“Then stop asking me to do stuff to look good because those kinds of considerations will never be part of my motivations. And my paintings never leave our properties.”
“I know. But could you make a small exception? For me. Lilas has largely contributed to attracting the best of Paris and Hollywood to my restaurants. And Steen will be indebted to you for having fulfilled his wife, as he can’t refuse her anything…”
A little exasperated by the comparison I feel coming, I counter her curtly, “Am I not doing enough, Sophia?”
“Yes… I just wanted to point out that Steen Hood will return the favor to you one of these days. But you know that.”
Okay, I get her point: this reasoning pretty much defines my way of seeing the world and the way I do business. It’s mutually beneficial. Sophia’s fingers touch my hand. I tense up, holding her gaze until I feel her become troubled.
“I’ll thank you any way you want…” she begins. “And going back to your gift, I thought back to Murphy’s suggestion…”
Sophia caresses me; I stiffen more and sneer. If I didn’t know her so well, I wouldn’t tense up.
But I know her.
“I listen to you.”
“I’ll follow his advice,” she replies, evasive. “At least, I think about it a lot.”
I recover my hand under hers; the contact has lasted long enough. Exhausted, I rub my face.
“I’m old enough, Sophia. For that… I don’t need your intervention. In any way.”
Her features twist and a veil of sadness obscures her eyes. I open my computer again to signal the end of this discussion that is getting out of hand. We stagger towards the sempiternal negotiation, which I always cut short.
“I know, but since Kelly, I… I really try… Please, Ty,” she stammers.
I sink into a pensive silence. Kelly was useful for a while before almost screwing up by contacting a tabloid… I decide to end this debate, “Ask Lilas Hood where to ship my Basquiats and for how long. You will take care of the insurers and the transfer?”
Me, I have to maintain my focus to the maximum, away from these trivialities.
“Oh, thank you, Ty!” rejoices Sophia. “I promise you a sublime gift.”
Her promise leaves me marvelously indifferent. I just nod my head before going back to my emails. Sophia returns to her online conversation in her chair on the other side of the plane.
As for me… things are reeling in my thoughts. Between the idea that Murphy stuffed into Sophia’s head and the way Terrence and his guys’ research may turn out… My body, my head, and my locked fantasies threaten to give way under the pressure.
And yet, it is better to reinforce my locks, to keep control.
Whatever it takes.
3
Océane
Days later, Sydney
Hello Miriam,
Here, everything is fine. For you, too, I hope. Here is my new number. I will send you photos by WhatsApp. To keep to yourself, of course…
Anyways, everything is so beautiful in Sydney. The opera is even more gorgeous in person! And you know what? There are as many colorful parrots in the trees as there are pigeons in Paris. I also came across koalas without even having been to a zoo. It’s crazy!
I just have to find a job to enjoy it better.
Big kisses. Kiss the others for me. I miss you.
I send my email. Then I motivate myself to take some pictures with my Instax hanging around my neck, a departure gift offered by the educators of the children’s home who have chipped in for me. A rare sign of affection that still warms my heart today.
Playing the ecstatic tourist isn’t so difficult after all; the scenery is up to my expectations. Yes, I feel better in this country. I’m now wandering around The Rocks, shaking and blowing at my slides as the images appear.
Everything is on track, moving forward.
I repeat it to myself once, twice, three times… until my brain and heart buy into it and feel positive too. I put my photos and camera in my bag and grab my cell phone to check the time. I still have time, but I have to look for The Sexton’s restaurant by memory. I’ve been there once before. I can’t believe that the owner of this fancy establishment called me back.
Would my luck be changing favorably with this new start? For once, Mom would have been proud of her daughter. After my mediocre career in some aspects, giving up on of my law studies when I worked hard to get my high-school diploma with this only objective: to become a lawyer and defend minors in need…
This dream is dead and buried. Another, more vivid, turned into an almost vital necessity afterward: to go far away.
Unfortunately, it also costs money when you finally find the motivation to make your dreams come true. As far as money is concerned, I only have the bare minimum required to get the Working Holiday Visa. My meager savings are disappearing, and I won’t benefit indefinitely from the hospitality of the students who welcomed me as their roommate. The relocation agency offered me this temporary accommodation—right in my budget—until the boy, a Peruvian whose room I occupy, comes back from vacation. Which is very soon.
Anyway, I need a job. This job! And to finally have my own place.
I look up at Harbor Bridge which overlooks the place. It’s so majestic.
My friendly network is currently limited to the young people who are my roommates. Especially Louane, with whom I get along with. If my interview today is successful, I will have plenty of time to follow Myriam’s advice: learn how to have fun again, to finally free myself from other people’s opinions.
Every time I go job hunting, I still find that my stammering English is a bit of a problem, but I persevere. If I want this to work, I must be the first to believe in it and myself. The cheerful stalls of bohemian products in the market, the tourists strolling around, and the residents going about their business, all this makes me want to enjoy my stay. And to be this new version of myself that I aspire to…
So, this restaurant? The Sexton’s! Here it is!
I look at the time on my phone before stopping in front of the fancy sign. It’s the kind of place where a lettuce wedge costs you an arm and a leg. Kind of the equivalent of Fouquet’s in Paris or other overpriced starred culinary wonders. The colonial building stands before me with its breathtaking view of the port. On the terrace, a wealthy clientele is sipping fine wines. Just like the first day when I timidly submitted my application, I hesitate to set foot there again, dazzled by the high standing of this place. My attempt at being five minutes early suddenly seems difficult to manage. I was freaking out about getting lost or being late, and now I’m stressing about messing things up.