Odd One Out (5 page)

Until they got home that night and heard the news. Their parents were getting divorced.

Things grew worse. She heard her mother talking to her friends in her studio, using words she didn’t understand. Division of assets. Maintenance payments. Custody battles. As a child, she’d thought they were saying custardy. Fighting over custard? Why would they do that? Sebastian explained it to her. The family was going to be divided up.

The idea terrified her. “I want to be with you, Sebbie. Wherever you are.”

“Sylvie, it won’t be up to me.”

“Please, Seb. Please let me go with you.”

She was taken into an office, a room with a high ceiling and five red chairs. A woman behind a desk asked her in a kind voice where she would like to live. She didn’t have to think twice. “I want to be with my brother.”

“And if your brother was living with your father?”

“I want to be with my brother.”

In the end it didn’t matter what she said. The judge decided. Sebastian was going to live with his father in Melbourne. Laurence Devereaux had been appointed to a position in the English department at Melbourne University. Fidelma was given custody of her three daughters, Vanessa, Cleo and Sylvie Devereaux. Case closed.

The day at the courtroom was the last time she’d seen her father. He’d come over to her and leaned down as if he were about to speak. Sylvie’s mother took the top of her arm in a tight hold and pulled her away. There had been a bruise there the next day.

Sylvie reached Donald’s bookshop, nestled between a French bakery and a wine shop. The front windows featured beautifully displayed books and posters. An old-fashioned bell sounded as she pushed open the glass door.

Without Sebastian sweeping her along beside him, she had more time to look around the shop. Pale wood shelves, a skylight, the walls painted calm colors, each section clearly marked: fiction, nonfiction, Australian, new releases, poetry, classics. Two tables at the front of the shop featured staff picks, recently reviewed titles and special promotion titles. To the side was a children’s section divided not into fiction or nonfiction but into subjects: cats, dogs, trains, trucks. Classical music played softly. The whole shop smelled of coffee. Toward the back was a small café with three tables, armchairs and a compact coffee-making machine, the shelf above it lined with colorful cups and large glass jars filled with biscuits. There were half a dozen customers browsing the shelves and book tables.

The only assistant was up a ladder, putting up a poster. As she waited by the counter, he descended. She saw black runners. Long legs in faded jeans. A blue T-shirt. Lightly tanned arms. A head of dark-brown curls. It wasn’t Donald.

The man turned as he reached the floor. He had a boyish sprinkling of freckles on his face. Dark eyes. A grown-up Huckleberry Finn, Sylvie thought. First Pippi Longstocking, now this man. She felt like she’d stumbled into Book Land at the top of the Faraway Tree.

He smiled at her. “Hi. Sorry to keep you waiting. Can I help you?”

“Hello. Yes please. I was wondering if Dona—”

He interrupted. “You’re Sylvie, aren’t you? Sebastian’s sister?” At her nod he gave a big smile. “He said you’d be calling in. You’re exactly as he said you’d be.”

She wondered what Sebastian had said. Lost-looking? Anxious? She put on a bright expression, just in case. “Which means you must be Max.”

He bowed. “At your service. How did you know? Let me guess, he described me as a devastatingly good-looking man of the world?”

She smiled. “Nearly. He said you were a very good friend of his.”

“And I am, for my sins.” He put out a hand. “It’s great to meet you. Are you looking for a book or a coffee? Both, maybe?”

“Actually, something a bit more complicated than that.”

“Excellent.” He leaned against the counter and folded his arms. “I’m in the mood for something a bit more complicated today. Ask away.”

She reached into her bag for the envelope. “When we were young, Sebastian and I used to—”

“You’re on to the treasure hunt already?”

“You know about it?”

“I couldn’t possibly say. But you don’t waste any time, I’ll give you that.”

She took out the piece of paper. “He’s left me the starter clue but I—”

Max put his hands over his ears and shut his eyes. “Sorry, I can’t help you.”

“You can’t?”

He shook his head, eyes still shut. “Seb said no matter how much you begged, you had to figure it out for yourself.”

“But can you tell me if I’m in the right place? Will I find the book here?”

He opened one eye. “We’ve got twenty thousand books here so the odds are good. Any questions about them, feel free to ask. Though perhaps not twenty thousand questions this afternoon. We close at seven.”

“Can you help me at all?”

“I’m a highly trained bookshop assistant, with a mind like a computer, of course I can help you. But only with book-specific questions.”

She liked the spark of mischief in his eyes. If he was Sebastian’s new partner, then she approved completely. “Did you have a hand in this?”

Another grin. “Let me just say that when Sebastian burns the midnight oil or gets a notion about doing something, he doesn’t like doing it on his own. And that’s the last bit of information you’re getting. How about a coffee before you get started?”

“Could you make it a strong one?”

Ten minutes later, settled at a table at the back of the shop, a double espresso in front of her, she went over Sebastian’s clue again. She’d read it so many times she knew it off by heart.

In search of a new and glittering vocation?

Then, dear Sylvie, travel old-fashioned kilometers

Across an ancient story-filled river.

His message was clear. He was telling her she needed to leave Sydney—the “fashion” referred to Vanessa, the “glittering” to Cleo’s jewelry, she’d guessed—to find what she was supposed to be doing with her life. But what river had she crossed—or flown over at least—to get from Sydney to Melbourne? The Murray? Was she supposed to look in books about the Murray River?

Max was serving an elderly man. She waited a little back from the counter watching him. He had a lovely manner with the customer, friendly but respectful. He looked over and smiled at her as the man left.

“You’ve solved the puzzle already?”

“Inching closer every minute. I think I’m onto something. Would you have any books set on or about the Murray River?”

“Fiction or nonfiction? Or friction or nonfriction, as my grandmother used to say.”

She smiled. “Either. All. Any.”

He was very helpful. He checked on the computer, flicked through catalogs, searched the shelves with her.
They found two fiction titles quickly.
The River Kings
by Max Fatchen.
All the Rivers Run
by Nancy Cato. There were also five works of nonfiction. She flicked through the pages of each of them. Nothing.

“It wouldn’t have fallen out, would it?” she asked. “It’s usually only a little slip of paper.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“How long would it take me to check every book on every shelf here, do you think?”

“I’ve just done a part-time, manual stocktake so I can tell you—three weeks, two days and one long, heartbreaking final hour. Isn’t that cheating, though? And have you got that long?”

“Would you mind me working through the night?”

“Of course not. You can sleep in the poetry section if you need to.”

“Is that a clue? It’s in the poetry section?”

“No, I was trying to be funny. The poetry section being the quietest place.” He gave a rueful smile. “Not that funny, obviously. I need new material.”

“No, it was. It was funny. I was laughing on the inside.”

He assumed a sad expression. “If you’re looking for me, I’ll be in the comedy self-help section.”

She returned to the café, still smiling. She read the clue again. It was definitely more complicated than the ones they’d done as children. But the principle was the same, surely. Break it down, Sebastian used to say. Line by line. Make lists of all the possibilities.

She found a book on geography, listing dozens of terms for measuring distances. Furlongs. Roods. Perch. Miles. Yards. She wrote them down. Australian rivers? Darling. Torrens. Swan. Fitzroy. Franklin. Yarra. Margaret.
Margaret
. The author’s first name? She underlined it.

She consulted dictionaries, thesauruses, atlases and guidebooks. When he wasn’t serving customers and unpacking boxes, Max kept her supplied with coffee. He refused any money. “It’s all on Sebastian’s tab. Whatever you want. He insisted.”

She listed words for glittering and vocation. Shining. Bright. Brilliant. Clear. Glossy. Luminous. Silver. Radiant. Job. Occupation. Career. Vocation. Duty. Position. Trade. Work.

Nothing. Just a swirl of words in her brain. She decided to distract herself with a quick walk and some fresh air and hope her subconscious would take over. It often worked when she was doing cryptic crosswords.

Max was at the counter, serving a customer. She mouthed that she’d be back in a moment and got a nod and smile in reply.

She was barely six shops away, just beyond the Italian restaurant, when it came to her.
Glittering vocation. Old-fashioned kilometers. Ancient river
. She ran back to the bookshop and threw open the door.

“
My Brilliant Career
by Miles Franklin,” she shouted.

The man at the counter looked up in surprise. Not Max, but Donald. “Sylvie, how nice to see you again.”

“So if I decided on the spur of the moment to hold a conference for five hundred people in four different languages and needed a fleet of secretaries, I could call you and you’d organize and manage the whole thing for me? Take shorthand? Work the computers? Organize everything?”

“Blindfolded,” Sylvie said, laughing. “Arms tied behind my back.”

“That might make typing tricky, but never mind. You’re not a secretary, you’re Supertemp. Mental note, Max. If in need of multilingual conference, call Sylvie immediately.”

They’d been in the bar together for the past hour. Five doors down from the bookshop, it was small and Spanish-themed, with tapas on offer, flamenco music playing quietly in the background, and brightly colored walls and dim lamps creating an intimate atmosphere. She noticed his empty glass. “It’s your turn to answer questions. As soon as I get you another glass of wine.”

“My life is an open book. Very dull.” He stood up. “And I got off early from work because of you, so the drinks are on me. Same again?”

She nodded. It had been Donald’s idea for the two of them to go for a drink. He’d been very amused after she’d launched herself through the door of his shop, startling not only him but also his customers. Max had emerged laughing from behind the nonfiction shelves.

Donald waved away her apologies. “It’s nice to see someone so enthusiastic about their reading matter. Let me see, if my highly tuned intuition as a bookseller is right, you’re quite interested in taking a look at
My Brilliant Career
by Miles Franklin? Now, where would that be, I wonder? Max, have you seen it?”

“I think we sold the last copy,” Max said. “Just after Sylvie went for her walk.”

“Never mind. We could put an order in. An Australian classic like that, let me think, I could have it in within the week?”

“You’re tormenting me now,” Sylvie said. “I’m calling Consumer Affairs.”

“Sebastian was right about her, wasn’t he, Donald?” Max said. “How was it he described her to us? A bright-eyed cutie?”

“That was it. But he certainly didn’t mention her habit of shouting book titles at the top of her voice. They obviously have different shopping habits in Sydney. Max, loyal assistant, could you please show this bright-eyed young lady to our classics section?”

The Fs were on the second row from the top. Max reached up easily and took down the only copy. “Shall I wrap that for you, madam? Or will you be ripping straight into the pages here and now?”

“Right here and now, thank you.”

She found the slip of paper in seconds. It was in the center pages, folded in three. Sebastian had kept up the tradition of their childhood treasure hunts. There was a whole page of writing, all in jumbled letters. She looked up. Max was smiling at her.

“Did you know it was here the whole time?” she asked.

He nodded. “I put it there. Sebastian couldn’t reach.”

“So I could have bribed you when I came in this morning?”

“It would have been quicker. But look at all the practice you gave me making coffee. And now I’m an expert on the Murray River. That kind of knowledge can’t be bought.”

He returned from the bar now with two glasses of wine. “Here you are,” he said. “A fine fruity shiraz from the Yarra Valley. Or perhaps it’s a spicy cabernet from the Clare Valley. Or a cheeky full-bodied merlot from the Hunter Valley. I can’t remember. It’s a glass of red wine, anyway.”

“My favorite kind. Thanks, Max.”

He settled into his seat opposite her again.

“So, the trip to Melbourne is—” he said.

“So do you like working in the—” she asked.

They both laughed. “You first,” Max said.

“I was going to ask if you liked working in the bookshop. And if you’re originally from Melbourne.”

“Excellent questions, thank you. If you had asked them, I would have said yes to both before skillfully turning the conversation on its head and asking you what it was like to grow up in the middle of an artistic family like yours.” He paused. “And then I would realize from the expression on your face that you’ve been asked that question far too many times and that is, of course, one of the reasons you left Sydney, so I would hurriedly backtrack and ask you an innocuous question about the weather.”

“Sorry. It was that obvious?”

He nodded. “You’ve got one of those faces that gives a lot away. You’d make a good actress.”

“If I could act, yes.”

“You never tried?”

She shook her head. “I can’t paint, make jewelry or design clothes either, in case you were going to ask.”

“I wasn’t, but that’s good to know. I can’t either, as it happens.”

She rubbed at her cheek, embarrassed. “Sorry, Max. That wasn’t fair.”

“Dr. Max Reynolds, Family Therapist, is now in session. Would you like an appointment?”

She wanted to talk to him about it, she realized. “Have you got a few hours?”

“Days, if needed. And they’ve got loads of wine behind the bar. I checked.”

“I don’t know how much Sebastian told you—”

“Nothing too incriminating, I promise. He said he thought you were drowning in a sea of family, so he threw you a lifeline.”

“That’s it in a nutshell. Embarrassing, isn’t it? Nearly thirty and still being looked after by my big brother.”

“Not so big. What is he, five foot seven? A titch. A titch brother. And don’t be embarrassed about it. We need our families to drive us crazy. Otherwise no one would ever go anywhere and what would get done in the world?”

“You think that?”

“I know it.”

“It’s the same for you?”

He nodded. “I’m the oldest of three boys. Mum and Dad are both doctors, with their own practice. There were expectations, obligations really, that I would become a doctor too.” He’d enrolled for med school before he knew it, he told her. Graduated, worked in the practice, knowing the whole time something was wrong. “Then about four years ago I joined an amateur theater group and that’s when I realized what I wanted. Stage sets and scripts, not stethoscopes or charts. The production side, not the acting. The next week I enrolled to do stage management at the college of the arts. I’ve worked in theater ever since. It’s more precarious than medicine, but I love it.”

“So the bookshop is a part-time job?”

He nodded. “Three days a week. It keeps me going between plays. That’s how I met Sebastian. We worked on a production together last year. In fact, he got me the job in the bookshop. He’s very good at looking after people.”

“And how did changing direction go down with your family? Your parents?”

“They loved it. Thought it was a fantastic idea.” He gave a quick smile. “They were furious. I was ignored for a few months. Shouted at for another month. Four generations of the family in medicine. Who did I think I was, breaking with tradition? I needn’t think they’d support me, etcetera etcetera.”

“Your brothers weren’t interested either?”

“Not four years ago. It’s changed now. My youngest brother’s applied to do medicine, so my parents are mollified for the moment.” He gave a shrug. “There it is. I can’t condemn them for it. They’re traditional. Old-fashioned. They also care too much what other people think about them. Social standing, that kind of thing.”

She’d had too much wine to be diplomatic. “But they’re okay about you and Sebastian?”

“Sorry?”

“About the two of you?”

“The two of us?”

“Being a couple.”

“Sebastian and I being a couple?” At her nod, he threw back his head and laughed. “You thought Sebastian and I were together?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Where did you get that idea?”

“He said that you were a very good friend of his and he had a kind of glint in his eye.”

“A glint?” He grinned. “Sylvie, I’m sorry. Much as I’d love to be your brother-in-law, Sebastian and I bat for different teams. And as far as I can tell, Sebastian and Donald are very happy together without me interfering.”

“Donald?”

“Donald and Sebastian are together. You didn’t know?”

“He said he was seeing someone. I got it into my head that it was you . . .”

Max laughed again. “That’s it. Tomorrow I start growing a beard. Taking bodybuilding classes. Injecting testosterone.”

“I didn’t . . . I hope you don’t . . . You didn’t seem . . .” She stopped trying. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. It means I’m in touch with my sensitive side. That’s a good thing, surely.”

“A very good thing.”

“No harm done, then. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“Where are we going?”

“To a lap-dancing club. I’ve got a few things to prove.” He grinned at her expression. “No, not a lap-dancing club. I’m taking you to dinner. I’ve got a lot of ground to make up.”

***

As they walked two blocks away to a small Greek restaurant, the mood changed between them. Over dinner, there was more conversation, occasional quick touches on each other’s sleeves or hands. Either Max felt he had something to prove, or they had naturally tipped from conversation into a kind of flirting. Sylvie wasn’t sure. All she knew was it had changed from being a night out with her brother’s partner to feeling something more like a date. It was a very good feeling.

He walked her home afterward. The restaurant was only ten minutes from Sebastian’s apartment. The houses were mostly dark, a few cars driving down the side streets, a chill in the air. They stopped at the front of the apartment building. There were lights on behind curtains, the faint sound of a cello drifting down through an open window.

Max looked up at Sebastian’s apartment and sighed. “Ah, my love nest. My heart pounds to think of the nights I’ve spent there.”

“I’m sorry, I promise you. Which of us will ring Seb first and tell him, do you think?”

“I’ll leave that to you. Give him my love, won’t you?” He laughed. “I mean it. I do love Sebastian.”

“I’m sure he loves you too.”

“I really enjoyed tonight, Sylvie. Drop in to the shop any time. Or give me a ring at home if you feel like a coffee.” He scribbled a number on the back of a receipt. “I work odd hours so I’ll be free when you least expect it.”

“And me too. I mean, ring here if you want to as well. Thanks, Max. For the wine and dinner and everything.”

“You’re very welcome.” He touched the side of her face, a quick, sweet gesture. “It’s nice to have you here.”

“It’s nice to be here.” A moment where they smiled at each other. A moment when she wanted to say, what about a drink tomorrow night? Or dinner at the end of the week? She left it too long. “Goodnight.”

She turned as she reached the top of her stairs. He was still there. He raised a hand in a wave.

***

She rang Sebastian as soon as she got inside. He laughed at the case of mistaken identity. He was very glad she’d found the clue. He was also glad at the news of her drink and dinner with Max.

“Are you matchmaking, Seb?”

“Not actively,” he said. “Just letting chemistry do its work. I like Max, I like you, therefore I assumed if I put Max with you, you would like each other. And being the magician I am, it happened. Prince Charming rides into your life.”

“But I’m not looking for Prince Charming.”

“Of course you’re not. You’ve got far more serious problems than your love life.”

“Thanks very much.”

“I just thought it might be nice for you to meet someone who isn’t a stinking deceitful social-climbing two-timing bastard like David. That’s how you summed him up, wasn’t it?”

“I think you left out two-faced.”

She still felt stupid thinking about David. It had taken her five months with him before she realized it was her Devereaux surname he was interested in, not her. She’d met him at one of her mother’s exhibition openings. A lawyer studying art history in his spare time, he’d been full of opinions and talk of reviving the artistic salon tradition. He’d swept Sylvie off her feet. Her mother and sisters had been hugely flattered by his attention too. They’d come to the parties he’d thrown, cheerfully posed for the society photographers who often seemed to turn up. It took Sylvie far too long to realize what was going on. The clincher was when he began introducing her not as “my girlfriend Sylvie,” but as “my dear friend Sylvie, one of the Devereaux family of artists.”

She’d brought it up on the way back to his apartment in Double Bay one night. “I don’t know why you keep saying that, David. I’m not an artist.”

“I can hardly introduce you as just a secretary, can I?”

She finished it with him that night. He pursued her with flowers and apologies until she gave him a second chance. He threw another party to celebrate. He invited her family again and spent most of the night talking to Fidelma. It ended when Sylvie saw a photo of him in the Sunday gossip pages, photographed beside the daughter of a well-known Sydney actor. He’d told Sylvie he was working late that night. That time he accepted it was over. The next day he sent flowers to Fidelma, Vanessa and Cleo, saying it had been a pleasure to meet each of them. He sent them to the office. Sylvie was the only one there. She’d had to sign for them.

“And you liked Donald?” Sebastian said now.

She could hear the vulnerable tone in his voice. “I liked him very much.”

“Good.” He was smiling now. She could hear that too. “That’s very good. Now get to bed. You’ve a lot of unpuzzling to do in the morning.”

It wasn’t until after she’d cleaned her teeth and was about to get into bed that she checked the answering machine. It was flashing. One message. Max, she thought. Leaving a message already. She pressed the button.

“Sylvie, Mill here. Two quick thoughts. White vinegar makes a marvelous fabric softener. Just add a quick splash to the final rinse. And cider vinegar added to chooks’ drinking water stops them getting worms. All for now. Goodnight. No need to call back.”