Word of warning: this is a slow-moving talky introspective story. Not all the chapters have sex in them. If you like stories where people are shagging by the fifth paragraph, this isn't going to meet your needs.
*
By the time I found the place I was pretty sure going to the work Christmas party had been a bad idea. If there's one thing worse than me alone at Christmas, it's me alone at Christmas in the middle of a crowd; after five months at R. J. Churchill Realtors, working as jack-of-all-trades IT support in our main office in Melbourne, I was well aware that I was the odd one out.
My colleagues weren't bad people, as real estate agents go, and they tried to be polite to the company nerd. But after a few bland nice-to-meet-yous the conversation dried up as we ran out of things to talk about. And after I'd outed myself a couple of weeks ago...
Perhaps I should've kept it a secret. Lord knows, it's not like I had anybody's portrait to stick up on my desk, and nobody expects tech support to dress femme. But I refuse to lie about it to anybody, and during one of my occasional attempts at socialising I'd run straight into Peter, head of our office and resident ideologue, offering his opinions on the day's headlines:
"So, I don't want to sound prejudiced because I'm not, I've got nothing against gays, but we shouldn't let the national agenda be dominated by a fringe issue. I mean, take the economy, we're talking about the whole country, every single person in this office cares about that. But gay marriage? Not relevant to a single one of us here."
"Actually, Peter, it's quite bloody relevant to me."
Pretty effective as a conversation killer. Of course, that just managed to confirm my status as Not One Of Us. Nobody was nasty about it — at least, not that I ever heard — but I couldn't help noticing that since then, the only people who'd dropped by my desk to say hello were the ones who needed help with their printers or email.
But the Christmas party? Everybody gets invited to that. And for all that I tried to tell myself I didn't care about fitting in, truth is it does get lonely being a fish out of water, and I'd been told old RJ knew how to throw a good party.
Most likely I was letting myself in for an evening of making superficial conversation with anybody who felt charitable, watching others having drunk fun, then making my excuses to leave early. But sometimes you have to try things anyway. Who knew, maybe the Christmas spirit would help somehow?
And that was why I was walking three blocks from the train station to the Churchill house one Friday evening shortly before Christmas. I'd even put on a nice shirt and dragged out my one and only skirt (at least it had pockets). Sensible shoes, though.
I guess if you own a real estate company you get to have a big house. RJ had the biggest in the neighbourhood. Wrought iron gates, manicured lawn with an oversized fountain in the shape of a swan, classical statues that were probably real marble, hedges cut into perfect cubes... you get the picture. Just to top it off, the house and grounds were copiously decorated with flashing Christmas lights in every colour known to man.
No doubt he'd saved money by holding the party at his place instead of booking a restaurant (there was probably a tax deduction involved somewhere in that) but when I walked through the door I could see he hadn't stinted on the catering. Three snappily-dressed waiters made sure everybody was well supplied with canapés (or were they hors d'oeuvres?) and I fended off several trays of drinks before I gave in and accepted a glass of champagne, just so they'd stop offering.
Remembering why I was there, I circulated, making polite conversation with various acquaintances. Pretty much everybody I knew from work was there. The more enthusiastic young realtors were too busy talking shop to give me more than the briefest possible wave. Peter had his back to me as he discussed something with my line manager Susan; I waved at her over his shoulder and she waved back, looking distracted. Janelle — Peter and RJ's executive assistant — lifted a glass in my general direction and offered a slightly sozzled "Happy Christmas!"
Then it was time to face RJ, who was doing the rounds and greeting each of us in person. I'd only met him a few times before; although his office was in our building he was often out, one of those men who prefers to do business face to face. He was in his late fifties, still with a full head of hair that was beginning to streak to a distinguished silver, impeccably dressed in an expensive tailored suit. "Happy Christmas... Yvette?" He offered his hand.
"Yvonne. Happy Christmas, Mr. Churchill." I shook it and found something pressed into my hand.
"A little Christmas present for everybody." Four fifties, tax-free, as it turned out.
"Thank you, sir." But he was already moving on; three more people had arrived behind me. I moved through the lounge room — bigger than my apartment — and gradually drifted toward the garden. It was starting to get crowded inside.
Outside, the caterers were lighting the barbecue, preparing a couple of trays of meat. Nobody else was about, which suited me; I walked out, past the pool, into the garden where it was darker. Out here I felt better, able to shed the tension I felt around my work-mates, able to breathe and feel the breeze on a very pleasant summer evening...
"Hello there."
I hadn't heard her come up behind me. "Hello?" I turned, and didn't recognise her — and I
would
have remembered if we'd met. She was somewhere around twenty-five, a few inches shorter than me, with classical features framed by an excess of black ringlets. If not for the little black dress and the glass in her hand, a little bit of white make-up would have let her pass for one of the statues in the yard.
Maybe not such a waste after all.
"I'm Yvonne."
"Phoebe." We touched glasses — ching! — and she treated me to a friendly smile. "Avoiding the party?"
"Crowds not really my thing. Hey, where are you from? I haven't seen you around."
"Oh, I'm not with the company, thank god — sorry, I didn't mean it like that."
"No offence taken. I'm not exactly wild about real estate myself. So what brings you here?"
"RJ is my dad. I'm staying here for a week, doing the family Christmas thing."
"Oh. Nobody told me he had a daughter."
"I'm not around much. I live in Sydney and I don't make it down here too often. So what do you do, Yvonne, if you're not selling houses?"
"I make the computers go. And you?"
"I play cello. Trying to get into the Sydney Philharmonic, but at the moment I'm just in a four-piece band. We do weddings, parties, anything. I give lessons. They call it 'underemployed'."
"Oh, a musician! That explains it. I
thought
you looked too classy for real estate."
She flashed me another smile, teeth glinting in the glow of the Christmas lights. "That's the nicest thing anybody's said to me all evening. Say, if you're a computer person you might know..."
And we talked about how to choose a wireless router. It was a lot like work but I didn't mind, since the company was better. From there the conversation drifted by way of data plans and downloads into music.
As a schoolgirl I'd spent a couple of years scraping at a violin, so I had great respect for anybody who could make a stringed instrument sound good. I felt a little inadequate talking to a professional, but Phoebe put me at ease on that account; alongside her classical expertise, she had broad-ranging amateur interests in modern genres where I could hold my own.
Eventually I asked a few questions about the life of an underemployed cellist. Phoebe was candid: she'd set her heart on being a professional musician from an early age, but she was finding it hard to break through and starting to wonder whether she ought to start looking for a more practical career.
