about and tell her just what she thought of her and her "I'm a lesbian" tale. But then, if it was untrue, why had the person she was not thinking about even bothered saying it in the first place? Surely there was nothing to gain from saying such a thing. Unless of course she did it for the attention. Maybe once the cameras stopped rolling she had to do something to keep "all eyes on me."

G.o.d, who knew. And who cared? Ally shook Morgan from her thoughts once and for all, put her ear to the phone and listened to what had been happening in her world while she was out of network range.

At ten to ten that night Ally set down her pencil and ruler, interlocked her fingers and stretched her arms out in front of her. She really should get her skates on and freshen up if she wanted to meet the person she promised not to think about-but actually had been thinking about all day-at their scheduled time. If was the operative word here, however. She still hadn't decided if she wanted to keep their appointment or not.

Ally stared directly in front of her, her gaze settling on a little chip some previous pa.s.senger had taken out of the wood paneling that lined her compartment. She'd studied the chip countless times since catching sight of it midmorning. In fact, she'd looked at it often enough and long enough over the course of the day that had she been asked to reproduce it on paper, she'd almost certainly draw an exact replica. Ally sighed, forcing her eyes away. Somehow, she didn't think staring at a chip in the wall was exactly what her boss had meant when he told her to use this train trip as a "brain-expanding" experience. She looked dismally down to the papers strewn across the table. She hadn't made too much progress on her Kalgoorlie design either.

Although little progress had been made on the work front, Ally did feel her mind had had a workout today. Each session of chip-staring had been accompanied by a series of mental gymnastics. Morganastics, she had named the process, her mental muscles consistently being stretched in the same Morgan-related direction. Her mind would tumble and twirl around the information it had acc.u.mulated over the past two days. Eventually it would settle gracefully on a conclusion, then, without warning, a new routine would commence and her thoughts would somersault away, to land in a completely different position.

Given the series of conflicting stories Ally's brain had been presented with since boarding the train in Kalgoorlie, she wasn't too surprised it was having problems processing them correctly. What was surprising was the amount of energy she had allowed her brain cells to expend on the process. After all, was she not the one to keep saying how she really didn't care what Morgan did behind closed doors?

Unfortunately, however, Ally did care. It was during her pre-lunch session of Morganastics that she admitted-in the time since she had been dragged kicking and screaming into the world of Morgan Silverstone-there had been a shift in her mode of thinking. She had never been impressed by celebrity. Sure, she could appreciate their work, whether it be a song, a movie or a piece of art, but she had never understood the tendency for so many people-such as Marge-to worship the ground their celebrity of choice walked on, or to want to delve into every aspect of their lives. She'd never bought a magazine or a newspaper because it headlined some celebrity morsel or scandal. She just didn't care. But now . . . Morgan the out-of-reach celebrity was well and truly within reach. Under the Bonnes Vacances persona was a living, breathing, three-dimensional person. Not larger than life. Just a regular person. In the short time they had spent together Ally had decided she liked Morgan. Quite a lot, actually.

Until she'd realized she'd been lied to just once too often.

Or at least she thought she'd been lied to once too often. Ally took her attention off the chip, picked up her pencil and tapped the end of it on the table top. She sighed in frustration. This was the point that had been stretching her mental capacities throughout the day. She just couldn't figure out if Morgan was telling the truth or not.

Was Morgan a lesbian?

Or wasn't she?

And did it really matter to her?

Ally tapped her pencil on the table with an increased rhythm. Normally she would say no, it didn't matter. She might not know any lesbians, but she did know she wasn't a h.o.m.ophobe. Or was she? The thought of Morgan being a woman who liked- loved-other women, was . . . unnerving. Maybe she was only okay if someone was a lesbian from a distance? More strangely, when Ally shifted her thoughts to the idea of Morgan not being a lesbian, it too sat uncomfortably. She closed her eyes and imagined Morgan standing in front of her, in the dress she had seen her wear this morning, and saying "I'm not a lesbian after all. I like men."

How would she respond to that?

Ally couldn't think of a single thing she might say. With her eyes still closed, she mentally eyed Morgan's face, her shoulders, stopping just shy of the beginning of cleavage.

Ally's eyes flew open. What she felt as she sat there imagining that Morgan was not gay was . . . disappointment.

Jesus. That really was not a good thing to be feeling. She checked her watch again. It was three minutes past ten. She was late to her appointment. But it didn't matter, because she had just decided she wasn't going to keep it.

Ally threw her pencil onto the table and grabbed her phone. Since the empty expanses were behind them and they were now traveling through the more densely populated eastern states there should be no more problems latching onto a network. There wasn't and it answered after only three rings.

"h.e.l.lo, James. It's Alison." She closed her eyes again and imagined James as he relaxed in front of the television, an open book on his lap and a tumbler of Scotch by his side. His image was reliably comfortable. "I miss you."

Morgan had returned to the compartment she now shared with Kitty not too long after nine thirty-a lot earlier than expected. She had begged off joining the crew for a post-filming and post-dinner drink, preferring to be alone. The first fifteen minutes of her solitude had been used to good effect, removing her on-camera makeup, cleaning her teeth, reapplying her perfume and having a general freshen-up. She stayed in the clothes she'd worn for the filming of dining in Red, casual linen slacks and a collared, sleeveless shirt. It was a little cool so Morgan fished into one of her bags and pulled out a light cardigan. She didn't put it on, instead standing in front of the mirror again and examining her appearance. She undid one of the top b.u.t.tons on her shirt, pushed out her chest a little and checked the effect.

She did the b.u.t.ton up again.

And she put on her cardigan.

Then she sat on her freshly made bottom bunk and checked her voice mail. There were a couple of new messages since she'd last checked late that afternoon. Her agent sounded his usual excited self, announcing some "very exciting opportunity" and wanting her to call as soon as she got the message. She casually speculated over the reason. It wasn't about a possible pay increase with the network-they'd only finished negotiating a new contract late last year and she was locked in, at a very generous salary, thank you, for the next three years. It couldn't be because some company wanted her to endorse their product or service-that was strictly prohibited under the conditions of her contract. And it couldn't be for any acting positions. Last Christmas she had dabbled in the world of theater, via a part as the Wicked Witch in a Christmas pantomime. Her performance had been so stiff she may as well have been the witch's broomstick, so she and her agent had agreed it best she only step onto a stage when she was playing herself. So his call was probably for some new event someone wanted her to attend or host. Morgan turned up her nose. Exciting opportunity or not, she had enough things to occupy her time already. As it was, the afternoon of her one day off this fortnight-Sunday-had been booked for months. Of all things, she had agreed to be one of the "lots" at a charity auction being staged by the fundraising committee at a prestigious private school for boys in Sydney. The school was raising funds to buy computers for a very poor school in India, so it was for a good cause, but still, in addition to losing her Sunday afternoon, she would subsequently have to spend another of her precious free afternoons or evenings doing whatever the highest bidder wanted. Within reason of course. Morgan decided that whatever her agent was frothing at the mouth for her to do, she was going to decline. She also wasn't going to call him now. It could wait until tomorrow. She went on to the next message.

It was her mum. "Call me when you get home, dear."

"Yes, Mum." Morgan added her mum's name below her agent's in her little notebook.

By the time she had finished, there was a list of five names to call. She smiled at the last on her list. Audrey.

Audrey had been, and still was, a lecturer at the university where Morgan had completed her journalism degree. She had also been the first of her four Australian lovers. Audrey, while trampling over all the boundaries in the sacrosanct teacher/student relationship, subsequently trampled all over Morgan's heart by announcing a sudden attack of teacher/student morals. The breakup was not pretty. Morgan threatened to tell the dean, an act that could only end in either the sacking or forced resignation of her lecturer. Audrey, having full knowledge of Morgan's ambitions to become a television journalist, and also knowing of the postgraduation cadetship she had managed to secure with one of the regional stations, subsequently threatened to write a revealing letter to the well-known bigot of a network manager and hence "shoot down her career" before it even got off the ground. Neither had followed through on the threats, but both kept their word not to see or speak to each other. Morgan swapped her lecture with Audrey for one at a different day and time, graduated without fuss and moved to South Australia to take up her cadetship. After a year or so, a chance meeting at Sydney's Circular Quay saw their enmity dissolve into friendship. Now they called each other regularly and saw each other when they had the chance.

Morgan never forgot the lesson Audrey's threat had taught her, and in her early days of television she kept a low, low personal profile. When temptation did get the best of her she was selective, making sure her lovers had as much, if not more, to lose than she did if word of their affair got out. When first snagging her position at Bonnes Vacances, Morgan went a little wild. She was akin to a starved woman and the world her buffet. She feasted at every opportunity, only shaking her head at the Australian platter.

Not that that stopped her from looking, of course. There surely was some very tasty-looking Australian eye candy out there. Speaking of which . . . Morgan checked her watch. It was five past ten.

Ally was late. But not quite fashionably so. No need to send out a search party just yet. Morgan set her phone aside and stood in front of the mirror again. She fussed with a strand of hair, aiming for a more messy, carefree look than a well-coiffed one. She removed her cardigan, undid her top shirt b.u.t.ton again and sat back down on her bunk. She stood, paced a little in the confined s.p.a.ce, stopped at the mirror again and once more fastened her top b.u.t.ton.

She checked her watch. Eleven past ten. The fashionably late should be turning up by now. Morgan bit down on her impulse to open the compartment door and scan the corridor. If Ally was on her way, then she'd know Morgan had been looking out for her. And that wasn't the impression Morgan wanted to give. She wanted Ally to think her announcement this morning was no big deal, that it was simply a case of clearing the air, getting a niggling little annoyance out in the open so they could continue with their friendship.

Friendship.

Morgan plopped back onto her bunk, imagining a friendship with Ally. She dreamed of calling her for a chat, meeting her for a coffee, having lunch with her and a couple of other girlfriends. They were easy scenes to conjure. She could picture Ally reclined at her desk, one foot curled under her thigh, playing with her pencil as she smiled at whatever Morgan was relaying to her on the phone. Then her expression would become more serious and she would remove her tucked leg to sit with elbows leaning on her desk, intent on the conversation. And she could picture them at a coffee shop. They'd go to one of those book-shop cafes-the sort that always has nice comfy armchairs and low coffee tables. They'd pick a couch in a sunny spot near a window, and they'd sit facing each other, sipping on little espressos. They'd be critiquing the coffee-as they always did-and planning their next cafe stop, their plan being to visit every coffee venue in Sydney until they found the ultimate caffeine hit. Their lunches would be in warm, sunny spots. Modern venues with clean, cool lines, crisp napkins and oversized plates with marvelously presented food. By some unspoken agreement, they'd both always arrive early to these luncheons. Early enough for them both to share the highlights of the days since they'd last met and indulge in one or two of the private jokes they were sure to have by then. As their friends arrived, a glance would pa.s.s between them-one that spoke of regret that their company now had to be shared. And they'd linger long after their friends had gone. Not necessarily talking. But just easy with each other. Easy enough that Ally would not shy away when Morgan would reach across the table and lay her hand on hers . . .

Morgan lifted her legs onto the bunk, lay back and closed her eyes. In her mind Ally's hand had turned underneath hers and now clasped her palm lightly.

"I like that," Ally would say softly.

"That's good," Morgan would respond. "Because I like it too."

They'd sit, just like that, just holding hands and looking at each other, while the tables around them emptied and the waiters began laying the places for the evening session.

"We should go," Morgan would say finally, having felt the eyes of the staff upon them, willing them to move so they could close up for the afternoon.

Ally's hand would clasp hers a little tighter. "I don't want this to end."

"This what, Ally?" Morgan would ask. She'd gesture out the window. "This beautiful, sunny afternoon?" Then she'd look up to one of the wall-mounted speakers, through which the velvet jazz of Madeleine Peyroux was still being piped. "Or this song?"

"No." Ally would glance down to their hands. "This." Her eyes would meet Morgan's and she would lift Morgan's hand to her lips, turning it over to kiss the palm.

"It doesn't have to end," Morgan would whisper. "Come home with me."

Ally's eyes would dart over Morgan's features as if searching for something. Then her hazel eyes would appear to darken as her pupils dilated and she would whisper back, "I've been wishing you would suggest that all afternoon."

Christ. Morgan groaned, flipping onto her side and hugging herself. She was working herself into a state. And to what end, really? Ally had a partner-a male partner at that. From the little Ally had talked of him he sounded like a bit of a stuffed shirt, but still, he was there and his presence proved Ally's heteros.e.xuality. At least, it proved it to Ally. Morgan was not so sure. She sensed something in Ally that maybe Ally hadn't even sensed herself.

Or maybe she was just suffering a severe case of wishful thinking.

Morgan checked her watch for the third time. Twenty-five past ten. Well past fashionably late and heading toward a no-show.

She stood once more and paced. The span of the compartment was covered in only three steps, two if she lengthened it to a stride, but still she walked back and forth, the movement helping her to think. So far as she could see, there were two possibilities. Either Ally was afraid to come because Morgan's disclosure that morning had made her face questions about her own s.e.xuality. Or-and this was a very unwelcome possibility-that she had misjudged Ally completely. Instead of being an open-minded liberal she was h.o.m.ophobic and hence now wanted nothing more do with her.

There was a soft rap on the door and Morgan exhaled in relief. She'd been worrying over nothing.

"Morgan. It's me."

Her relief turned in on itself. It wasn't Ally. It was Kitty.

There was another rap. "Open up."

"Sorry." Morgan crossed the floor and unlatched the door. "I thought you had a key."

"I do." Kitty grinned a little lopsidedly. There was wine on her breath. "But I thought I should be careful, in case you had another woman in here."

"Yeah, right." For a single second she was glad Ally had not turned up. But then, if she had, Morgan would have taken "the Kitty factor" into account and suggested they grab some drinks and take them back to Ally's compartment. She stood aside to let Kitty pa.s.s, taking the opportunity to scan the corridor. Apart from an elderly man holding onto the handrail as he shuffled along, it was empty. She glanced back inside. Kitty had dropped onto the bottom bunk-Morgan's-and was sitting there, swaying slightly. Despite Kitty's general low tolerance for alcohol, Morgan had never seen her get so pickled in only an hour. "I think you should have an early night."

"Me, too." Kitty lifted her legs onto Morgan's bunk and lay her head on the pillow.

Morgan figured she would either have to a.s.sist Kitty up the ridiculously narrow ladder to the top berth or let her stay where she was. "You can sleep here tonight, if you want."

She checked the corridor again. The elderly man was still shuffling, but he was making progress. He was heading in the direction of Gold, and once he had taken a couple more steps- if Morgan wanted to take the same direction-she would either have to squeeze past him or shuffle along behind. She did want to take the same direction. So she stepped out of the compartment.

"Where are you going?" Kitty asked, already half asleep.

"To meet a woman."

"Yeah, right." Kitty turned on her side and curled into a loose fetal position. "I may be drunk, but I'm not stupid."

"Good night, Kitty." Morgan slowly slid the compartment door across. She heard Kitty's soft snores even before it was completely closed. As she pa.s.sed into Gold she rubbed her hands up and down her bare arms. She wasn't cold, but still she shivered.

Still two compartments down from Ally's, Morgan noticed a little yellow Post-it note on her door. A note for her maybe? She quickened her pace.

It read, "Thanks for your patience. You can make up my bed now." The time written in the top right-hand corner: Ten twenty p.m. Morgan frowned. She imagined that Ally might have been busy working and so did not want her seat converted at the usual time, but the note had been penned twenty minutes after she was due to meet her. Morgan could understand that maybe she'd just lost track of time-after all, if her enthusiasm at their dinner with Marge was any indication, Ally was very revved up about her latest architectural project. But it was now twenty to eleven. Even if she hadn't left her room until twenty past ten, where the h.e.l.l was she now?

Morgan had just decided to pay a visit to the Gold lounge car, and failing that, to the Red lounge car, when she heard a rustling sound come from inside the compartment. It was not the rustle of bedclothes; it was a paper rustle. Ally was still in her room, and by the sound of it she was still working. So Ally's bunk hadn't already been made up and the note left there by mistake. The presence of the note negated any chance she had just lost all track of time. She was there because she wanted to be. Or, more accurately, because she didn't want to be with Morgan.

There were two possible courses of action that Morgan could take. She could quietly leave and hope that by morning Ally had worked through whatever was troubling her. Or she could stay and see for herself which of her theories was correct.

Option one was probably the smartest. But Morgan hadn't seen Ally since before breakfast, and knowing she was just on the other side of the door was too much of a temptation to resist, even if it meant getting yelled at . . . again.

She fingered the Post-it before she knocked. "Housekeeping," she called, mustering all of her acting skills.

The rustle stopped, followed by a moment of total silence. "Go away, Morgan."

"I'm not leaving until you tell me why you didn't keep our appointment."

Another complete silence. Then, "I didn't keep it because I've got nothing I want to say to you."

"From the sound of your tone I think you've got an awful lot you want to say to me . . . you just don't have the guts to say it." Again Morgan waited. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest. She wasn't used to being the antagonist, but here she was, provoking an argument. And Ally just didn't seem to be biting. Morgan found that extremely frustrating. Speak to me, G.o.d d.a.m.n it! "At least tell me what I've done to upset you. Was it what I said this morning, because if it was I'm-"

The compartment door flew across and Ally appeared, her eyes flaring. "You're what, Morgan? You're sorry? You've come here to tell me you want to take it all back and in actual fact it was the King of England in your compartment that night!"

Unbalanced in the face of Ally's sarcasm, Morgan said the first thing that entered her head. "Actually, there is no King of England. There's a qu-"

"I d.a.m.n well know there's a queen," Ally interrupted, scowling. "But that wouldn't stop you from trying to convince me there is a king." She brought her index finger to her lips as if having a sudden realization. "Oh, sorry. My mistake. You probably did mean the queen because today . . . you're gay! Now, if you don't mind . . ."

Ally grabbed the door and made as if to slam it shut. Morgan was quicker and moved her body so she was half-in, half-out of the compartment. Then she stepped inside completely, closing the door behind her.

"Excuse me." Ally put her hands on her hips. "But I would like you to get out of my room."