Also by Monica McInerney
Hello from the Gillespies
The House of Memories
Lola’s Secret
At Home with the Templetons
Greetings from Somewhere Else
Upside Down Inside Out
The Faraday Girls
Family Baggage
The Alphabet Sisters
Odd One Out
Monica McInerney
InterMix Books, New York
INTERMIX BOOKS
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ODD ONE OUT
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PUBLISHING HISTORY
Penguin Group (U.K. and Australia) paperback edition / 2006
InterMix eBook edition / October 2014
Copyright © 2006 by Monica McInerney.
Excerpt from Hello from the Gillespies copyright © 2014 by Monica McInerney.
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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-19703-9
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Version_1
Contents
Also by Monica McInerney
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Epilogue
Preview of Hello from the Gillespies
About the Author
Chapter One
Though Sylvie Devereaux didn’t realize it at the time, her life began to change at exactly five minutes past seven on the evening of her sister Vanessa’s second wedding.
The instigator was her Great-Aunt Mill. “Mill-as-in-short-for-Millicent,” as she always introduced herself. Great-Aunt Foot-in-Mouth, the rest of the family privately called her.
It had been a hectic day for the Devereaux family. As the Sydney society pages would report the following morning: Two artistic dynasties came together yesterday with the union of fashion designer Vanessa Devereaux and actor Jared Rowe. A who’s who of the Sydney art scene was in attendance, including the bride’s mother, the celebrated artist Fidelma Devereaux, the bride’s sister and bridesmaid, jewelry designer Cleo Devereaux, and her brother Sebastian Devereaux, winner of this year’s Green Room Award for outstanding achievement in lighting design. Vanessa, a rising star in the Sydney fashion scene, designed her own dress, a daring and colorful interpretation of the classic Grecian shift style . . . There would be no mention of Sylvie.
The reception was taking place in the city’s most talked about harborside restaurant. Dinner was served by waiters who looked like models. Rock oysters to begin. Pan-fried sole with truffle shavings and porcini mushrooms on a bed of baby spinach for main course. A concoction of summer berries in an amusement of toffee for dessert.
Sitting one row away from the main bridal table, Sylvie was catching her breath. She’d been on the run all day. Checking details with the celebrant, the photographer, the caterer, the musicians. Fetching the flowers. Returning the flowers when Vanessa wasn’t happy with them. Moving furniture in the hotel suite at Vanessa’s insistence. Moving it back at the photographer’s insistence. Driving to the family home to fetch a handbag her mother had left behind. Stopping on the way at her mother and sisters’ studio to collect a necklace Cleo had forgotten. Going back to the studio and the house again for more handbags and necklaces when they changed their minds. Keeping everyone fed and hydrated, dialing room service so many times she was on first-name terms with the receptionist.
She’d had fifteen minutes to race home again, do her own makeup and try to style her short curly hair. One minute to lament her ordinary brown eyes and freckled skin, so different from her sisters’ blue-eyed classic features. Five minutes to change into her wedding outfit. A normal outfit, not a bridesmaid’s dress. Vanessa had asked Cleo to be bridesmaid, again. “It’s good for both our profiles, Sylvie. You understand,” Vanessa said. Sylvie said that of course she did, and hoped her smile hid her hurt. She’d secretly hoped this time it was her turn. Or that Vanessa would have two bridesmaids. When she tentatively suggested this, Vanessa explained it was more fashionable these days to have one.
In her room, Sylvie thought her outfit looked lovely, a green silk dress and matching jacket, green high-heeled shoes and glass earrings. At only five foot two, she’d learned to avoid complicated patterns or fussy designs. “You’ve come as an elf, how sweet,” was all Cleo said. Her mother was too busy directing the hairdresser to pin up her long hair in a particular way to notice Sylvie’s outfit. She just gave her a vague wave and said she looked charming. She’d said the same thing about Sylvie’s working clothes of jeans and T-shirt that morning. Vanessa didn’t say anything. She was too busy posing for photographs. Sylvie’s only hope for a compliment was from her big brother, Sebastian, her closest ally in the family. As a child, Sylvie had secretly thought of him as her separated twin, cheerfully ignoring the seven-year age difference. They were very alike in appearance even now. Unfortunately, his flight from Melbourne had been delayed so many times it looked like the most he’d see of the wedding was the cutting of the cake.
He finally arrived at the reception at seven p.m. Sylvie’s spirits lifted as he came through the garlanded door. Although they’d spoken on the phone now and again, it was the first time they’d seen each other in ten months. He was out of his normal jeans and casual shirts, dressed in a dark-blue suit, a red tie, his unruly hair tamed into a more sober style than usual. Short for a man, only five foot six, he was often mistaken for a mid-twenties student, not the thirty-six-year-old success story he was. “It’s my boyish charm, not my height,” he always said.
Sylvie had heard Vanessa on the phone, unsubtly telling him he needed to dress up for the occa
sion. “A lot of my clients will be here, Sebastian. I want to make the right impression. Not like last time.” He’d come straight from a country film set to her first wedding, dirt still on his shoes. She hadn’t spoken to him for weeks. “I can see her point,” he’d said to Sylvie. “It’s my fault the marriage failed. If I’d worn a suit they’d be celebrating their fifth anniversary about now.” When he’d heard the decorative theme of this wedding was water, he’d told Sylvie he was thinking about coming in a wetsuit.
Sylvie was waving to get his attention when she heard her name being called. Shouted, in fact. It was Great-Aunt Mill, across the room at the elderly-members-of-the-family table. In her early seventies, short and plump, she was dressed in a red dress with a wide cream collar. She had pinned her white hair into a lopsided bun, adding a jaunty red bow to the back. The whole effect was unfortunately like a giant jelly cake.
Sylvie excused herself to her neighbor (an old school friend of Vanessa’s who’d spent the past hour talking about his stock portfolio) and made her way through the round, beautifully decorated tables. Each blue and white flower arrangement had cost more than Sylvie’s dress. She’d barely sat down before Great-Aunt Mill took her hand.
“You’re not to worry, little Sylvie.”
“About what, Aunt Mill?”
“About being left on the shelf.”
“But I’m not worried.”
“Of course you are. Any girl would be on a day like today. You’re probably thinking, ‘It’s not fair. One of my sisters is long married, the other has been married twice. That’s our family’s share of weddings all used up.’ Unless Sebastian surprises us, of course, but they don’t tend to marry, his sort of people, do they? They’re not allowed to, are they? We all guessed even when he was a young boy, you know. Always putting on those little plays and asking for dance lessons. Is he here yet? I haven’t seen him. But it’s not him I’m concerned about, it’s you. ‘I’ve missed out,’ you’re thinking. ‘I’m going to be single for life.’”
“I wasn’t, really.”
Mill patted Sylvie’s hand. “It can be hard being the youngest one, I know. My youngest sister, Letitia, that’s your other great-aunt, was never happy. Couldn’t seem to find her place in the world. You look like her, you know. Small. That same springy hair. Same big smile too. You might be taking after her in life, as well. Not that she lived long. Died aged twenty-four, God rest her soul. Measles. Or was it chicken pox? Something spotty anyway.”
“I’m nearly out of my twenties, Mill. I should be okay. And I’m fit as a fiddle.”
“Of course you are. Anyone can see that. You’ve got your grandfather’s farming genes in you. Fine agricultural bloodstock. Strong and sturdy, like a little ox.” Aunt Mill leaned in close enough for Sylvie to get a quick blast of sherry-scented breath. “Which is why I have a proposition for you.”
“To sell me as breeding stock?”
Aunt Mill gave a burst of laughter. “How funny. Now, you’ve been working around Sydney as a pimp for the past few years, your mother tells me.”
“A temp, Mill.”
“A tip? What about?”
“Temp. I’m a temp. It’s short for temporary secretary.”
“Nothing to be ashamed about. It can’t be easy to find permanent work these days. And not everyone gets given a special talent like your mother did. And your sisters. And your brother. Your father too, though I probably shouldn’t mention him on a happy day like today. He’s not here, I suppose? No, of course he isn’t. As I was saying, the rest of us are the worker bees. I was a housekeeper all my life, as you know, and it never did me any harm. Where is it you said you’re working?”
Sylvie was tempted to say a side street in Kings Cross. “I’m working back at the studio again, with Mum and Vanessa and Cleo. Doing their admin.” They’d called her in a panic six months previously, when their regular PA walked out in a huff on the eve of an exhibition opening. Sylvie had been there since. Apart from answering the phone, typing letters, sending orders, updating databases and doing filing, she also ran errands, booked restaurants, sent flowers and kept an eye on their supplies of herbal tea, spring water, rice cakes, pecans, blueberries, vitamin tablets and eye gel.
“A family affair. Oh, good, so you’ve had some experience.”
“Of what?”
“Working for family.”
The squeal of the microphone interrupted. The speeches were due to start. Sylvie was about to whisper to Mill that she might like to turn her chair around when the old woman put her hand on her arm and gave it a surprisingly tight squeeze. “I’ve been watching you all day. Busy as a bee. Grace under pressure. I do believe you’re the perfect candidate.”
“I am? For what?”
The best man clinked his glass. The room fell silent. All eyes were turned toward the top table. Which meant that all ninety-five people in the room, including Sylvie’s mother, her mother’s boyfriend, her three siblings, two brothers-in-law, five well-known Sydney artists, two critics, three gallery owners and sixty members of the Devereaux family’s social circle not only clearly heard but also saw Great-Aunt Mill lean over and shout her idea.
“I’m offering you a job as my companion, Sylvie. We can be two old maids together.”
Chapter Two
“So did you accept? It’s certainly the offer of a lifetime.”
“I gracefully declined but I said you’d be more than happy to take up the position.”
Sebastian laughed. “Poor Sylvie. You should have seen your face.”
“I didn’t need to see it. I could feel it. And I could see everyone else’s faces. Hear them laughing.”
“Not all of them.”
“Don’t try and gloss over it, Seb. Everyone heard. Everyone in the room. Everyone in Sydney.”
“Only the inner suburbs. Spin, Sylvie.”
She obeyed, executing a graceful turn. Sebastian had appeared out of nowhere on to the dance floor one song previously, rescuing her from the overly sweaty hands of her dinner partner. “Excuse me cutting in. I haven’t seen my little sister all night.”
“So where is this pad of yours and Mill’s?”
“Mum didn’t tell you? Her old boss Vincent left her his house, contents and all. It’s a two-story terrace in Surry Hills. She moved in last month.”
Sebastian gave a low whistle. “That’s what I call being a housekeeper. Get it, Sylvie? Housekeeper, keeper of the house?”
“Got it, Seb.”
Sylvie had only met Vincent once, when Great-Aunt Mill brought him to a family gathering. A beetle-browed, slightly stooped man, he had glowered at them all for an hour and then left in a taxi. He’d once been a well-known musician and composer, apparently. Jazz, Sylvie thought. Or was it blues? He’d died of a heart attack several months earlier. Mill had rung and told the family about his death, and her inheritance, sounding surprisingly chipper, Fidelma reported. “No wonder,” Vanessa had said sniffily. “Those terrace houses are worth a fortune. I’d be sounding quite chipper myself.”
“She must have been more than his cook and cleaner all those years,” Cleo had said, disgusted. “I think it’s appalling.”
“At least you got your embarrassing Mill moment out of the way early,” Sebastian said as they finished a complicated move. “Now you can relax. Enjoy yourself.”
“Knowing everyone thinks I’m an old maid?”
“They heard your batty old relative ask you a batty old question. They didn’t see you fall on your knees in gratitude and accept. That would have been truly embarrassing. For me, at least. Not to mention the rest of your family.”
Their next turn around the dance floor gave Sylvie the perfect view of the rest of her family. Her mother was holding court at the head table. Fidelma had switched seamlessly from her earlier modest mother-of-the-bride role back to Fidelma Devereaux the famous artist, all dramati
c gestures and fluttering eyelashes. Sylvie could almost hear her trying to find the exact word to describe a color or idea she hoped to express in her work. Beside Fidelma was her latest boyfriend, Ray, a not-so-successful artist, poised like a gundog, ready as always to fetch Fidelma a drink, a cigarette, a more comfortable chair.
Vanessa and her new husband were waltzing cheek-to-cheek five couples away. Vanessa’s azure blue dress caught the light, with its shimmers, sparkles and elegant lines. Her long blonde hair was a beautiful contrast against it. The photographer was trailing behind them, taking action shots.
Her other sister Cleo and her lawyer husband were standing by the bar. Cleo had her hand extended showing a dramatic ring to its greatest advantage. She was her own best advertisement, her handcrafted silver jewelry adorning her fingers, wrist and neck, several glittering hairpins in her blonde curls. Sylvie had already heard her make two appointments to discuss future orders.
“Dip, Sylvie.”
She dipped. Sebastian had taught her to dance when she was a child, just a few months before he and their father left the family home and moved to Melbourne. He’d made a point of giving her refresher lessons every year when he came to Sydney to stay, hearing all her news at the same time. There was plenty to catch up on today. He’d had the busiest year of his career, designing the lighting for three films and two plays. Even this trip was a brief one. He was going back to Melbourne early the next day.
The music changed from the fast salsa beat to a waltz. “Here’s our chance,” he said. “Music to talk by. Before we start, Dad says hello, by the way.”
“Does he?”
“Don’t be like that.”
“Like what?”
“You’ve gone stiff as a board. Not good for our dancing style.”
“Please say hello back to him.”
“Such warmth and enthusiasm.”
“It’s hard to think of anything else to say to him.” Sylvie didn’t understand these new attempts by Sebastian to pass on messages from their long-estranged father. She actually wondered whether they were coming from their father at all. “It’s different for us, Seb. Harder.”
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