‘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 towards 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.’
2
‘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 onto 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? Mill’s old boss Vincent left her his house, contents and all. It’s a two-storey 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 dramatic gestures and fluttering eyelashes. Sylvie could almost hear her trying to find the exact word to describe a colour or idea she hoped to express in her work. Beside Fidelma was her latest boyfriend, Ray, a not-so-successful artist, poised like a gun dog, ready as always to fetch Fidelma a drink, a cigarette or 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 jewellery 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.’
‘Of course it is. You poor things. I forget.’
‘Don’t be cross.’
‘I’m not cross. Really. Let’s talk about you instead. I want a full update.’
‘You first. I haven’t seen you in months.’
‘In a nutshell? Work, great. House, great. Social life, great. Your turn.’
‘Social life great? You’ve met someone?’
‘I’m not here to talk about me.’
‘You have! Who is he? Where?’
‘Someone. In Melbourne.’
‘You can’t leave it at that.’
‘I’m older than you. I can do as I please. Your turn. Start with work. Please tell me you’re not still at Union Street.’ It was the family’s shorthand name for the studio, a converted warehouse in the east inner city. Fidelma, Vanessa and Cleo had recently started calling it Avalon. The name had come to Fidelma in a dream.
‘I’m still at Union Street.’
‘You promised me you were going to leave. Work anywhere but there.’
‘I did leave. Then I came back.’ She read his expression. ‘I had to, Seb. They needed me. Mum rang me in an absolute panic.’
‘Which is why you’re back living at home too?’
Back in the family house at Rushcutters Bay, back in her old bedroom. She was even sleeping in her old bed.
‘I know I said I’d never go back, but my flatmate was moving to Brisbane and when Mum rang …’
‘And said that it was all over between her and Ray yet again and she couldn’t bear another night in the house on her own, you couldn’t say no?’
‘It wasn’t like that.’ It had been exactly like that.
‘And friends? Or have you cast them out of your life as well?’
‘I’ve plenty of friends,’ she said, stung. It was true. She had friends from the arts course she’d started at Sydney University as a nineteen-year-old, ten years ago now. People she’d met in student jobs in wine bars and coffee shops. Other temps from the executive agency she’d been with for six years. Everyone was so busy these days, though, getting married or starting to have babies. Settling down. She was the only single one among her group these d
ays.
‘So your love life is hectic and fulfilling too?’
She was glad the dance steps meant she could avoid eye contact for a moment. Her love life was like the Sahara. ‘Nothing since David.’
‘Evil David? That was months ago. No one since? Have you been out with anyone? Asked friends to set you up? Advertised your wares?’
‘No, no, no and no. And if I ever asked you those questions you’d tell me to mind my own business.’
‘True. Spin.’ They spun. ‘Have you had a break since I saw you last? One of those old-fashioned things called a holiday?’
‘No,’ she said simply.
‘Sylvie, go to the kitchen and get two spoons, would you?’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve arrived in the nick of time. Things are worse for you than I thought. We’re going to dig you a tunnel out of here, through the dance floor. I’m thinking The Great Escape. Or am I thinking Chicken Run? Whichever it is, you need freedom. A new start. Liberty and justice.’
‘You’re quoting from a play now, aren’t you?’
He grinned. ‘Just the liberty and justice line, yes. I blame myself. I’ve neglected you this year.’
‘You haven’t. And I don’t need rescuing. I like being busy.’
‘You’ve gone beyond busy. I can see it just looking at you. You’ve got “I am stressed” written in block letters on your forehead.’
She rubbed at her forehead without thinking. ‘We’ve had a lot on this year. Three exhibitions. Cleo’s new line of jewellery. Vanessa’s export orders.’
‘So presumably they haven’t had holidays either?’
Fidelma had been away to her house on the coast most weekends the past year. Cleo had been to Paris twice. Vanessa had been to Vietnam and Hong Kong. In search of inspiration, they’d said each time.
‘You don’t have to answer, I can see it on your face,’ he said. ‘And you kept the home fires burning each time? The office lights ablaze?’
‘There was a lot to do, Seb. And I wanted to do it properly.’
‘And are they paying you properly?’
‘As much as they can. Most of the profits go straight back into the business.’
‘Straight back into their holiday funds, you mean. Sylvie, why do you keep falling for this? Any time you try to get away, Mum reels you back in. As for Heckle and Jeckle —’
She secretly loved it when Sebastian called Vanessa and Cleo by their childhood nicknames. Especially when he did it to their faces.
He wasn’t laughing. ‘I’m serious, Sylvie. They’re not good to you or for you. You have to get away from them.’ He led her skilfully in a sudden complicated dance move. ‘I couldn’t do it when you were a kid, but I can do it now. I’m airlifting you out of here. Kidnapping you. You’re coming to live in Melbourne with me.’
‘Really? Great. Let me go and get my bag.’
‘It’s not a joke. I mean it.’
‘You’re mad. I can’t move to Melbourne, Seb. I’ve got work here. A life here.’
‘What life? Back living at home, at Mum’s beck and call? And you haven’t got work, you’ve got penal servitude.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re not fine. I’ve been watching you since I got here. You’ve got that expression you used to have when you were little. This one.’ He demonstrated it. A worried, anxious expression.
He had it exactly right. It was like looking in a mirror. She forced a smile. ‘It’s a nice idea —’
‘A nice idea?’
‘A really nice idea. But I can’t just up and leave. Mum needs me here.’
‘Sylvie, can I be blunt? Ever hear that story “Cinderella”? The one about the little servant girl and her cruel family? You’re turning into her.’
‘I’m not. I don’t sit by the fire.’ She pointed her toes. ‘And I don’t have glass slippers.’
‘They treat you just as badly. Mum doesn’t mean to, I know. She’s self-centred, but she’s not malicious. Heckle and Jeckle are different. I can imagine them today – “Fetch this, do that”. Am I right?’
She knew her face gave her away. ‘Today was an unusual day.’
‘Why, because they noticed you? I’ve heard them talk to you like that whether it’s a wedding or not. They’re squashing you, Sylvie. They did it when you were little and they’re doing it now. You need to get away from them. Why are you putting up with it?’
‘I told you, I like being busy.’
‘There’s busy and there’s being a mouse on a wheel. I’m worried about you.’
‘Don’t be.’
‘Always have, always will. I’m serious about Melbourne, Sylvie. I’m also being selfish. I’m going away on a three-week shoot next month and I want a house-sitter. Someone to water my plants, keep my neighbours at bay. The person I’d lined up cancelled on me this week. I was about to advertise but now there’s no need. You’d be perfect. And you’d be doing me a huge favour.’
‘You’re making that up.’
‘I’m not making it up. I can show you the wording for the ad.’
‘But I can’t leave everyone here in the lurch.’
‘What lurch? Vanessa’s on honeymoon for the next month. Mum’s going to her beach house to paint.’ He refused to call it ‘the retreat’, as Fidelma did. ‘Cleo’s going on holiday as well, she told me. To Byron, I think. Or Palm Beach. Somewhere glamorous, anyway.’
‘She is?’ Cleo hadn’t mentioned anything to Sylvie about a holiday. ‘It’ll be a good time to catch up while everyone’s away, then,’ she said, finding a bright voice. ‘I’ve loads of filing to do. A new database to set up.’
‘Can I ask you a direct question?’
‘Your others weren’t direct?’
He ignored her sarcasm. ‘Are you happy, Sylvie? At work? At home? With life?’
‘Deliriously.’ To her dismay she felt a prickle of tears in her eyes. She blinked them away. ‘It’s the champagne. I’m fine. I’m absolutely fine.’
‘It’s not the champagne.’ He drew her to the side of the dance floor and found her a chair. ‘You used to say the same thing to me when you were little, you know, when Mum and Dad were screaming at each other. “I’m fine. Absolutely fine.” You’d copied it from a British TV show. Upstairs, Downstairs or something.’
He was right, she had. She managed a smile. ‘Well, I am fine. I’m absolutely fine.’ She said it in a perfect cut-glass English accent.
He pulled up a chair beside her. ‘I didn’t believe you then and I don’t now. What is it? What’s happened?’
The combination of too much champagne, the exhaustion of the past few days and the concern on her brother’s face prompted the truth. ‘Something silly. I might have got it wrong, though. Misheard it.’
‘Misheard what?’
‘Mum.’
‘Tell me.’
Sylvie knew she hadn’t misheard it. Her mother had been pointing out her family to a guest at the wedding. A dealer, Sylvie thought. Someone high up in the art world, at least. Fidelma had pointed out Cleo and Vanessa, the beautiful bride. She’d said that Sebastian was on his way from Melbourne. ‘You’ve heard of him, of course?’ ‘Of course,’ the man had said. Fidelma had listed all their achievements, talked about the joys of an artistic household, of their dramatic sensibility as a family. Sylvie had heard most of it many times in interviews. ‘And your other daughter?’ the man had asked. ‘You’ve three, haven’t you?’
Sylvie hesitated before finishing. ‘And Mum said to him, “Oh, yes, there’s Sylvie, my youngest. But she doesn’t really do anything.” ’
‘I’ll kill her,’ Sebastian said.
‘It’s true, Seb. I don’t do anything. Nothing lasting.’
‘You work harder than anyone I know. You’ve got a degree. You haven’t been out of work since you left uni. The only difference is you’re not a bloody show pony about it.’
Sylvie was surprised at how angry he seemed. ‘She’s got a point. So do you. I am
Cinderella. Look at our family, Seb. Artist, fashion designer, jeweller, lighting genius, secretary. Can you pick the odd one out?’
‘You’re not just a secretary and you know it. What was the name of that high-flying temp agency you used to work for? The one that sounded like a brothel?’
‘Executive Stress Relief.’ It was an agency specialising in emergency high-level secretarial support, for everyone from top business people to government ministers. Sylvie had been their employee of the year for the past four years. Her boss, Jill, had told her there was a position waiting back with them whenever she wanted.
‘You’ve got them as a safety net, haven’t you? If you were to leave Union Street?’
‘Yes, but I’m not looking for a safety net.’
‘No, what you need is an escape chute.’ He was thoughtful for a moment. ‘You remember when you were little, and I used to do those treasure hunts for you? With the dares?’
‘Of course. You made me eat a worm once, do you remember?’
‘I didn’t make you. You misread the clue.’
Sylvie had loved those treasure hunts, Sebastian’s birthday presents to her from the time she was eight until she turned fourteen. He’d devised a series of clues based on her favourite books. They’d taken her days to solve sometimes. Each one had led to a challenge or special treat of some sort. One year, she found herself up on the roof of the house, building a cubby from a bed sheet and a fold-up chair. Another year, he dared her to spend the night in the garden of their suburb’s allegedly haunted house. She lasted all night, to Sebastian’s amazement.
‘I hereby resurrect the days of the treasure hunts. Sylvie Devereaux, I dare you to come to Melbourne.’
Sylvie laughed. ‘Good one. You forgot the clues, though. And I’m not a kid any more.’
All Together Now Page 10
