Free Odd One Out by Monica McInerney

You’re obviously bright, you’re great company. I can’t see why you haven’t broken out on your own before now.”
    Sylvie couldn’t tell whether Leila was insulting or complimenting her. “I haven’t been sure what I wanted to do yet.”
    “No? Fair enough.” Leila lined up the ball, played her shot. It missed. “It’s probably easier to let other people boss you around, then. Your turn, Sylvie.”
    Leila’s words kept going around her head. Is that what she’d been doing? Taking the easy way out by letting people boss her around? She hoped not. Wasn’t it that she liked helping people? Being busy? Feeling needed? Or had she let it become an excuse?
    It was past three before she got to sleep.
    ***
    She rang her mother first thing the next morning, before she made coffee or tried to find some headache tablets. If she kept waiting for her to call, it might never happen. If she wanted to talk to her mother, then it was up to her to ring.
    Fidelma sounded genuinely delighted to hear from her. “Sylvie, darling, how are things? I was leaving you alone. You have enough of me in Sydney. I thought you might like the peace. Ray and I are back from the retreat and I feel truly inspired. I’ve already got ideas for my next exhibition. I do believe the landscape there speaks right to my inner self. Ray was up before dawn each morning meditating, and he agrees that being close to nature is so important, not just for our creativity but for our souls. I’m thinking of introducing a new element to my work, possibly multimedia, incorporating . . .”
    When she hung up ten minutes later, Sylvie realized her mother had never actually heard how things were going for her in Melbourne or how she was feeling. Either Sylvie was still numb from all the vodka the day before, or she didn’t mind as much as usual.
    As she went out for a walk a little later her eyes were drawn once again to her father’s photograph in the hallway. She stopped and looked at it.
    What would they talk about if she did ring him? His poetry? The truth was she’d never really understood it. It was experimental, jagged, angry writing. What else had Sebastian said about him? That he spoke Swahili? Lived in a penthouse? Drove a new car? Or maybe none of those things?
    It would be easy to find out. All she had to do was ring Sebastian and ask for her father’s contact number. Get his address. Turn up on his doorstep and say, “Hello, Dad. I’m your daughter.”
    But what would happen then, she wondered. Where did you start with someone you hadn’t seen for twenty-one years?
    ***
    Leila didn’t bother knocking when she called by later that afternoon.
    “Are you dying of a hangover?” she called out. “It’s your own fault if you are. You should have said no when I asked you to come out with me.”
    “I’m telling myself the same thing,” Sylvie said, looking up from her nest of cushions in the bay window. An empty can of Coke and bag of chips was beside her. “I think it would be dangerous to be your friend.”
    “That’s why I don’t have any friends. That, and my bad habit of speaking my mind. I do remember that right, don’t I? I did tell you to get a grip on your own life last night?”
    “You did, yes.”
    “And I’ve only just met you. And I don’t know the whole story. And who am I to tell you, with my own life a mess. That’s what you thought, didn’t you?”
    “You’re a mind reader as well as an actress?”
    “A failed actress. Please use the correct terminology. Sorry, Sylvie. That was out of line of me. I was right, of course, but it wasn’t my job to tell you.”
    Sylvie liked Leila too much to be mad at her. And there was also the little matter of Leila possibly hitting the nail on the head . . . “You’re forgiven, I promise. Can I get you back, though? I’m meeting a friend for a drink on Friday night. Do you want to come along too?”
    “How can you have another friend already? You’ve only just arrived in