Odd One Out Read online

  “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. Th
e 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?”

  The million-dollar question. Did she? She admired her, enjoyed her company much of the time, found her frustrating, stimulating. “I love her. She’s my mother.”

  “You ignored the question. Skilfully, though, I’ll give you that. You’re off the hook for now.”

  He called for the bill. On the way home to his apartment they called into a bar for a nightcap. He made her laugh with stories about badly behaved actors he’d worked with. They didn’t speak about her father, or her mother, again.

  Sylvie walked out into the hallway of Sebastian’s apartment now and looked at the framed photographs once more.

  One photo to the side caught her eye. It was an old black and white of Mill, pictured sweeping the front verandah of her Newtown flat with a straw broom, squinting into the lens, her hair falling out of its bun as usual. Sebastian had stuck a Post-it note to the bottom of it: Great-Aunt Mill prepares for her companion Sylvie’s arrival. He had stuck another note underneath a photo of Vanessa and Cleo arriving at an opening night in a limousine. Heckle and Jeckle alight from their pumpkin and greet the masses.

  She recognized lots of the photos. Sebastian was famous for raiding cupboards and photo albums on visits home and taking whatever he wanted. He said it was because he was the product of a broken home, that he was psychologically disturbed and in constant need of reassurance and familiar objects around him.

  He amazed her, how matter-of-fact, even jokey, he was about it. She remembered the time of the divorce with only a tight feeling in her chest. She’d known of course that her parents weren’t happy together. There’d been no way of not knowing. Creative people like her parents had found creative ways to abuse and insult each other.

  There were several photos of the two of them, though none together. The ones of her father looked recent. She looked at them closely. She hadn’t seen him in the flesh since she was eight years old.

  Her idea of him had constantly changed since that time, influenced by whatever she was reading or watching. As a child, she’d thought of him as an Uncle Quentin–type distracted scientist character from the Famous Five books. The missing Mr. March from Little Women. The absent father in The Railway Children.

  The real Laurence Devereaux had an oval-shaped face, gray curly hair and enquiring eyes. Sebastian was very like him. Sylvie had often been told how like Sebastian she was.

  Which meant she was like her father too.

  Chapter Four

  By the end of the first week of her trial run, Sylvie had learned one new thing about herself.

  She was no good at relaxing.

  She’d walked into the city center every day, via the Botanic Gardens, taking a different path each time to get to know her way around. She’d contacted five real estate agents to get an idea about current rents in nearby suburbs. She’d rung three temp agencies, faxed her CV and Sydney references to them all, done face-to-face interviews with two, phone interviews with the other one and was now on call for work with all three.

  She’d asked herself a hundred questions and had a head full of possible answers. If I stayed here permanently, which suburb would I live in? What work would I do? Would I make any friends? Where would I eat out? Where would I stop for coffee after work? Where would I have long Sunday breakfasts? Where would I shop? Go dancing? See films? Underneath all of them was one big question. Would I be the same person I am in Sydney?

  Sebastian rang to see how she was getting on. He was on location in an old country mansion halfway between Melbourne and Adelaide, working on a period drama. He was appalled when she told him what she’d been doing.

  “What happened to the holiday? You’re there to take some time out too, remember, not launch yourself on a full-scale reconnaissance mission.”

  “It’s a trial run. I’m trial running.”

  “You’re like an athlete on steroids. Slow down, would you? You have to have a gap in your life if you want something new to come in. Have you read a book? Watched a film? Listened to some calming music?”

  “I haven’t had time.”

  He laughed. “Then make time. And will you promise me something?”

  “Depends.”

  “Be home tomorrow between noon and one.”

  “Why?”

  “Just promise.”

  She did as she was told. She got up early the next day, went to the shops down the road and bought all the ingredients for a leisurely holiday-type breakfast: fresh orange juice, warm croissants, ripe peaches and two newspapers. She read them from front to back. She took out the folder Sebastian had left for her, labeled Possible Leisure Activities and Cultural Pursuits for Sylvie in My Absence. There were theater programs, cinema schedules, opening times for the nearby swimming po
ol, library, gym and video store, all with Post-it notes and comments attached. She made a list of things she’d like to see.

  Tucked underneath them all, she found an old-fashioned luggage label. “Pin this to your clothes every time you go out,” he’d written on another Post-it note. The label read: My name is Sylvie. I live on Marne Street, South Yarra. I am lost. Please look after me. She grinned as she attached it to her red denim jacket, feeling like Paddington Bear.

  By eleven o’clock she was fidgety. At work by this time, she would have made twenty phone calls, sent thirty emails, filled a dozen orders and probably booked her mother or sisters into either a restaurant, a beautician or their latest fad, Club Dance, a mid-morning exercise class in a nearby nightclub. Sylvie had read the brochure as she booked her sisters in for a six-week course. For a small fortune, they were being promised new levels of fat-burning and mood-lifting. When Sylvie wondered out loud if this was a clever way of using the club during daylight hours, she’d been subjected to eye-rolling and accusations of being so pedestrian.

  Maybe there was something to it. She was on her own, in Melbourne, it was light outside and she was sober, but too bad. She found a Best of the 80s CD in Sebastian’s large collection. From what she’d seen, all her neighbors left for work early, so she hoped for no complaints. She pushed back the furniture in the living room, turned the music up loud and danced to Dexy’s Midnight Runners’ “Geno” and Spandau Ballet’s “Gold.” Midway through a Duran Duran song, the polished floorboards gave her an idea. She took off her sneakers and started sliding from room to room in her sock-covered feet. She changed CDs, finding Ravel’s “Bolero” and turning that up full blast as well. She did both Torvill and Dean’s actions, making herself laugh. She and Sebastian had loved floor-skating as children, until Fidelma laid carpet in the hallway and main rooms. The dust coming up through the floorboards made her sneeze, she’d said.