Sydney's Song (8 page)

I hated myself being talked into capitulating.

I hated it even more when I sat stupidly in the fanciest car I had ever been in. I tell you what—there was nothing great about witnessing your mother and her new lover gaze in adoration at each other at every red traffic light. The lovey-dovey scene of them each placing a hand on the other's thigh was gross. Highly repugnant.

I wouldn't bother if they were strangers. But Mum? Call me narrow-minded or childish—still I loathed seeing
my
mother acting in love.

In short, I would never wish this revolting experience on you.

But there was nothing a child could do, was there? So I dumbly endured. Feeling sickened. Missing my dog. And it all brought back the unfortunate events of my day.

We dropped Mum at their McMahons Point penthouse. She was to dine at her best friend's. Kate and Mum had been thick since high school. Through many phases of life, the ups-and-downs of changing jobs and partners, they had remained close.

Afterwards Ettoré took me in a water taxi to Darling Harbour.

We had a stilted conversation. Ettoré, who seemed to sense my discomfort, was trying his best to be, what, a good stepfather? Come on, although I considered him ancient, some 18-year olds had boyfriends his age. I did not like feeling unsure about what category our acquaintance fell under. I wasn't sure how to take him. He was not my father. He was not my friend.

Well, he was Mum's boyfriend. I took a mental note to label him my stepfather. There. A ridiculously young stepfather, with his Latin good looks too. He oozed success, as well as… unexpected kindness. And his speech! So impeccably cultured. Awesome.

At a few inches taller than me, Ettoré was not tall like Dad. His eyes were chocolate, whereas Dad's were gleaming silver. His hair was brown, unlike the gold-blond of Dad's. His facial bones were delicate, instead of decisive-bold like Dad's. His frame was wiry-slim, while Dad's hulking-robust. He wore his clothes with the ease of a male model.

It was still daylight in this early summer. The soft-pink colour of the sky was reflected in the buildings and water.

Darling Harbour was rife with activity. There seemed to be a free concert by the water's edge. People of all ages milled about. Young people in great numbers.

The water taxi did not take long to reach our pier. Mr Handsome of the immaculate manners courteously helped me out. I nearly tripped when I looked up to see Sinead, Pete, Kevin, Jack—with several other co-workers—watching me getting out of the water taxi with interested eyes. They were sitting at the platform by the free concert, eating fries and Maccas take-away.

I felt very embarrassed being seen with Ettoré. He still looked overdressed even in casual attire. His stylish clothing shouted designer labels while my backpacker buddies wore—well, backpackers' you-know-whats.

It looked like they only scrubbed up when adhering to our strict office dress code, and could not wait to shed all formalities immediately after. I guessed that was the fun and freedom of being backpackers. Quietly I envied them their happy carefree ways and confidence. Sinead was wearing patchy merry jeans with a barely-there top. Jane, a lovely English girl from Sheffield with whom I often lunched sported a belly-button ring and cut-off jeans. Severely cut off. And Pete. Man… didn't he look good in a tank top… all beautiful firm muscles and glorious tan.

I wore bone linen pants with a very pretty but simple white linen shirt. It was a very hot day—I had chosen this ensemble because of the fabric. It had not even occurred to me how I would look. Since Mum had not protested, I guessed I passed. Mum had a knack for fashion, I would give her that. She had fine aesthetic sensitivities. Except in shoes. Not that her taste in shoes sucked, but she could never get it right for my age group.

My friends were some distance away from us, and as Ettoré was guiding my elbow in the opposite direction, I turned to them and waved because I didn't want to be considered a snob. Kevin wore his ear-to-ear grin, Sinead her dimpled one. The others also smiled. But Pete just looked back with direct, unreadable eyes.

I fervently hoped they wouldn't think me and Ettoré were an item.

Ettoré embarrassed me further by whisking me off to an up-class harbour-side restaurant. My friends' eyes bored a hole in my back. I kept remembering their Maccas take-away bags. Before our first pay even Maccas was beyond Sinead's reach—she'd had only hot chips for lunch.

They were poor young people. Yet they were so pleased with life. So disgustingly happy. I knew they would all get drunk tonight and—yeah, get lucky.

Which shouldn't bother me. I had decided never to fall in love in my life, right? Had even told my dog why.

I noticed several famous faces in the restaurant. But my mind was wandering. I shook my head when Ettoré offered wine.

“Too chicken. If I choose not to drink even a bit, there's no risk I'll ever consume too much, right? I don't think I like the idea of getting wasted.”

“Are you scared you'll be lured to drink for the sake of drinking itself?”

“I'm scared of not being in control of myself. To prevent it, I've just decided not to drink. Even after I turn 18. Let others have their fun. Or make fun of me. For me, I'll have the coward's choice, thank you.”

“You have it wrong. Here in our society, it's not cowardice but very brave not to drink. It requires strength of character. If it's your personal choice, let the others bleat. Dare to be different. It's okay to decline your host's offer. There's no shame in not frequenting pubs. Myself, I'm a connoisseur of wine, but I only drink a glass or two, and only when I'm having food. It's the Italian way.”

He refrained from mentioning the trendy Aussie way was to drink for the sake of getting drunk itself.

I thought again of the close friendship Sinead enjoyed with her gang. I coveted their cheerfulness. Should I leave my comfort zone to join them one of these days? Would a wowser teetotaller ever be accepted? How would it feel to be the only sober one among friends who had written themselves off? Would I ruin their fun by being the odd one out?

And did I really need the torture of exposing myself to new elements when it was easier to bury my head in a book? Would I ever be ready to open up?

“Why the long face?” Ettoré asked as my thoughts drifted away.

“Whaat?” Now I felt worse. It was anyone's bad luck to know me at this time of my life. “Bad company, aren't I? And here you're being really kind to take me. Thank you. And sorry,” I babbled.

“I'm no monster,” he smiled.

“Oh?” I rolled my eyes at this absurdity. “Checked your mirror lately?”

He chuckled.

“Tell me about your day,” he prompted.

“No way. You wouldn't want to know.” Like I didn't want to know how you woke up with my mother.

“Try me.”

I groaned. Reluctantly I started telling him about the absolute cruelty of the N80-bus driver. Somehow it became easier. I told him of my unforgettable calls. And the constrictive rules of the incentive system. He was laughing so hard when I detailed the Silverwater Jail and the Frenchs Forest quests.

“They made my day!” I also laughed now. “With my Quality bonus in, they saved me from being the lowest-paid Australian. I'll never forget them all my life.”

“That's very cool, Sydney. I'm glad you see the funny side of your job. So the horrible calls are the ones you'll treasure because when you think of them you'll laugh and laugh. You have to tell me more next time we meet. Unless you want to quit? I could perhaps find you a position at my office. As a receptionist? Admin staff?”

“Thank you. But no. Not at this stage. This is my fight. I have to win it. I have to conquer myself and my denigrating callers. One day, they will never forget me.”

“But your pay is too low. How much bonus are we talking about here, if you can pass all the hurdles?”

“They vary depending on the call volumes. The company sets aside money in the bonus pool according to how much work we get. The more months you pass the hurdles, the more percentage of bonus shares you build. After a time you can get 600 or 800 dollars a month from the Attendance Bonus alone.”

“So you're determined to show them you're unbeatable? Your own personal Olympics?”

I laughed. “The challenge of a horrible job.”

Little did I know that 2000
was
going to be my personal Olympics.

We chatted more easily. I asked about his work and he taught me some general business rules. He explained the benefits of exports besides gaining a wider market and spreading the risks.

“To compete in the international market, you have to be better than others. So you'll develop ways to improve your products. This eventually keeps your company on top even in Australia.”

“So, are you an Aussie now? There's the faintest accent there.”

“My family moved here when I was twelve. But we went back home for holidays frequently. So I'm both Italian and Aussie in many ways.”

“Which part of Italy is your hometown?”

“Borgo San Lorenzo. Near
Firenze
, which you call Florence.”

“Borgo—whaat?”

“Borgo. San. Loren-zo.”

“Borgo—San—Lorenzo,” I repeated slowly. “And what's special about it?”

“Apart from the fact that there are so many soccer fields and everybody is mad about
real
football? I could talk about football for hours. But Borgo San Lorenzo itself is magical. The country is simply beautiful in spring and summer. The area is quite hilly. It shines in spring with so many colours. And in summer you can catch moments of amazing view, especially at sunrise and sunset… I have great memories of my hometown.”

“Go on. I don't know anything about Florence except Dante.”

“Well the streets are narrow. Shady. The town centre could be defined as a perfect example of medieval architecture. It was built with an ancient kind of stone called sampietrino, which gives a pleasant feeling of antique and elegance. Same as the houses. They're painted with the typical colour of Florence, Terra di Firenze.A sort of old-gold colour.”

I felt better when we left the restaurant.

My friends were still by the free concert, singing along and holding liquor cans now. Sinead flashed me teasing eyes. But I was annoyed at Pete. He stood motionless, except for a polite nod.

“What now?” Ettoré arched a brow. “You just lost your smile again.”

“I like my friends boisterous and sincere,” I declared without thinking. “I don't like it when people give me a polite, indifferent nod. It's heaps annoying!”

We stepped aside to let a people-mover Li'l Train pass. Ettoré turned to me, eyes searching, contemplating. Slowly he said with a deadpan, straight face,

“I agree. How dare anyone do that! Don't they know it's your sole prerogative?”

I broke into a laugh, feeling an instant shame to realise how badly I must have acted.

“Exactly!” I joked. “How dare anyone!”

“So?” he asked. “Who was the handsome guy?”

“Who?”

“The one who looked at you.”

“They all did. How could you notice any difference?”

“Come on. The cool one. Who pretended to be indifferent.”

“Pretended?” This news made me feel better. “Did you really notice that?”

He needled me about Pete. And I could not tell Ettoré anything about him. Pete and I were not normally given the same break. The short chats between calls could only be superficial. We had no chance to get to know who our co-workers really were as individuals.

I kept thinking of them singing and dancing and getting totalled by the water's edge. They were
so
happy. So together. So—
belonging.

Why was I jealous?

We reached our expensive theatre. Before entering I looked around searchingly.

“What is it?” my baby-sitter-of-the-moment asked. He was an excellent escort. There was no doubt why Mum fell for him. Almost any female would be interested in a handsome god who happened to be cashed up and distinctly of good breeding. “What are you looking for?”

“I'm trying to find the exact bus-stop location for the 443. So I'll know how to properly describe it to my customers.”

“Sydney, stop working!” He shook his head and steered me away.

Right. Here I was. Loving my city. Forever trying to be an advocate for our public transport when I knew for a fact that the bosses of Sydney's trains and buses never used one. They never did when visiting my office, despite the fact we were conveniently located near Hornsby Station. Obviously, Sydney's public transport did not suit their bosses.

“Grand date. Where did you find him?” Sinead, already taking calls, asked when I arrived on Monday morning. Many agents had left as casualties of yucky shifts or abusive callers. But the remaining agents were by now skilful, had lower AHT, with better information accuracy.