Odd One Out by Monica McInerney Page A

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.”
    Sylvie 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.”
    “You are having a pity party today. Swimming in a sea of woe-is-me. Don’t be silly. You can’t have everyone in a family being an artist. And thank God for that. It would be an unworkable situation. Artists need support. They’re helpless on their own. Painters, for example. They need gallery owners, framers, paint manufacturers. People to look at their work. Patrons. Look at Vincent van Gogh—helpless without his brother Theo. Musicians are the same, nothing on their own. I’m speaking from experience, of course. They need constant reassurance. Audiences. People to make their instruments. Build stages. Sell tickets. It’s the same with writers. They need readers, booksellers, publishers, printers. Even comedians need people to laugh at their jokes. Try to look at it that way, Sylvie. Maybe your mother and your father and your sisters and your brother are the square pegs, the odd ones out. So needy. So fragile. In fact, I’d say they are. I’ve never met an artist who isn’t odd, have you?”
    “No.”
    “Exactly. You’re much better off being the person you are. Independent. Self-sufficient.