Odd One Out Read online

  “Of course it is. You poor things. I forget.”

  “Don’t be cross.”

  “I’m not cross. Really. Let’s talk about you instead. I want a full update.”

  “You first. I haven’t seen you in months.”

  “In a nutshell? Work, great. House, great. Social life, great. Your turn.”

  “Social life great? You’ve met someone?”

  “I’m not here to talk about me.”

  “You have! Who is he? Where?”

  “Someone. In Melbourne.”

  “You can’t leave it at that.”

  “I’m older than you. I can do as I please. Your turn. Start with work. Please tell me you’re not still at Union Street.” It was the family’s shorthand name for the studio, a converted warehouse in the east inner city. Fidelma, Vanessa and Cleo had recently started calling it Avalon. The name had come to Fidelma in a dream.

  “I’m still at Union Street.”

  “You promised me you were going to leave. Work anywhere but there.”

  “I did leave. Then I came back.” She read his expression. “I had to, Seb. They needed me. Mum rang me in an absolute panic.”

  “Which is why you’re back living at home too?”

  Back in the family house at Rushcutters Bay, back in her old bedroom. She was even sleeping in her old bed. “I know I said I’d never go back, but my flatmate was moving to Brisbane and when Mum rang . . .”

  “And said that it was all over between her and Ray yet again and she couldn’t bear another night in the house on her own, you couldn’t say no?”

  “It wasn’t like that.” It had been exactly like that.

  “And friends? Or have you cast them out of your life as well?”

  “I’ve plenty of friends,” she said, stung. It was true. She had friends from the arts course she’d started at Sydney University as a nineteen-year-old, ten years ago now. People she’d met in student jobs in wine bars and coffee shops. Other temps from the executive agency she’d been with for six years. Everyone was so busy these days, though, getting married or starting to have babies. Settling down. She was the only single one among her group these days.

  “So your love life is hectic and fulfilling too?”

  She was glad the dance steps meant she could avoid eye contact for a moment. Her love life was like the Sahara. “Nothing since David.”

  “Evil David? That was months ago. No one since? Have you been out with anyone? Asked friends to set you up? Advertised your wares?”

  “No, no, no and no. And if I ever asked you those questions you’d tell me to mind my own business.”

  “True. Spin.” They spun. “Have you had a break since I saw you last? One of those old-fashioned things called a holiday?”

  “No,” she said simply.

  “Sylvie, go to the kitchen and get two spoons, would you?”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve arrived in the nick of time. Things are worse for you than I thought. We’re going to dig you a tunnel out of here, through the dance floor. I’m thinking The Great Escape. Or am I thinking Chicken Run? Whichever it is, you need freedom. A new start. Liberty and justice.”

  “You’re quoting from a play now, aren’t you?”

  He grinned. “Just the liberty and justice line, yes. I blame myself. I’ve neglected you this year.”

  “You haven’t. And I don’t need rescuing. I like being busy.”

  “You’ve gone beyond busy. I can see it just looking at you. You’ve got ‘I am stressed’ written in block letters on your forehead.”

  She rubbed at her forehead without thinking. “We’ve had a lot on this year. Three exhibitions. Cleo’s new line of jewelry. Vanessa’s export orders.”

  “So presumably they haven’t had holidays either?”

  Fidelma had been away to her house on the coast most weekends the past year. Cleo had been to Paris twice. Vanessa had been to Vietnam and Hong Kong. In search of inspiration, they’d said each time.

  “You don’t have to answer, I can see it on your face,” he said. “And you kept the home fires burning each time? The office lights ablaze?”

  “There was a lot to do. And I wanted to do it properly.”

  “And are they paying you properly?”

  “As much as they can. Most of the profits go straight back into the business.”

  “Straight back into their holiday funds, you mean. Sylvie, why do you keep falling for this? Any time you try to get away, Mum reels you back in. As for Heckle and Jeckle—”

  She secretly loved it when Sebastian called Vanessa and Cleo by their childhood nicknames. Especially when he did it to their faces.

  He wasn’t laughing. “I’m serious, Sylvie. They’re not good to you or for you. You have to get away from them.” He led her skillfully in a sudden complicated dance move. “I couldn’t do it when you were a kid, but I can do it now. I’m airlifting you out of here. Kidnapping you. You’re coming to live in Melbourne with me.”

  “Really? Great. Let me go and get my bag.”

  “It’s not a joke. I mean it.”

  “You’re mad. I can’t move to Melbourne, Seb. I’ve got work here. A life here.”

  “What life? Back living at home, at Mum’s beck and call? And you haven’t got work, you’ve got penal servitude.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine. I’ve been watching you since I got here. You’ve got that expression you used to have when you were little. This one.” He demonstrated it. A worried, anxious expression.

  He had it exactly right. It was like looking in a mirror. She forced a smile. “It’s a nice idea—”

  “A nice idea?”

  “A really nice idea. But I can’t just up and leave. Mum needs me here.”

  “Sylvie, can I be blunt? Ever hear that story Cinderella? The one about the little servant girl and her cruel family? You’re turning into her.”

  “I’m not. I don’t sit by the fire.” She pointed her toes. “And I don’t have glass slippers.”

  “They treat you just as badly. Mum doesn’t mean to, I know. She’s self-centered, but she’s not malicious. Heckle and Jeckle are different. I can imagine them today—fetch this, do that. Am I right?”

  She knew her face gave her away. “Today was an unusual day.”

  “Why, because they noticed you? I’ve heard them talk to you like that whether it’s a wedding or not. They’re squashing you, Sylvie. They did it when you were little and they’re doing it now. You need to get away from them. Why are you putting up with it?”

  “I told you, I like being busy.”

  “There’s busy and there’s being a mouse on a wheel. I’m worried about you.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “Always have, always will. I’m serious about Melbourne, Sylvie. I’m also being selfish. I’m going away on a three-week shoot next month and I want a house sitter. Someone to water my plants, keep my neighbors at bay. The person I’d lined up canceled on me this week. I was about to advertise but now there’s no need. You’d be perfect. And you’d be doing me a huge favor.”

  “You’re making that up.”

  “I’m not making it up. I can show you the wording for the ad.”

  “But I can’t leave everyone here in the lurch.”

  “What lurch? Vanessa’s on honeymoon for the next month. Mum’s going to her beach house to paint.” He refused to call it “the retreat,” as Fidelma did. “Cleo’s going on holiday as well, she told me. To Byron, I think. Or Palm Beach. Somewhere glamorous, anyway.”

  “She is?” Cleo hadn’t mentioned anything to Sylvie about a holiday. “It’ll be a good time to catch up while everyone’s away, then,” she said, finding a bright voice. “I’ve loads of filing to do. A new database to set up.”

  “Can I ask yo
u a direct question?”

  “Your others weren’t direct?”

  He ignored her sarcasm. “Are you happy, Sylvie? At work? At home? With life?”

  “Deliriously.” To her dismay she felt a prickle of tears in her eyes. She blinked them away. “It’s the champagne. I’m fine. I’m absolutely fine.”

  “It’s not the champagne.” He drew her to the side of the dance floor and found her a chair. “You used to say the same thing to me when you were little, you know, when Mum and Dad were screaming at each other. ‘I’m fine. Absolutely fine.’ You’d copied it from a British TV show. Upstairs, Downstairs or something.”

  He was right, she had. She managed a smile. “Well, I am fine. I’m absolutely fine.” She said it in a perfect cut-glass English accent.

  He pulled up a chair beside her. “I didn’t believe you then and I don’t now. What is it? What’s happened?”

  The combination of too much champagne, the exhaustion of the past few days and the concern on her brother’s face prompted the truth. “Something silly. I might have got it wrong, though. Misheard it.”

  “Misheard what?”

  “Mum.”

  “Tell me.”

  Sylvie knew she hadn’t misheard it. Her mother had been pointing out her family to a guest at the wedding. A dealer, Sylvie thought. Someone high up in the art world, at least. Fidelma had pointed out Cleo, and Vanessa, the beautiful bride. She’d said that Sebastian was on his way from Melbourne. “You’ve heard of him, of course?” “Of course,” the man had said. Fidelma had listed all their achievements, talked about the joys of an artistic household, of their dramatic sensibility as a family. Sylvie had heard most of it many times in interviews. “And your other daughter?” the man had asked. “You’ve three, haven’t you?”

  Sylvie hesitated before finishing. “And Mum said to him, ‘Oh, yes, there’s Sylvie, my youngest. But she doesn’t really do anything.’”

  “I’ll kill her,” Sebastian said.

  “It’s true, Seb. I don’t do anything. Nothing lasting.”

  “You work harder than anyone I know. You’ve got a degree. You haven’t been out of work since you left uni. The only difference is you’re not a bloody show pony about it.”

  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.

  Chapter Three

  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 him
self 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.”