Sydney's Song by Ia Uaro Page B

thoughtful assessment. I had the impression he was trying to really look at me. As he held my gaze with his appraising one, I felt stripped of all pretensions. Time stood still. I felt, he saw me. He knew what loneliness was like . I sensed he understood what it took to present a dignified front when all you wanted to do was howl at the moon.
    Had he seen me running from the pod in a terrible state? Had he sat at the reception area waiting for me out of concern? How mortifying!I was normally cautious and shy about showing others my feelings.
    Heat rushed to my cheeks as I jumped onto my train.

Stop Working!
    The low, sleek, flashy sports car of Mum’s boyfriend was parked in my driveway. My beautiful mother—who did not look a year older than her younger boyfriend—greeted me with sparkling eyes and vibrant smiles. She practically oozed with happiness, good health and wellbeing.
    â€œDarling,” she gushed, “How good to see you!”
    Hoarding my grudge, I put forward a composed, unaffected, impassive face. So far it had been very effective in keeping my co-workers at arm’s length, preventing them from seeing the person inside. I knew I looked polite but aloof. But what the heck, my smart, sharp-eyed mother looked straight through me.
    â€œDid you think I wouldn’t see you again before you turned twenty-one?” she led me to the family room. “Cheer up, darling. We’ve come to pick you up for the concert you nagged your dad about. Awful man, away in Borneo! But enjoy yourself. Ettoré here will take you. He’s young enough to enjoy it.”
    My eyes flew to Mum’s breathtakingly beautiful Italian boyfriend. Him? Replacing Dad? As what? He looked to be only in his early 30s.
    â€œMy pleasure,” he said with a lazy smile.
    â€œI don’t want to go,” I declined politely. “I only wanted to go with my friends and nagged Dad to buy us the tickets.” Their rule had been that I could go out with friends at night when accompanied by my parent/s. “But they aren’t even in Sydney and I’ve forgotten it. You shouldn’t have bothered.”
    â€œOh but I have. And I reminded you a few times, too. Darling, you should’ve read your emails,” and she went on making me feel guilty.“ Have you been alright? You made me worried. The other day I called your office but you were working on the phone. I left a message—you didn’t return the call. Well, at least if you were at work, it meant you weren’t sick or anything.”
    â€œI’ve been good. Thank you.”
    She looked me up and down. Now Mum looked a lot like me—or was it the other way round. I was an Aussie girl with a quarter Canadian-French, so Mum had a half—or was it the other way. Whatever. We both had delicate Frenchy bones, long and willowy and narrow-shouldered. We weren’t shorties and not giantesses either.
    â€œSaturday dress code?” One neat, beautiful eyebrow lifted. And no, we didn’t need to pluck our eyebrows. Each strand in them knew precisely where it was supposed to grow.
    I nodded.
    â€œNow please change into something decent. Ettoré has made a reservation for dinner before the concert. Celebrities dine there. They won’t allow you in wearing those jeans.”
    â€œBut—,” when had I agreed?
    Had you known Mum, you would understand why she was a very successful executive. She was brilliant, shrewd, and ruthless. Fat chance you could escape being manipulated. Her persuasive, focused, purposeful character was never to be denied. When Mum ruled, things got done.
    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