Odd One Out

by Monica McInerney

  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?”

  “Good afternoon. Thank you for coming to this presentation by Executive Stress Relief. My name is Sylvie Devereaux, manager of the Melbourne office, and I’m here to take the stress out of your staffing issues.”

  “Thank you so much for our meeting, Mr. Businessman. On behalf of Executive Stress Relief, I assure you I will do my utmost to provide you with professional and efficient staff-related services. Yes, despite our racy business name. And yes, I do insist you take your hand off my leg.”

  She pulled a face into the mirror. “For a good time, call Sylvie at Executive Stress Relief. Discretion assured.” Sebastian was right. It was a stupid name for a company.

  She rang her mother. They talked about her painting, about the retreat, about Ray. Fidelma reported that Vanessa and Cleo had both decided to extend their holidays. Sylvie said she was enjoying Melbourne very much. She left it at that. She didn’t mention her father or the job offer.

  She had two messages from Max and Leila, inviting her to join them for dinner. Another night in a comedy club. She turned them down each time. Cupid didn’t hang around after he shot his arrows either, did he? It was easier to think that than to give in to uncomfortable feelings of jealousy and disappointment.

  The day before the dinner, she spent five minutes staring at her father’s photograph. Was it too late? What would she say? What would he say? There was only one way to find out.

  She texted Sebastian. Will meet Dad.

  A one-word reply. Good.

  ***

  Mill rang the afternoon of the dinner.

  “Two quick tips, Sylvie. Coffee grounds make an excellent fertilizer for indoor plants. And a few drops of lemon juice will shine your shoes if you’re out of polish. Now, tell me what’s been happening with you in Melbourne.”

  Sylvie told her about the dinner party, about the food, about Donald having to leave. She also told her about Max and Leila. About Sebastian’s matchmaking plans going awry.

  “Good on you for trying something adventurous with the cooking,” Mill said. “I used to love entertaining too. Vincent’s friends would come over at the drop of a hat. Starving, usually. They’d eat for hours, then play for hours. The nights we had, I can’t tell you. As for the business with the young man, perhaps it wasn’t your turn with him. People go through seasons, I think. Like dogs. Perhaps your female friend and your male friend were in the right season for each other. That’s the way it works sometimes. Another time, you and he might have been in the right season together.”

  Sylvi
e laughed. Mill’s words helped, in a strange way. “Have you ever thought about writing an agony aunt column?”

  “No, who’d listen to me? You just need to accept it and move on, Sylvie. What else can you do, try and split them up? Get him back? Too late for that. Let it run its course. If he was meant for you, he’ll find a way back. Now, what else is going on?”

  Sylvie said it before she realized. “I’m having dinner with my father tonight.”

  “Heavens above. Does your mother know?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t tell her, for God’s sake. She’ll have kittens.”

  Sylvie nearly laughed again. Her great-aunt had a way of defusing situations without realizing. “Mill, did you know him?”

  “I met him a few times. And I was at their wedding, of course. What a grand affair that was.”

  “What was he like back then?”

  “Handsome. Talented. Absolutely mad about your mother in the early days.”

  “Why did it go so wrong between them?”

  “There were rumors, but whoever knows what goes on between two people.”

  Sylvie didn’t want discretion. “What did you hear?”

  Mill was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know what was gossip and what was truth. I heard talk of money worries. And Fidelma’s a handful, of course. She always was, even as a child. An artist, you see. They’re difficult. You should know, you’ve lived and worked with four of them, five, counting your father I suppose. I don’t like those sisters of yours, by the way. Very stuck-up. Talented, yes. But extremely unlikeable.”

  “They’re artists. They behave differently. It comes with the territory. I know because I’m not artistic. I’m the boring one of the family. The square peg.”