Free Odd One Out by Monica McInerney Page A

Melbourne. That’s not fair. I’ve been here nearly two years and I hardly know anyone.”
    “He’s a friend of Seb’s.”
    “That brother of yours knows too many people. I can’t come, as it turns out. I’m having dinner with friends in Carlton.”
    “So you do have friends?”
    “Only ones who feel sorry for me. I met this couple when I was doing some house-sitting last summer. I managed to set their chimney on fire. I know. Don’t ask. But thanks anyway.”
    “You’re welcome. And thanks for last night.”
    “Thanks for the hangover, you mean.” Leila gave her a cheery wave and a smile as she headed out again. “See, I really am a mind reader!”

Chapter Seven
    Sylvie was woken two mornings later by the sound of the phone ringing. Not Mill, but one of the temp agencies she’d registered with. They had a job for her that day. A firm called Dennison Reilly. Data entry. She scribbled down the address. St. Kilda Road, twenty minutes’ walk from Sebastian’s apartment. Yes, she’d love to take it. Be there at eight thirty? No problem at all.
    It felt good to be in work clothes again, instead of the jeans and T-shirts she’d been living in the past week or so. She looked the image of efficiency, pencil skirt, crisp white shirt, pearl earrings and black pumps. She’d called into a hairdresser on Toorak Road the previous afternoon and had one of her best cuts in years. The corkscrew curls were now soft waves, close to her head. Gamine, the hairdresser told her. Whatever it was called, it had been easy to manage that morning.
    She arrived at the large, glass-clad twenty-story building on St. Kilda Road at eight twenty a.m. She had to sign in, then wait with fifteen other corporately clad people to be taken up seventeen floors to a warren of silent offices. A middle-aged woman came to the reception desk to collect Sylvie. Dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. A lot of makeup. A strong floral perfume. She didn’t offer her name, or make any small chat.
    Sylvie tried her best as she followed her along the corridor. “You have a great view from up here.”
    No answer.
    “You’re an insurance company, I believe?” She’d glanced at the brochures in the reception area.
    The woman gave a nod.
    Sylvie was shown to a small, windowless cubicle with a computer and five boxes of files. The supervisor didn’t meet her eye once. She could have been showing a trained monkey around. She gestured to the computer, where a database was already up on screen. “Update those files. Check the details against the files in that box.” She pointed again and then turned to leave.
    “Please,” Sylvie said, with a bright smile.
    There was eye contact then. “What?”
    It felt important to say something. “I’m sorry, but I felt like you were telling me, not asking me.”
    “I am telling you, not asking you. You’re a temp.”
    The woman left her then, shutting the door with something close to a slam behind her. After a moment wondering whether to curse or laugh, Sylvie made a start on the work. Compared to all the years with Executive Stress Relief, not to mention her time in the family studio, this felt like taking baby steps. Routine, repetitive and strangely restful. Her fingers flew across the keyboard as she rapidly input the information. She did a quick calculation. The temp agency might not be pleased commission-wise, but she could probably get through most of these files today.
    Fifteen minutes later, Sylvie got a phone call. It was the agency.
    “We’ve had a complaint, Sylvie. I’m surprised, because your references from Sydney were so excellent.”
    “What kind of complaint?”
    “You apparently have an attitude problem.”
    “I do?”
    “Our client said you were insolent and showed a lack of respect. She also reminded me, as I’ll also tell you, that they are one of our best customers.”
    There was no point going into it then. “I’m sorry,” Sylvie said. “I certainly didn’t mean to be