Odd One Out (8 page)

Less than an hour into her dinner party, Sylvie knew she’d made a big mistake.

On the surface, all was perfect. The living room looked like the inside of a jewelry box. She’d turned the lights down low, sending a soft glow onto the golden drapes. Mellow background music was playing. She’d pushed the sofas to the edge of the room and moved the antique dining table and four chairs into the center. With the food having an Asian theme, she’d set the table to match—serviettes folded into elegant origami swan shapes (she’d found the instructions on the Internet), chopsticks resting on elegant ceramic holders on a richly patterned tablecloth. Four low candles completed the look.

Throughout her preparations, she’d thought long and hard about Max and her reaction to his comments about Vincent Langan. Her overreaction. Max had been paying for Evil David’s sins, she realized. She hadn’t been fair on him. He was obviously a genuine fan of Vincent Langan’s music, he’d had every right to be excited at the idea of Sylvie having met him. She’d decided to apologize to him as soon as she had the opportunity. And if he wanted it, she would give him Great-Aunt Mill’s phone number. She knew Mill would love to talk about Vincent to anyone who cared to hear about him.

Max, Leila and Donald arrived within minutes of each other, just after seven thirty. Sylvie had been dressed and made-up since before six thirty, wearing a black top and cardigan, dark-orange skirt and her favorite high peep-toe shoes, which lifted her height to a towering five foot four.

Her guests had dressed up too. Leila had wound her long red hair into a loose bun and made up her eyes in an exotic way. She was wearing a close-fitting red velvet vintage dress, showing lots of cleavage.

Donald was wearing a gray suit, white shirt and red tie, understated but elegant. He seemed at home in Sebastian’s apartment, hanging up his coat, standing beside Sylvie and taking Max and Leila’s coats as they arrived too. He’d kissed Sylvie’s cheek as he came in. She’d wondered whether to say something, to whisper, “I know about you and Sebastian and I heartily approve,” as she gave him a kiss back. She decided against it.

Max was wearing a dark-green smoking jacket over old-fashioned suit trousers. All borrowed from his flatmate’s grandfather, he announced. “I was thinking Gabriel Byrne in
Miller’s Crossing
,” he said. “But it’s more bit part in
Bugsy Malone
, isn’t it?”

Sylvie served champagne cocktails to begin. She felt like an actress in a 1940s comedy, laughing over her shoulder as she dropped sugar cubes into the tall glasses and the champagne fizzed and bubbled up the side of the glass. She’d been worried there would be awkward silences, but there wasn’t a moment’s lapse in conversation. Donald talked about a forthcoming author visit to his bookshop. It sparked a childhood anecdote from Leila about meeting her favorite writer and being sick on his shoes in excitement. Max told a story about a customer coming into the store, looking around and asking, “Are these books for sale?”

Sylvie excused herself after serving another round of cocktails. Seb’s kitchen was down a small hallway from the living room, not ideal for entertaining but she could still hear the conversations, at least. She’d banned them from coming into the kitchen. She didn’t want anyone seeing her military-style preparations. Six of Sebastian’s Asian cookbooks were arranged on the shelves. In front of each relevant recipe were the ingredients she needed. She had a running-order pinned on the wall beside the noticeboard.

The smells were glorious, spring onions, garlic, ginger, coriander, basil, sesame oil. She had spent nearly three hours at the Queen Vic food market, roaming the aisles, browsing the different stalls, reveling in having the time to do it. In Sydney, working full-time, it had been a matter of running into the nearest supermarket after work, grabbing whatever ingredients Fidelma was eating at the time and cooking them in simple ways—steaming, grilling or baking.

She wished she’d taken that approach now. Why hadn’t she read the directions more clearly? Noticed each recipe had preparation times varying from thirty minutes to one hour, even if the cooking time in the wok was just a minute or two? How on earth did Chinese, Thai and Vietnamese restaurants manage to serve anybody, let alone so quickly? By having a team of cooks, of course. And more than one wok.

When in doubt, open another bottle of wine. “Not long now,” she announced, putting another bottle of red on the table. They had already finished the first one.

They were halfway through the second bottle by the time she appeared with the starters: grilled prawns with coriander, lemongrass and ginger; and stir-fried calamari with garlic, celery and shallots. If they noticed the prawns were a little wan-looking from sitting in the oven keeping warm while she stir-fried the calamari, they didn’t say. She was showered in compliments. If only the cooking ended there. She thought of the other ten bowls of ingredients waiting to be cooked for the main courses. Was it too late to order in a pizza?

The last prawn was on the plate, being argued over, when Donald’s mobile rang. It was the security firm who monitored the bookshop. The alarm had been triggered. They’d checked, it looked secure, but they needed him to come down.

“I’ll go,” Max said. “You’ve worked back late all week.”

Donald was already folding his serviette. “No. I don’t pay you enough to do overtime. I’ll take a look. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

He rang fifteen minutes later. There’d been an attempted break-in. The window into the storeroom was broken. He needed to wait for the glazier. “I’m sorry, Sylvie.”

“It’s fine. Do you want me to save some for you? I can drop it around tomorrow.”

“That would be lovely.”

The evening changed from that moment. As Sylvie worked in the kitchen, chopping up more spring onions and garlic, measuring more sesame oil, soy sauce and rice wine, she heard laughing. She heard Leila tell stories of disastrous auditions she’d done. Max saying she should forget about being a serious actor and turn her stories into a stand-up comedy routine. Leila laughingly dismissing him and telling another one.

Max saying, “Seriously, why don’t you think about it? I’ll help you.”

“Help me?”

“Sure. Help you rehearse it. Stage it. There’s open mike spots in the comedy clubs all around town.”

“You’re serious.”

“Deadly serious. Funny serious too.”

By the time Sylvie began bringing the main course dishes in (stir-fried mussels with black bean and chili, crispy chicken in garlic-ginger sauce, and beef in spicy coconut milk), Max and Leila had struck a mother lode of shared interests. Comedians they’d seen. Actors they admired. Plays they’d read. As Sylvie delivered the side dishes of rice and choy sum with oyster sauce, she realized she’d become a waitress in her own home.

They’d barely finished eating when Max said, “One of the clubs off Chapel Street has a late-night stand-up slot.” He checked his watch. “Starting in about half an hour.”

Sylvie knew it was up to her. If she insisted they stay, she’d feel guilty. She also knew it would take her a little while to prepare the dessert. Fresh fruit salad in cointreau, served with vanilla ice cream. She hadn’t cut up the fruit yet. She pulled a big smile from somewhere.

“What a fantastic idea,” she said. “It was only going to be fruit for dessert. We could eat an apple each on the way.”

Max and Leila laughed uproariously. She realized she was about five glasses of wine behind them.

Within minutes of arriving at the comedy club, she knew she should have stayed home. In years to come, if she ever met Max and Leila’s children, she would be able to tell them she was there the night they met and could report it had practically been love at first sight. They hadn’t just hit it off. They’d slammed it off. There was so much electricity zipping back and forth between them Sylvie expected her hair to stand on end.

Neither of them seemed concerned when she made a show of looking at her watch at twelve thirty. “Do you mind if I head off?”

“Of course not.”

“You must be exhausted after all that cooking.”

“Thanks for a great night, Sylvie.”

“Really great. Fantastic food.”

She wondered if they’d even noticed what they were eating.

Leila gave her a flamboyant two-cheek kiss good-bye. Max hugged her. He felt good, as she’d expected he would. Something was missing, though. The promise of something. Whatever had been between them was gone, transferred in Leila’s direction. She hadn’t mentioned his comment about Vincent Langan, or apologized for her reaction. There seemed no reason to, now. She suddenly felt stone cold sober. Not only that. Foolish and sad, as well.

They were both back engrossed in their conversation before she reached the exit.

***

The next morning Sylvie was woken by a knock at the door. She checked the bedside clock. Ten a.m. It was Leila. She looked like she’d been lit from inside. “I know it’s early, but I’m dying to talk. Can I come in?”

She was in and curled up on the sofa before Sylvie knew what had happened, like a cat on a wet winter evening.

“Sylvie, that was the best night ever. I have to thank you so much. Not only for dinner. But for—”

“Introducing you to Max?”

Leila put her arms around herself in a hug. “I’m in love, Sylvie. I swear it. It’s like we’ve known each other all our lives. He’s so funny. So sweet. I can’t believe I haven’t met him before. Thank God you came down. If it wasn’t for you, I—” Sylvie knew her expression had given her away when Leila suddenly clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, God. Oh, God. There wasn’t something between you, was there? And I’ve blundered in? Oh, Sylvie.”

“Of course not. I only just met him.” She was a better actress than Leila, she hoped. “That’s great you got on so well. So what did you get up to after I left?”

They’d stayed in the comedy club until it closed. Gone on to a late-night bar in the city center. He’d walked her home at five a.m.

“And you’re seeing him again?” Sylvie’s voice was studiedly casual.

“Tonight. We were thinking about going for a drink. Or I might give him a call and see if he wants to go and see some more comedy.” A too-long pause. “Would you like to come along?”

“No, I’m busy tonight, but thanks anyway.” A bright smile. “So, can I get you a coffee?”

***

The first two dares were done. She rang Sebastian with her report.

“I did enjoy my date with Max, thank you very much. The dinner party was pretty much a disaster, unfortunately. But I’m pleased to tell you your informal matchmaking plans worked a treat.”

“You and Max got together? Excellent!”

“Not me and Max. Max and Leila.”

“Max and
Leila
? Bloody hell.”

Sylvie had to laugh at the surprise in his voice. “They’ve got a lot in common. Comedy, theater . . .”

“I’m still surprised. I thought Leila would be too daft for Max. Shows how much I know.”

“She told me she’s in love.”

“Leila falls in love every second week. Well, good luck to them, but I still think you were the better match. And you haven’t finished the dares, by the way. Check the form. I want you to do one more for me.”

“Swim the length of the Yarra in a duck costume?”

“A little easier than that. I can’t make dinner with Dad after all. I need you to go in my place.”

“Very funny.” Her heart started beating faster.

“Please, Sylvie. It would be bad manners if he turned up and I wasn’t there.”

“Can’t you ring and tell him you can’t make it?”

“I think it’s a good opportunity for you to meet him. And I want you to meet him.”

“More matchmaking? It hasn’t worked out so far.” She hoped to deflect him with a joke. She also hoped he couldn’t hear the note of panic in her voice.

“He’s your father, Sylvie. He’s not getting any younger. All I’m asking is you have dinner with him. In return for letting you stay in my house rent-free. And yes, I know that’s blackmail.”

“It’s not blackmail, it’s bullying.”

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask me for his contact number. I didn’t want to force it on you. But not a word out of you about him. And I think it’s important.”

“He’s known I’m here, too. Have I had a message from him? An invitation to meet up? No.”

“Sylvie, he’s got a lot on his plate. Complicated things. It’s harder for him.”

She was surprised at her sudden anger. “And it’s easy for me?”

“Easier, yes. I think it is.” Silence for a moment. “Please, Sylvie. Just go. And I don’t think I should let him know it’s you instead of me. If it’s a surprise, he won’t get too anxious beforehand—”

“He’s had some sort of a breakdown? Is that what you’re hinting at?”

“No, he hasn’t had a breakdown. But all of this has been hard for him too. There’s pride involved. Guilt. Try and understand.”

“How can I understand him? I don’t know him.”

“So here’s your chance. A starting point. A nice meal in a good restaurant, a couple of glasses of wine. It might be the best way to do it.”

Sylvie stayed silent. She pictured it. Pictured herself arriving at the restaurant. Seeing her father across the room. Walking over to him . . . Her heart started thumping again.

“Sylvie? Yes, no or you’ll think about it?”

“I’ll think about it.”

***

Three times over the next few days she went to send an email to her father from Sebastian’s address canceling the dinner date. Three times she changed her mind. She distracted herself as best as possible. She visited the Art Gallery, Federation Square, the museums. She went on a walking tour through the city center’s laneways and back streets.

She spent hours thinking about Jill’s offer. She tried to picture herself in the role, meeting with potential clients, networking, interviewing staff. To get into the right mood, she changed into her most formal clothes: jacket, skirt, the dreaded work shoes. She put on her pearl earrings. Makeup. She sat in front of the mirror.

“Good morning. My name is Sylvie Devereaux. I’m the manager of the newly established Melbourne branch of Executive Stress Relief, the fastest growing recruitment agency in Australia. How may I help you?”