Odd One Out

by Monica McInerney

  Fifteen minutes later, Sylvie got a phone call. It was the agency.

  “We’ve had a complaint, Sylvie. I’m surprised, because your references from Sydney were so excellent.”

  “What kind of complaint?”

  “You apparently have an attitude problem.”

  “I do?”

  “Our client said you were insolent and showed a lack of respect. She also reminded me, as I’ll also tell you, that they are one of our best customers.”

  There was no point going into it then. “I’m sorry,” Sylvie said. “I certainly didn’t mean to be insolent.”

  “Work through to lunchtime, would you? I’ll send another temp in this afternoon.”

  “You’re taking me off the job?”

  “She’s asked us to. Demanded it.”

  “That’s fine,” Sylvie said calmly, outwardly professional, inwardly swearing. “I’ll keep working in the meantime.”

  She got through almost a box of files by eleven thirty, before she realized she needed a coffee and a bathroom. The woman hadn’t shown her where either was. Sylvie made her way down the corridor, peering into the offices. There was little chat, just heads down working. She found the woman at the end of the building, standing by the coffee machine.

  “You’re still here?” Not a hello, not a “Can I help you?”

  “Just until lunchtime,” Sylvie said, trying to keep her voice and expression pleasant. “I needed a coffee. Can I please help myself?”

  The woman stepped to one side, still blocking the cups. “Five-minute break, maximum.”

  Sylvie made a coffee, pressing the buttons, watching the dart of instant coffee arrive in the cup. She thought of all the temp jobs she’d had, all the other temps she’d met, the different experiences of the job that she’d heard about. She remembered how well treated and respected she was by the Executive Stress Relief clients. As the other woman threw her empty cup into the bin and turned to leave, Sylvie seized her moment.

  “Excuse me?”

  The woman stopped.

  “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I think you might be the one with the attitude problem here.”

  “What?”

  “Temps are human beings too. Not robots. I wasn’t being insolent, I was asking to be treated with some respect and—”

  “That’s enough. Your five-minute break is up. I hope you don’t mind me saying.” The last was delivered in a sarcastic tone.

  Sylvie was barely back in her cubicle when she got another phone call from the agency.

  “She’s asked for you to be removed now. We’ve got your replacement coming in urgently. We’ll have to take you off our books, Sylvie. We can’t have a loose cannon working for us.”

  A loose cannon? Her? It felt like the biggest compliment she’d ever been paid. “I understand completely,” she said.

  Her bravado had faded by the time she walked home. Her shoes were pinching. Her shirt was sticking to her back. It was an unseasonably warm day. It didn’t bode well for her future here in Melbourne if she was sacked from her first job.

  The phone in the hallway was ringing as she let herself in. “Sebastian’s house.”

  “Sylvie, I didn’t expect to get you. I have another tip for you. Do you have paper and a pen?”

  “Of course, Mill.” She reached into her bag for a notebook. “Ready when you are.”

  “You sound quite flat. Not yourself at all. What’s wrong? Has something happened?”

  “It has, yes.” Sylvie was surprised to hear herself say it. “Just something silly.”

  “It’s the silly things that are often the most upsetting, in my experience. Tell me. I’ve been on my own in the house all day. I could do with a story.”

  Sylvie told Mill everything that had happened in the insurance office. “I keep wishing I’d said something else to her. Told the agency what she was like. I shouldn’t have let her get away with it.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have,” Mill said. “You should have set fire to all her files before you left.”

  Sylvie laughed. “Exactly. And then wiped out the computer program.”

  “Yes. Then dialed the speaking clock in China on the office phone. Put a prawn inside her curtain rod. Let down her tires. Offered her some laxative chocolates. Sprinkled itching powder in her hair.”

  “They’re not more of your handy household hints, are they?”

  Mill laughed enthusiastically. “No, but wouldn’t it be fun to try them one day? I’m glad you’re out of there, Sylvie. That woman sounds like a horrible stinking old bitch.”

  “Mill!”

  “Well, she does. I can’t abide bullying behavior. People trying to put others in their place. It’s a sign of insecurity, you know. Something similar happened to me when I was your age. This particular gentleman used to turn up his nose at me when I would attend recitals with Vincent. “I don’t know what he’s doing out socially with his housekeeper,” he said to me once. Looked down his nose. It’s an apt expression, that one. So I lifted my chin one night and said, “I’m sensational in bed, as it happens.” That shut him up. Though of course it went around like wildfire that I wasn’t a housekeeper but some kind of a prostitute. Vincent thought it was hilarious. Would tell people he’d bought me on hire purchase.” She went off into peals of laughter.

  “Mill, have you been drinking?”

  “At this time of day, of course not. Cocktail hour is six p.m. Why do you young people assume we never had sex in our day? Surry Hills was as much a hotbed back then as it is now. Vincent was quite adventurous too, you know. He loved it when I—”

  “Mill, please.”

  “Oh, how marvelous. George has pulled up outside. He said he’d try and drop by today, even for a few minutes. He’s doing wonders. Quite transforming the garden. Once you and I get started on the inside it’ll be a whole new place. Did I give you today’s tip, by the way?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Cold cream. It’s all a woman needs for her skin. That and a hat to keep the sun off. Speak to you soon, Sylvie.”

  “Thanks, Mill—” It was too late. She’d already hung up.

  Sylvie made a cup of tea, thought about it for a little while, and then rang the woman at the temp agency. She told her exactly what had happened with the client that morning. She spoke calmly and authoritatively. The woman listened, asked several questions and then apologized. She hadn’t realized the client was treating staff like that, she said. She asked if Sylvie wanted to stay on their books. Thank you, but no, Sylvie said.

  Someone had tried to call while she was talking to the agency. She pressed play on the answering machine. A familiar voice filled the hallway.

  “Sylvie, it’s Jill from Executive Stress Relief in Sydney calling. It’s short notice, I know, but would you be free to meet me for lunch on Monday?” A soft laugh. “In Melbourne, of course. I’m going to be down there for a couple of days. I’d love to meet up.” Brisk and to the point, as she always was.

  Sylvie called back immediately. Jill had just gone into a meeting. Sylvie spoke to her assistant. Arrangements were made to meet at a French bistro at Southgate. Perfect. She couldn’t wait. And the irony was if she hadn’t been sacked from her first temp job in Melbourne, she wouldn’t have been free to meet Jill.

  She took off her horrible work pumps and did a stockinged-foot slide across the floor in celebration.

  ***

  That night Sylvie spent an hour on Sebastian’s computer, researching tips for successful dinner parties. Hers was all organized for the following Saturday. She’d rung and invited Max and Donald as well. They’d both accepted.

  She’d decided on an Asian banquet. Several different starters and main courses, a symphony of taste sensations, according to the recipe books she’d consulted. She decided against a practice run. She knew how to c
ook, after all. And cooking with exotic ingredients was the same as cooking with ordinary ingredients. A matter of following steps, being organized, getting the timing right.

  There were plenty of helpful websites. Sylvie soon had a list of tips on table settings, cocktails and serving etiquette, as well as possible witty conversation topics and after-dinner word games. She was about to log off when a bright sound heralded the arrival of an email. She clicked on it without thinking.

  From: LaurenceDevereaux@hotmail.com

  To: SebastianDevereaux@yahoo.com

  Re: Dinner?

  Seb, dinner Friday fortnight? Booking made. Will see you there unless I hear back to the contrary. Dad

  She read it four times. At this exact moment, somewhere in Melbourne, her father was sitting at his computer. If she wanted to, she could write back immediately. Hi Dad, it’s your daughter Sylvie. Long time no hear!

  She was tempted, for one moment. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. Then she disconnected and closed the computer down. She sent Sebastian a text telling him about the email, and apologizing for opening it. That was all she needed to do with it.

  Chapter Eight

  “You’re doing wonders for my social life, Sylvie,” Max said. “Two nights out and an invitation to a dinner party. You’re spoiling me.”

  They were in the Spanish bar together again. Outside, the weather had turned bad, rain pelting down, the gutters rushing with water. Inside it was warm and cozy, the lights low, the background guitar music swirling around them. There were tapas plates and a nearly empty bottle of wine in front of them. The room was almost full, end of the week chatter all around.

  “You have Sebastian to thank, really,” she said. “His dares, at least.”

  “Am I that scary? That he had to dare you to ask me out?”

  “Very scary.”

  “How fantastic. I’ve been striking fear into the hearts of people without being aware of it. Was it my latent masculinity? My powerful voice? My manly aura?”

  “All those things, definitely.”

  “Are you still scared?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “So this is actually a date, not a drink? And I arrived here so innocently.”

  “Not really.” Embarrassed, she backtracked. “It was a dare to ask someone out on a date. Not you, specifically.” That sounded even worse. “I didn’t know anyone else to ask.” Worse still.

  Max didn’t seem hurt. “I’m happy for you to practice on me. As long as I’m not ruining your chances with someone else. You haven’t left anyone pining in Sydney?”

  “You can’t hear that howling? All the forlorn boyfriends I’ve left behind?” She shook her head. “No, there’s no one in Sydney.” A pause. “And you?”

  “No one in Sydney for me either. Or in Melbourne. Or in Adelaide, Perth, Hobart, Canberra, Brisbane or Darwin. There was a brief flirtation with someone in Wagga Wagga, or was it Coolangatta? Alas, it didn’t work out between us. I’m footloose and fancy-free. No, to be accurate, footloose, fancy-free and scary.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but you’re really not scary at all.”

  “I’m not? Good.” He smiled across the table at her.

  Four hours later he was sitting close beside her, speaking into her ear. They were in a small jazz and blues club he liked, off Chapel Street in Prahran. The music was so loud it was the only way they could make themselves heard. She’d been telling him about Aunt Mill’s phone calls.

  “Are you actually keeping a record of these handy household hints?”

  “I am, though I don’t know what I’ll do with them.” She’d told Max the ones she remembered. He said he was definitely going to try the linen and denture tablets tip.

  “Mill’s the one who asked you to be her companion?” he asked.

  Sebastian had obviously told him everything. She nodded. “She was housekeeper to this musician, Vincent Langan, and when he died he left—”

  “Vincent Langan?” Max’s shout coincided with the end of a song. Several people turned around. “The jazz composer?”

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “Of course I’ve heard of him. He was an absolute legend in the Sydney jazz scene in the fifties. Incredible. Completely underrated since. Did you actually know him?”

  “I only met him once. At a family gathering.”

  “Oh, God. I wouldn’t have minded meeting him at a funeral. An abattoir open day. He didn’t play anything that day, did he? Talk about his music?”

  Sylvie shook her head.

  Max made an elaborate show of touching her hand. “I can’t believe it. It’s like that song, I danced with the girl who danced with the man who danced with the Prince of Wales.” He laughed. “Or however it goes. Wait till I tell my friends I’ve spent the evening with the woman whose great-aunt was the housekeeper to Vincent Langan.”

  He was half joking, Sylvie knew, but she suddenly sobered up. It was David all over again. Liked for her family, not for herself. She stood up. “Max, I’m really sorry, but I need to head home. Can I get you a drink before I go?”

  “Just like that? Are you okay?”

  “A bad headache,” she lied. “And toothache.”

  “Headache and toothache? Together?”

  It did sound suspicious. “I’m prone to them unfortunately.”

  “What did I say, Sylvie? I’ve upset you somehow.”

  “Nothing. It’s just a toothache. And headache.”

  “Let me walk you home.”

  “It’s raining. I’ll get a taxi.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure.” She saw his expression change. He’d picked up every signal she was hurling at him. She was saying “back away” and he was backing away. She felt a shimmer of regret. More than that. All evening she’d been finding him more and more attractive.

  He became businesslike too. “If you feel like calling off the dinner party, if your toothache is too bad—”

  She’d forgotten all about the dinner party. She’d see that dare through, then the fun and games were over. “Of course not,” she said, hating the false tone in her voice. “I’ll be fine once I get some painkillers. I’ll see you next Saturday.”

  “It was a great night tonight. Thanks a lot. I hope you feel better soon.”

  “Thanks. See you.”

  Ten minutes later, as she sat in the back of the taxi, rain pelting against the windows, she waited for the feeling of certainty to arrive, the knowledge that she’d made the right decision leaving when she did. That she’d been right to stand up for herself. Right not to let what happened with David happen again with Max.

  The certainty didn’t arrive. All that did was a sinking feeling she’d just spoiled something good.

  ***

  It was a relief on Monday to be sitting with her old boss Jill over lunch. Familiar, businesslike. All that was different was they were in Melbourne, with the Yarra in the background instead of Sydney Harbor. Jill always ate in waterside restaurants. She told Sylvie the food tasted better.

  Jill laughed as Sylvie told her of her first Melbourne temp experience.

  “That will teach you to punch beneath your weight. What are you doing wasting your talents on data entry? You could have been running a place like that.”

  “It’s a deliberate approach. My slow takeover of Melbourne’s office scene. Start at the bottom and work my way up.”

  “Or you could start at the top.”

  “Sorry?”

  “You know I’m not one to mince my words, Sylvie. I’m not here on holiday. I’m here for business and to see you. Which is also business.”

  Sylvie waited.

  “An opportunity has come up for us to buy out an existing recruitment agency here. I want to start a Melbourne branch of Executive Stress Relief
. Same principles, same philosophy, on a small scale to begin with. A sub-branch of the main recruitment business, if you like, targeting high-level clients. You know how it works. I want you to think about taking it on for me.”

  “Managing it?”

  “From day one. It would be your project.” Jill named an excellent salary. She mentioned a car. Rental assistance. An expense account.

  “But why me?”

  “You’re the best person for the job. You’ve already proven yourself workwise, many times over. You also showed get up and go, moving down here the way you did.”

  If only Jill knew. Sylvie kept her mouth shut.

  “Will you think about it?” Jill said. “I need an answer by the end of next week.”

  “I’ll definitely think about it.”

  Jill held up her glass. “To our business partnership?”

  “To our business partnership,” Sylvie echoed.

  Chapter Nine

  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.