Odd One Out by Monica McInerney

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?