Odd One Out (3 page)

Sylvie was surprised at how angry he seemed. “She’s got a point. So do you. I am Cinderella. Look at our family, Seb. Artist, fashion designer, jeweler, lighting genius, secretary. Can you pick the odd one out?”

“You’re not just a secretary and you know it. What was the name of that high-flying temp agency you used to work for? The one that sounded like a brothel?”

“Executive Stress Relief.” It was an agency specializing in emergency high-level secretarial support, for everyone from top businesspeople to government ministers. Sylvie had been their employee of the year for the past four years. Her boss, Jill, had told her there was a position waiting back with them whenever she wanted.

“You’ve got them as a safety net, haven’t you? If you were to leave Union Street?”

“Yes, but I’m not looking for a safety net.”

“No, what you need is an escape chute.” He was thoughtful for a moment. “You remember when you were little, and I used to do those treasure hunts for you? With the dares?”

“Of course. You made me eat a worm once, do you remember?”

“I didn’t make you. You misread the clue.”

Sylvie had loved those treasure hunts, Sebastian’s birthday presents to her from the time she was eight until she turned fourteen. He’d devised a series of clues based on her favorite books. They’d taken her days to solve sometimes. Each one had led to a challenge or special treat of some sort. One year, she found herself up on the roof of the house, building a cubby from a bed sheet and a fold-up chair. Another year, he dared her to spend the night in the garden of their suburb’s allegedly haunted house. She lasted all night, to Sebastian’s amazement.

“I hereby resurrect the days of the treasure hunts. Sylvie Devereaux, I dare you to come to Melbourne.”

Sylvie laughed. “Good one. You forgot the clues, though. And I’m not a kid anymore.”

“Don’t change the subject. Come on. I dare you. Even for a few weeks. Let’s call it a trial run. A holiday. An escape.”

“Let’s call it madness. I’ve got a job here.”

“That’s all that’s stopping you?”

“Yes, but—”

“Stay here.”

She watched as he went to their mother, then Vanessa, then Cleo. All three listened, nodded. They were soon smiling, laughing even. They adored Sebastian. Everyone did. He was back within five minutes. “It’s settled. You’re coming to Melbourne.”

“Really? Just like that? And what did Mum say?”

“Do you want the truth?”

Sylvie nodded.

“She didn’t bat an eyelid. I said, ‘Sylvie’s worried about leaving work behind,’ and she said, ‘Oh, we’ll get someone else from an agency. There’s not much to it.’”

The words felt like a punch. “What about being in the house on her own?”

“Ray was doing the Revolting Tickling Thing on the back of her neck while she was talking.” Sebastian had dubbed it that the last time he was home. “So it looks like you’re off the hook there as well.”

“And Vanessa and Cleo?”

“Thought it was a great idea. Just what you needed, they said.”

It was like being patronized, hit and encouraged, all at once. She’d half-hoped her sisters would listen with alarm to Sebastian’s suggestion, come across and say, “But, Sylvie, what will we do without you?” She looked over. They were involved in animated conversations with their friends, as if Sebastian’s suggestion had had no impact. She’d worked long days, nights and weekends for them. She thought she’d been making a difference, helping them, keeping the studio running.

She turned in time to see her mother move gracefully to the open window and stand within its frame, the curves of the Opera House a striking backdrop to her floaty dress and tumble of hair. The setting was no accident, Sylvie knew. Fidelma had a knack of posing for maximum visual impact. Ray joined her and began the Revolting Tickling Thing again. Sebastian was right, their on-again off-again relationship was clearly back on. Which meant Ray would soon be back living in the house, taking over the kitchen, prefacing all his sentences with, “Fidelma’s asked me to ask you . . .”

Two tables away, Great-Aunt Mill was talking loudly. “I still don’t know why everyone laughed,” she was saying. “I was quite serious about her being my companion. I think we’d be very happy together.”

Sebastian was watching Sylvie’s face closely. “Well?”

She stood up. “Ready when you are,” she said.

For the third time since Sebastian had left for his film shoot that morning, Sylvie took herself on a tour of his Melbourne apartment.

It was on the second floor of a converted red-brick mansion in South Yarra, two streets from the Botanic Gardens. He’d moved in eight months before, after years of flat-shares with other theater people around Melbourne. The apartment was like a stage set itself, with high ceilings, bay windows, polished wooden floorboards and ornate ceiling roses.

“If anyone wanted to do
This Is Your Life
on me, it’s all here,” he’d said as he showed Sylvie around. The sofa was from an Oscar Wilde play he’d worked on. The chandelier from a modern Shakespeare. Paintings from an opera set. A mirror from a music video. The walls in the entrance hall were covered in framed photos of his friends and family. There was a futon in one bedroom, an elaborate carved sleigh-type bed in the other, rich red rugs on the floor of both. The whole effect was a cross between a flea market, an antiques store and backstage at a theater. She loved it.

She hadn’t moved down immediately after the wedding. Sebastian had asked for a week to get himself packed and organized for the film shoot. She’d used the time in Sydney to organize the already organized office at Union Street and leave notes for any incoming temp. She’d tidied up her already tidy bedroom in the family home. She met friends for farewell drinks and dinner. She had lunch with Jill, the boss of Executive Stress Relief, who made a point of taking all her Melbourne contact details. She was hoping to be there in the next few weeks and wanted to meet up again.

“I can actually picture you living in Melbourne,” she’d said to Sylvie. “Are you planning on staying long?”

“A few weeks initially. With an eye to the long term.” It felt brave saying that. “I’ll get in touch with temp agencies and real estate agents as soon as I get there.”

Jill was impressed. “You’re certainly hitting the ground running.”

“That’s the plan,” Sylvie said, hoping Jill couldn’t see her fingers were crossed under the table.

Vanessa, Cleo and her mother had all left Sydney the day after the wedding. Vanessa left a message on the machine wishing Sylvie a safe trip and asking her to make sure the trade-fair orders had been dispatched. Cleo left a note saying have fun and asking her to collect her dry-cleaning before she went. Her mother took her out for a farewell coffee and talked the entire time about how wonderful it was to have Ray back in her life.

The only person in Sylvie’s family who’d seemed interested in her trip to Melbourne was Great-Aunt Mill. She’d left messages on the office answering machine all week, either before Sylvie got in or late at night.

“I hear you’re popping down to Melbourne for a little holiday with Sebastian, Sylvie. What a lovely idea. We’ll be busy when you get back—Vincent left boxes and boxes of material to sort through—so I’m glad you’ll be fresh.”

“Sylvie, I’ve found a gardener, so that’s the outside of the house taken care of, while you and I make a start on the inside. Vincent wasn’t much of a gardener, I’m afraid. Though he did like trees.”

“I was going to organize the painters for your room but you might like to choose the colors yourself, Sylvie. It’s blue at the moment. Such a lovely aspect from that room. A view right over the city. There’s a fig tree too. I’ve made delicious jam from it over the years. Vincent’s favorite.”

“You’re off tomorrow, I believe? Safe trip. Will you be warm enough there? Vincent always hated Melbourne. Far too cold for him. I’ve got Sebastian’s number so I’ll be in touch if I need to.”

She’d ended each call with the same message. “No need to ring back.”

“You
do
need to ring her back. You have to be straight with her,” Sebastian said after she told him about the calls. “Just ring her and say, “Thanks again for the kind offer, but I’m not moving in with you, you crazy old coot.”

“She’s not a crazy old coot.”

“She’s the queen of crazy old coots.”

“She’s just lonely. She must be missing Vincent a lot. And I don’t want to hurt her feelings.”

Sylvie had always felt a bit sorry for Mill. She often seemed to be either lost in the crowd or ignored at family occasions, even though she was always the first to respond to any invitation. Fidelma was quite vague about who she actually was. Her late grandmother’s sister, she finally remembered. Or was it cousin? They all called her Great-Aunt for convenience. Until she’d inherited Vincent’s Surry Hills home, she’d lived in a small flat in Newtown, traveling across town for nearly forty years to work as his cook and cleaner, six days a week. She always arrived at family gatherings with several large plastic containers filled with her homemade biscuits, buns and exquisitely iced cakes.

Sylvie called her back and left a polite message on her machine. “Thanks for your calls, Mill. I’m not sure how long I’ll be in Melbourne but I’ll be in touch as soon as I know a bit more about my future plans.”

What future plans, she wondered as she walked through Sebastian’s apartment again, a nervous feeling in her stomach. All her pre-trip bravado seemed to have evaporated, now she was here. It wasn’t that she was worried about being in Melbourne on her own. She knew it reasonably well, having been down with Fidelma for several exhibition openings over the years. She was scared of something else. The reality of it not meeting the fantasy she’d built in her head all her life.

Melbourne had been her Utopia. Whenever things were difficult at home with her mother or sisters after the divorce, as a child and later as a teenager, she’d imagined herself living in Melbourne with Sebastian and her father. Sebastian had sent her postcards from there nearly every week in the early years. They had taken up almost a wall of her bedroom. She built whole stories around the photographs. That green tram was the one she and Sebastian would catch to school. The long street—Swanston Street—was where they would go walking on Sundays, Sebastian on one side of her, her father on the other. She imagined boat trips together on the Yarra in winter, picnics on the beach at St. Kilda in summer. They’d go to see plays at the Arts Center. Football matches at the MCG. She would barrack for Essendon, she decided. She was the only girl in her class at school who knew all the Australian Rules football teams. She kept it to herself, though. She’d never told anyone about her secret Melbourne life. Not even Sebastian.

He had given her a soft and welcoming landing on this trip. He’d met her at Tullamarine airport, holding up a sign, wearing a peaked cap and guiding her outside to where a limousine was waiting. “It’s not every day Cinderella comes to stay,” he said. He admitted later that the owner of the car was a friend of his and had loaned it as a favor.

They had two days together before he left. He took her on a guided tour of the Botanic Gardens and treated her to coffee and cake in the café inside the gates. The trees were wearing the slightest tinge of autumn red and gold. They visited the nearby streets and shops in South Yarra, Richmond and Prahran. She met friends of his in the local milk bar, laundry, Greek restaurant, Thai restaurant and Japanese noodle bar.

He made a special point of taking her to a small bookshop three streets from his house. The owner, a smiling, gray-haired Scottish man in his early forties, looked up with pleasure as they came in.

“Here she is, Don,” Sebastian said, putting his arm around Sylvie. “Sylvie, Donald. Donald, my little sister Sylvie. She’s my representative on earth while I’m away so please treat her with the respect and adoration you would normally show me.”

“Welcome, Sylvie,” Donald said, getting into the spirit, kissing her hand gallantly. “Come and see us any time. Any sister of Sebastian’s is, let me think, what’s that saying—” he paused, “hopefully less trouble than he is.”

“You’ll miss me while I’m gone,” Sebastian said. He glanced around the shop. “Is Max here?”

“Day off, Seb, sorry. I’ll tell him you dropped in.”

As Donald turned to serve a customer, Sebastian spoke quietly to Sylvie. “I really want you to meet Max. He’s a very good friend of mine. I’ve asked him to keep an eye on you as well.”

Something in Sebastian’s tone caught Sylvie’s attention. A very good friend? As in more than a friend? As in the someone Sebastian had met recently? Her brother had always been good at getting personal details out of her, and keeping his own life secret. She had a hunch he’d just given away more than he realized.

“It’ll be great to meet him,” she said.

At a farewell dinner the evening before, Sebastian had taken her to a small Italian restaurant a few blocks from his apartment. The handwritten menu had run to ten pages. When she’d asked him to order for her, he was appalled. “You don’t know about Italian food?”

“Of course I do. But you’re the expert.”

“Then you have to become one, too. Italian food’s one of the great pleasures of life, Sylvie.”

“I thought you told me dancing was.”

“Food—any kind of food, not only Italian—dancing, love and sleep. That’s all anyone needs to be happy.”

Sylvie did like food and liked cooking too. She’d just got out of practice, living at home. As she explained to Sebastian, Fidelma had developed food allergies recently.

He raised an eyebrow. “That would be from the same family of allergies that stopped you having real pets when you were little?”

Sylvie had forgotten what a good memory Sebastian had. As a seven-year-old, she’d invented an imaginary kitten, one that wouldn’t give her mother allergies. She called it Silky, after the fairy in her favorite Enid Blyton books. Silky miraculously had kittens herself a few weeks later. Sylvie named them after her other favorite book characters. At one stage there were fifteen imaginary kittens living in her bedroom.

“Why do you hate Mum so much, Seb?” she asked now.

“I don’t hate her. I actually enjoy her hugely. What I hate is how she controls you.”

“She doesn’t.”

“No, of course she doesn’t. And if she did, she doesn’t anymore because I have whisked you from under her sweet little allergic nose. So tell me, what were the last three meals you cooked?”

“For Mum and me?”

“For anyone.”

Sylvie thought back. “Pasta with tomato sauce. Vegetable soup. Tofu and steamed vegetables.” Fidelma had been in a vegetarian phase. Six months earlier she had eaten nothing but steamed fish. Before that, only grilled organic meat.

“Not a spice or herb to be found? You are what you eat, Sylvie. No wonder your life has been so dull lately.”

“I told you, Mum’s got a particular palate.”

“Sylvie, one more day there and you’d have turned into a blancmange yourself. I am going to dripfeed chili and fish sauce into you while you sleep. We can work on you internally and externally. Spice up your life in more ways than one. We can rebuild you. We have the technology.” Sebastian held up his glass. “To your trial run, Sylvie.”

“To my trial run.”

They clinked glasses.

An hour later, their main courses of homemade tortellini and potato gnocchi finished, she refilled their glasses and lifted hers in another toast. “Thank you, Sebastian.”

“For what?”

“The wine. The dinner. The escape chute. The house-sitting. Everything.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I’m hardly started.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mind your own business.” He called over the waiter then. “Tiramisu to share, Sylvie? No, we’re too old to share. Two servings of tiramisu, Tony, please.”

They ate their dessert, the rich coffee-soaked cake wrapped in thick cream. Their espresso coffees had just arrived when Sebastian shifted in his seat and said in a conversational tone, “Did I tell you Dad’s living in Collingwood these days?”

She had been waiting for Sebastian to mention him. It had been the one subject hanging between them since she arrived. She’d expected Fidelma to say something before she left too and been surprised when she hadn’t. Perhaps she felt she didn’t need to. Sylvie had heard it all so many times in her life she didn’t need refreshing. “He’s a bad man, Sylvie. A lying, manipulative, cruel man.” “Why would you want to go and visit him? I couldn’t bear it if you did, Sylvie. It’s enough for me to cope with that he took Sebastian from me.” “Of course it’s no surprise he hasn’t sent you a birthday card, Sylvie. When did he ever think of anyone but himself?” Sylvie blinked, dismissing her mother’s voice.

“Does he?” she said.

“Not that far from here. I can leave you his phone number if you want it.”

“Seb, I know what you’re trying to do. It’s too late.”

“Why? He’s only in his sixties. He can still walk and talk.”

Sylvie knew that. She’d seen the occasional reference to him in the literary pages of the newspapers, whenever his poems were included in new anthologies. Even so many years on, Fidelma would rage against him if she saw his name or photograph. “Look at him. Like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.”

“Does he know I’m here?” Sylvie asked.

“I told him you were coming down, yes.”

“Then he can get in touch with me if he wants to, can’t he?”

“I think he’s too nervous.”

“Nervous?”

“He doesn’t know what sort of reception he’d get.”

“Reception? I’m his daughter, not a werewolf.”

“So go and see him.”

She didn’t answer for a moment. “What’s he like these days?”

“He drives a current Mercedes-Benz. He lives in a penthouse. He collects butterflies. He holds a black belt in karate. He speaks fluent Swahili.” Sebastian smiled. “Or perhaps he does none of those things. Find out for yourself.”

“Do you see him often?”

“Once a month or so. We usually meet for dinner. He’s got a favorite Malaysian place in Prahran. Or we talk on the phone or by email.”

“So you’re close?”

“We agree on some things, disagree on others. I know what’s happening in his life, to a degree. He knows a bit about me.”

“Do you like him?”

“Sylvie, Dad is a human being. Not a cartoon villain or however Mum has painted him. He’s likable sometimes, other times he drives me crazy. He’s complicated. Welcome to the world of parents. Do you like Mum?”