Speechless
Yvonne Collins & Sandy Rideout

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Thanks to our families for their interest in our projects, right down to the smallest detail.

Thanks also to our friends for their support—and for sharing their stories of workplace divas and bullies.

A special thanks to Kathryn Lye for her role in bringing Libby to life.

Last but not least, we are grateful to Dave for rescues great and small. Whether it’s resuscitating a laptop after an unfortunate collision with a cup of tea, researching obscure facts or indulging a craving for sushi, Dave always delivers.

What’s more, he knows when to keep the champagne on ice and when to grab the schnauzer and run for cover.

We appreciate his patience and encouragement.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

1

I ’m in the ladies’ room when my big moment arrives. It’s no coincidence. The event: Emma’s wedding. My mission: to avoid the ceremonial tossing of the bridal bouquet. I almost pull it off, too. As a bridesmaid (my seventh tour of duty), I’ve had access to the script, which states that the toss is to occur at 11:45 p.m. precisely. At 11:35, I skulk off to the last stall of the hotel’s fancy washroom, sit down on the toilet’s lid and haul my feet up onto the seat. It won’t take long for the search party to give up. In the meantime, I can lean against the cool marble bathroom wall and rest my eyes.

“Found her! She’s asleep!” Emma’s six-year-old niece yells. She’s peering under the stall door, a wide grin on her annoying little face.

“I was not asleep,” I say, opening the door to find two bridesmaids in buttercup yellow dresses identical to mine glaring at me. “I’ve got a migraine.”

“You don’t get migraines,” Lola says, grabbing my arm with one hand and hitching up her special Maid-of-Honor chiffon cape with the other. “Cut the crap and let’s get this show on the road. The sooner it’s over, the sooner we’re back at the bar.”

As they escort me to the dance floor, the delighted flower girl skips ahead, shouting, “I found Libby! She was asleep on the toilet!”

I should have known better than to attempt escape with Lola in charge. She’s cranky because yellow makes her look sallow and worse, Emma made her promise not to smoke tonight. The honor of being chosen maid of honor is hardly compensation enough. In fact, no one is more oblivious to this sort of honor than Lola and no one is less willing to be on her best behavior. That’s why I expected the Maid-of-Honor nod myself, but Emma probably wanted to leave me free to enjoy my own brand of nuptial notoriety.

For five minutes at every wedding, I am a bigger star than the bride. My role is to catch the bridal bouquet. It isn’t staged, it just happens. No matter how poorly the bride throws, nor how eager my competitors are, the bouquet is always mine. All I have to do is show up. I stand among the single women, hands at my sides and it flies straight at my face. At the last moment, I inevitably raise my hands in self-defence. Like I could afford twelve nose jobs on a government salary!

Twelve bridal bouquets. Now, there’s a claim to fame. At six foot two (six-five in yellow satin bridesmaid pumps), I suppose I’m an easy mark. I prefer to blame my unlikely talent on my height than accept that Fate is playing a cruel joke on me. After all, everyone knows that the girl who catches the bridal bouquet will be next to marry—it’s a tradition. Yet, somehow, I remain single despite my twelve trophies.

When I caught my first bouquet at age eight, I was thrilled. When I caught my third at age twenty, I was cautiously hopeful. When I caught my eighth at twenty-eight, I was mortified. And when I caught my tenth at thirty, well, I asked my friends to stop inviting me to their weddings. They didn’t, obviously. These days I get invites from people I barely know, just so that they can see me in action. I’ve become a party trick.

Being a little superstitious, I held on to the bouquets long after I gave up all belief in the tradition. Lola found them hanging in my closet last year. “This is seriously weird,” she said, as if she’d stumbled upon Bluebeard’s wives. “I’ll destroy them to spare you from ridicule.” As if anyone who’s caught that many bridal bouquets is a stranger to ridicule! Still, I was relieved when she took responsibility for dumping them. Given my history with men, I can’t afford to be sending that kind of message out to the universe.

When I agreed to be her bridesmaid, Emma promised to show some restraint. “Don’t worry, I won’t get all bridey,” she said moments before launching herself into a vortex of white lace and tulle. After that, it was Fairy-tale Wedding by the book. Pathetic optimist that I am, I even believed her when she told me she’d keep the bouquet toss simple. “Just the basics,” she said.

Many have been less considerate. They embraced the variation on the tradition where the woman who catches the bouquet has to dance with the man who catches the garter because they’re destined to marry each other. People love seeing the look on my face as the garter-catcher—usually a single-for-good-reason guy in a bad suit—comes to claim his dance. It makes for great wedding video footage. Take the following scene from Emma’s, running unedited at nine minutes:

Emma, resplendent in $2000 worth of strapless, beaded taffeta, is beaming from the podium as she prepares for the bouquet toss. The camera cuts to the crowd of single women, where my big, bushy head looms above the crowd. There’s a sullen expression on my face. Lola stands guard over me, a drink in one hand, a partially hidden smoke in the other. Two eager young women flank me. They’re sizing me up and, judging by their smirks, they don’t consider me much of a threat. Lola pretends to burn one of them in the butt with her cigarette and we both make faces behind them. We have forgotten the camera.

Emma winds up for the pitch and the video slips into slow motion. The bouquet shoots out over the crowd. The camera captures my expression as I assess the bouquet’s trajectory. Closer…closer… The two youngsters jockey for position, elbowing me. I step backward to avoid them. Arms outstretched, they hurl themselves into the air. You can see the hope on my face: this time I am finally going to miss it! But no, the teens careen into each other. One stumbles off her platforms and into Lola, who “accidentally” spills red wine on the teen’s tight white dress (never wear white to a wedding). The bouquet travels like a missile over their perfectly coiffed heads, my hands go up and…yes! It’s a direct hit, ladies and gentlemen. Turning, I hold the bouquet high and curtsy for the crowd. The teens check out my butt and sneer, confirming my suspicion that there is no good angle in a yellow stretch-poly frock.

I offer the photographer a big, fake smile before stepping to the sidelines to make way for the single men. The D.J. cues the stripper music and Bob, the groom, removes the garter from Emma’s leg and snaps it into the air. There’s a flash of blue as it streaks across the dance floor, the camera panning to follow its path. Over the heads of the single men it goes, until its flight is suddenly arrested…by my forehead. It snaps my head back with its force, then drops into the bridal bouquet I’m still holding. Heads are swiveling. No one knows where the garter landed. The videographer speaks up: “Libby caught it!”

Stunned, I pluck it from the bouquet and hold it aloft. The single guys turn as one and race toward me. There’s a brief struggle as they grab my arms, my waist, my legs and hoist me into the air. I stop resisting when I realize that the more I thrash, the less coverage my dress provides. The D.J. plays the Village People’s “Macho Man” and the guys pump me up and down to the beat. As the song ends, they deposit me—quite gently, really, when you consider the trays of tequila slammers they’ve consumed—before the bride and groom. I surrender the garter with a dizzy flourish. Bob snaps the garter again; this time a tall guy grabs it casually out of the air. Emma grins in my general direction before whispering something in the D.J.’s ear. He steps to the mike: “Would Libby McIssac please step forward again? Tim Kennedy will now place the garter on Libby’s leg and the two will share a special dance.”

I look stricken, but Tim is smiling as he walks toward me and bows. He leads me to a chair in the center of the dance floor. I lift my own bridesmaid gown and place my foot on the chair. Tim slips the garter over my foot and slides it up my leg. The video does not capture the snag in my thirty-dollar stockings.

“Let’s give Libby and Tim a hand, everyone,” the D.J. shouts. “We’ll see them united in wedded bliss sometime soon!” (I hate this guy.)

The camera follows us briefly as we start dancing, then finally cuts back to the bride.

“Well, Libby,” Tim says, “are you always this popular at weddings?”

“I’m afraid so. I can’t help competing with the bride for attention,” I say. I’m starting to breathe again, but I can’t meet his eyes.

“Very bad form.” He’s smiling and although I’m staring over his shoulder, I can’t help but notice it’s a nice smile.

“Not as bad as beating a bride senseless with her own bouquet. She deserves it for this dress alone!”

“Oh no, it’s very becoming,” he says, laughing. When I roll my eyes, he adds, “I’ve seen worse.”

My blood pressure must be entering normal range, because it’s starting to register that Tim is quite handsome. He has that dark-haired, blue-eyed combination I can never resist. Eventually I summon the nerve to look right at him, and miracle of miracles, I’m staring into his forehead. Without these stupid yellow pumps, he’s got an inch on me. Maybe Fate isn’t heartless after all.

“Let me get you a drink—and some ice for that welt on your forehead,” Tim offers as the song ends.

He pulls a chair out for me before heading to the bar. He probably feels sorry for me, but hell, I can live with that. Besides, I need a few minutes to recover before joining the bridal party again. My left foot has begun to tingle; the damned garter is cutting off the circulation. I remove it with more uncharitable thoughts about Emma. I’m mad enough to march over there and swing her around by her veil. Instead, I take a few cleansing breaths and smile over at Tim in the bar line. He smiles back. That’s when it occurs to me that Bouquet 13 could be my lucky one. It’s a cut above any other I’ve landed, the rosebuds being a deep red and fully two inches long. At least Emma had the decency not to get a substandard minibouquet for tossing, as brides used to, before my fame grew and I started making demands. Now I tell them straight out, if you’re going to put me through this, I expect the real thing.

My nose is buried in the bouquet when Tim returns carrying two highballs of bourbon and a bag of ice. I drop the flowers on the table, take the ice and hold it to my forehead.

“Technically, this belongs to you,” I say, offering the garter to him.

“Don’t you want to keep it as a memento? The bouquet won’t last forever, you know.”

“I won’t have any trouble remembering this evening. Emma will torment me with the video for decades to come.”

“What are friends for?”

The adrenaline is draining away faster than I can replace it with bourbon. Tim takes the ice pack back and wraps it in a linen napkin. I hadn’t even noticed the water dripping down my arm and onto my five-hundred-dollar yellow dress. Spinning the garter on my finger and smiling as coyly as a girl with a bespattered décolletage can, I ask, “Your first?”

“Yeah. Every guy dreams of this.” Uh-oh. He’s funny too.

“All those years in Little League culminate in this one perfect moment.”

“I imagine you train constantly yourself.”

“Not at all, I’m a natural.”

“Care to share your stats?”

“A lady never reveals her age nor her bouquet quota,” I demur.

“So what do you do between bridesmaid gigs?”

It’s come to this so soon! I hate talking about my job. Tim is the cutest guy I’ve met in a year and I can’t bear to tell him I’m a government hack. It will suck the life out of the conversation and I’m having such fun. Maybe I can deflect his question with idle banter?

“I’m writing a book,” I say.

“Really? What’s the story?”

“Well, it’s a combination of memoir and how-to, based on my extensive experience as a bridesmaid.”

“I’ll put it on my Christmas list,” he says, smiling.

“You’ll laugh, you’ll cry… And how about you?”

“Yeah, I’m writing a book too, isn’t everyone? It’s about my career as a dog trainer.”

I can tell he’s kidding, but I’m not sure if he knows that I am, too. “Breed of choice?”

“Jack Russells—the toughest breed on the planet. The first chapter is about my technique for establishing I’m the alpha dog.”

“How do you do that?”

“I can’t just give away my secrets. You’ll have to wait for the book.”

“Does it have a title?”

“The Man Who Listens to Terriers. Don’t laugh. Dog training is serious business in my family.” He’s leaning toward me now and, judging by the flickering candles in the table’s centerpiece, he’s releasing dangerous gusts of pheromones. “In fact, my father and I have broken off our relationship over it.”

“Really? Tell me about it. I promise I’ll still buy the book.”

“Well, okay,” he says, taking my hand and gazing into my eyes. “Two years ago, his best friend bought an Afghan hound and my dad fell in love—with the dog, that is. He gave up terriers to train Afghans exclusively.”

“Ah, the blond bombshell of the dog world…” Our faces are inches apart and I am grinning like a fool.

“Careful, Libby,” a woman’s voice cuts through the fog of love chemicals “—you can see right down your dress.” Lola has appeared from nowhere to ruin my good time. But she’s right: if Tim chose to look (and I certainly hope he did), he could see my navel. I clap my hand to my chest and glare at Lola. Tim smiles innocently and shrugs.

The dreaded disc jockey steps up to the mike: “Time for the last dance, everyone. Emma and Bob want Tim and Libby—we see you hiding in the corner, you two!—to join them on the dance floor.”

“Hold on a sec, Libby,” says Tim, reaching for a cocktail napkin. The ice pack has trickled water into my eye and he gently wipes mascara away. It drains the clever banter from my mouth.

“Mop up the drool while you’re at it,” suggests Lola.

“Lola!”

“Forget it, it’s our big moment,” Tim says, leading me to the dance floor. Soon I am swaying in Tim’s arms, coasting effortlessly across the floor on a sea of pheromones. He quickly breaks the spell by asking, “So, how much truth is there in this garter tradition?”

“Given my experience with bouquets, I think you need to reach a critical mass before the tradition kicks in. At a single garter, you’re probably pretty safe.”

“That’ll be a relief for my girlfriend. She’s just accepted a job in Vancouver and it will be hard enough to keep our relationship going long-distance without planning a wedding, too.”

I’ve just wilted faster than a nosegay on a hot day, but somehow I manage a brave smile. “Try hanging the garter from your rearview mirror. It might work its magic long-distance.”

Mercifully, Tim and I are soon swept up by the crowd of guests swarming the dance floor to hug Emma and Bob. Emma asks me to help her change into her going-away outfit and the night ends in a blur of duty and booze.

I’m at home and in bed when I remember the wedding cake. “You’re hopeless,” I tell myself, but I get up and dig the piece of cake out of my purse and slip it under my pillow. Maybe I’ll dream of Tim. Maybe his girlfriend will dump him for some west-coast hippie in a VW van covered in flower decals. He deserves it. And as for Lola, I’m never speaking to her again.

2

I t’s almost noon when I roll over to behold the bouquet on my dresser. Drooping already. So much for superior quality. The squashed wedding cake falls to the floor as I get out of bed, reminding me of a hazy dream about John Lennon. Figures, twenty years in the grave. I’d never last a round with Yoko, anyway.

I shuffle to my tiny kitchen and put the kettle on. While the water heats up, I gulp chocolate milk out of the carton and rub my forehead where the garter struck me. The only thing I’d like more than a cup of strong coffee right now is to call Lola to discuss the wedding, but of course, I can’t, having written her off. Better to call Roxanne, although she missed the wedding and therefore won’t be fully able to share my lament over Tim. I’ll call her later, I decide, when the sour taste in my mouth has disappeared. I eat a blueberry Pop-Tart to speed the process along—my standard hangover therapy.

Cornelius, my gray tabby, is weaving around my feet. I lean over to pick him up, careful to lift with my legs. He’s so stout that Lola once asked, “Is that a cat or a coffee table?” Corny’s wondrous purr isn’t enough to prevent the Curse of the Bouquets from washing over me. It happens every time. Sometimes I can’t shake the blues for weeks after a wedding, and that’s without the cute guy in the picture. How could I fall for that dog-whisperer schtick? Thirteen bouquets and I am still the biggest sucker in the world. But this time will be different. I am done with guys, I mean it. I will not waste a single second moping. In fact, I will prove it by going out and raking the backyard as if nothing happened. I’ll plant some flowers. Better yet, I’ll start a medicinal herb garden. I’m already reaching for my jacket when I remember I don’t own a rake. Besides, I’m just a tenant; there’s a reason I don’t do yard work.

I go to the office instead. I may be a boring civil servant, but I take pride in being a hardworking one. There’s a pile under my office door because I was off work Friday to prepare for the wedding. I sort through it, wishing I hadn’t told Tim I’m writing a memoir. I doubt he took me seriously, but still, I shouldn’t even pretend my life is that interesting. I’m not a real writer, I’m a “communications” person, which means I write briefing notes, fact sheets and news releases about education policy. I have 45 e-mails for one day’s absence, though, so I must be important. Clicking through them, one catches my eye: a job ad for a speechwriter to the Minister of Culture. Hmmm… Not qualified. Keep clicking, government hack, then go write that fact sheet on private-school funding.

Half an hour later, I retrieve the job ad in my electronic wastebasket and open it again. A speechwriter? Now, that could be fun. It’s a political job and I’m a bureaucrat, but it’s Culture—how tough could it be? Nah! The impact from the garter has addled my brain. I have no interest in politics and I’ve only written five speeches, two of which were never delivered. Better to hold out for my dream career. I’m bound to intuit what that is any year now, especially at the rate I’m reading those woo-woo discover-yourself books. Nothing wrong with being a late bloomer.

In the end, I collect some writing samples and submit them with my résumé. Today, for some reason, I am able to tune out the inner shrew whose mission is to ensure that my reach never exceeds my grasp. After all, no one needs to know I applied.

By the time I get home, I have eight bouquet-related voice-mail messages. Good news travels fast. The first is merely a long, loud guffaw, which sounds suspiciously like my brother Brian. Emma’s mother must have called my mother, who sent out a family bulletin. Message two confirms it: my mother telling me, in her most soothing voice, that she’s heard about the bouquet and there’s nothing to worry about, even though it is “Unlucky thirteen.” (So she is counting!) The third and fourth are hang-ups; I know it’s Lola because there’s a distinctive pack-a-day wheeze. The fifth is Roxanne: she’s heard from Lola, she says, voice oozing sympathy. I am not to take it seriously, although it is hugely fluky and she can understand how I’d be freaked out—it’s just a tradition. Number six: Rox, again, asking if I want her to come over; she’s made chocolate chip cookies and we could debrief on the wedding. Number seven is Lola hanging up after a prolonged whistling sigh. Probably smoked an extra pack today. Rox again for number eight: “Libby, do not— I repeat do not—do anything desperate with that bouquet. I’m on my way over to pick it up. I’ll make a big batch of potpourri out of it for Lola. Her place always reeks of smoke.”

Lola snorts when I tell her I’m scheduled for an interview at the Ministry of Culture. Although she’s an underchallenged copy editor at Toronto Lives magazine, she’s always giving me a hard time about my restlessness, or, as she calls it, “repressed ambition.”

“Why would you want a job like that?” she says. “You’ll get your fifteen minutes of fame when I convince the magazine to profile you and your bouquet collection.”

I should have stuck with my plan to write her off, but as usual, she got around me. And also as usual, she relents and helps me prepare for the interview. Her sleuthing at the magazine turns up an in-depth article on Clarice Cleary, Minister of Culture. It won’t be published until next month, but if I take a vow of silence, she’ll get me a copy. This article, with its current research and interviews, gives me an edge, but it still takes me a whole weekend to write my “take-home” speech assignment.

The interview goes far better than I expect. The Minister is called away unexpectedly and advises the human resources rep to proceed without her. Laurie O’Brien, the office manager and events planner, attends in the Minister’s place.

“This is very good,” Laurie pronounces after reading my sample speech, “but how do you know about our plans to increase funding for after-school arts programs? We haven’t announced this publicly.”

“A reporter never reveals her sources,” I say, smiling. (Not if she wants to keep her friends, she doesn’t.)

In any case, they’re convinced I have my finger on the pulse of government: three weeks and a police check later, the job is mine.

Visions of oak paneling dance in my head as I walk toward Queen’s Park, the pink sandstone fortress that houses Ontario’s Legislative Assembly. It’s my first day and I’m more nervous than I ought to be, considering I’ve had a shiatsu treatment and two intensive yoga sessions over the weekend. Maybe I should have gone the chemical route instead. Still, I’m optimistic. It’s an elegant building and there probably isn’t a bad office in the place. I just hope it’s quiet, because I expect I’ll be in seclusion writing speeches most of the time once I’m up to speed. During the interview, Laurie warned that I’d need to attend dozens of events in the first few weeks to get a sense of the business and how Mrs. Cleary likes to work. Cool. Free food and entertainment. Culture-loving guys, maybe. What could be wrong with that?

I don’t notice the dead rat until I’m standing on its tail. I’m practically on the doorstep of the Pink Palace, so I stifle my scream and step away from the rat. “This is not a bad omen,” I tell myself. “There are no bad omens.” No, this job is going to be great. Straightening up, I brush cat fur from my black jacket and skirt (you can’t even tell they’re from the Gap), fluff my hair, and stride through the imposing front door with renewed confidence.

“Welcome to the Minister’s Office,” says Margo Thompson, the Minister’s executive assistant, looking me over from shoulder to foot. “You’re very tall.”

At barely five feet, Margo clearly isn’t thrilled about my having the height advantage, but at least she isn’t going to be one of those people who looks up at me and says, “I’ve always wanted to be tall. You’re so lucky.” No woman who has been addressed from behind as “sir” is likely to feel lucky about being tall. It’s not as if I’m tall in a supermodel, waiflike sort of way. Rather, I’m tall in a big-boned, size-twelve-feet sort of way. But there is a notable advantage to looming above the crowd: you can tell a lot about people by checking out their roots.

Margo’s do-it-yourself henna is a month past its “best before” date and the wide stripe of gray running down the center of her head worries me. No one who invites comparison to a skunk is likely to become an inspiring boss. I try to keep an open mind, but it’s hard, because Margo refuses to meet my eyes. She leads me to a sleek boardroom, settles into a chair at one end of the gleaming mahogany table and motions me toward the chair at the other end. I’m sure I look smaller from a distance, but she still can’t meet my eyes. Instead, she examines the ends of her long, ruddy hair while delivering a half-hour monologue on the importance of protocol in the Minister’s Office. My questions on program priorities and upcoming events are dismissed with a wave.

“Make no mistake,” she says, “Mrs. Cleary cares a great deal about appearances. She has to.”

“Of course,” I say, conscious that my hair is swelling. There must be a storm front moving in. “When can I meet her?”

“She’s away today at an off-site meeting—a policy seminar—and is attending a gallery opening tonight. You’ll probably get some face time with her tomorrow.”

Face time. Oh my. Margo hands me a binder of speeches and advises me to review them carefully to study the Minister’s style. Laurie will show me to my office, she says, eyes fastened on my left shoulder. Laurie’s roots are in excellent condition and as she also appears to have a sense of humor, I am optimistic.

“I’m so happy you accepted the job,” Laurie says, “I think we’re going to get along great.”

“Me too,” I reply, encouraged, “but Margo doesn’t seem happy I’m here.”

“She’s only been here a few weeks herself and is still getting her bearings. I think she wanted to choose her own speechwriter, but Mrs. Cleary wouldn’t wait.”

“What’s the Minister like?” I ask.

“Wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise. Far better to experience her firsthand.”

“Okay, then what’s the off-site meeting about?”

Laurie sizes me up for a moment before saying, “It’s a pretty heavy agenda: hair; nails; exfoliating; massage.”

“Don’t spas fall under the Ministry of Recreation?”

“There’s more overlap than you might imagine,” Laurie says, stopping beside a cubicle along the inside wall. I must look aghast, because she smiles and asks, “You were expecting oak paneling?”

“Uh, yeah, actually.” I run a finger over the bristling beige carpet on the walls and across the wood-look desk.

Laurie is sympathetic. “Don’t despair. I’ve been working on Margo to give you more space, but in the meantime, I’m afraid this is it.” She leaves me with my binder of speeches and I do the first thing that comes to mind—call Roxanne. Thank God she doesn’t leave for her movie location until later in the week. As camera assistant to the city’s busiest cinematographer, Rox is often away from home for months at a time.

“Rox,” I whisper, “they’ve put me in a cage.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I never exaggerate. It’s a cubicle, for Christ’s sake. There’s no window and it’s in a high-traffic area. I’m an artist! How the hell am I supposed to create in this environment?”

“Maybe it’s temporary. Besides, it’s the work that counts and this is a great opportunity, Lib. What’s the Minister like?”

“Haven’t met her. She’s either at a policy seminar or a spa. Margo, the Minister’s handler, has already lied to me. If I were still speaking to Elliot, he’d tell me he gets very bad vibes about her.”

“What do you mean, if you were ‘still speaking’ to Elliot? He’s a psychic, not your boyfriend. What could you be feuding about?”

“Last week I made the mistake of asking him if this dry spell in my love life is ever going to end. He had the nerve to say he sees me sitting on a rock in the desert wearing a sign that reads, I’m available. Fuck off.”

“Oooh, that’s a little harsh.”

“Rox, you don’t think he’s right, do you?”

“Not really, Lib, but ever since things didn’t work out for you and Bruce two years ago you’ve been a little…cautious…with men.”

“No kidding. That’s what happens when your boyfriend of two years suddenly admits he never loved you. And what about that guy I met at Emma’s wedding? I let him charm the garter right off me before he mentioned his girlfriend. Men are scum, Rox. You’d better hang on to Gavin.”

“You can have him if you think he’s such a catch, but remember, Daisy comes with the package.”

Daisy is Gavin’s dog and Rox always feels like “the other woman” in the relationship. They met five months ago while bidding on the same antique armoire at an auction. He got the armoire, but she got the guy when he invited her over to see how great it looked in the century home he’s renovating in St. Thomas. Gavin has an unfortunate habit of expressing his feelings through Daisy, whose supposed prejudice against downtown living is wearing out the tires on Rox’s new Jeep.

“Being away for three months on the shoot will tell you a lot about your future with Gavin. Are you packed and ready to go?”

“I sent the camera gear off this morning, but I haven’t started on my clothes yet. The weather changes hourly on the Isle of Man, which means I need to take everything in my closet yet leave room for treasures. Want me to look for something special for you?”

“Yeah, a nice Manx guy.”

“Forget it. I’m keeping the nice Manx guys for me. How about a nice linen—”

My gasp cuts her off midsentence. Two round hazel eyes have appeared above the cubicle, looking above me, around me: Margo. She mumbles something into the beige wall.

“Sorry, I’ve gotta go.” I’m chagrined to be caught in a personal call on my first day. “Yes, Margo?” I say, smiling brightly as I put the phone down.

“The Minister’s seminar is starting later than expected so she can see you briefly.”

I trail after her, a battle cruiser following a tug, into the Minister’s corner office. Ah, so here’s the oak paneling I crave. The desk, massive and oak again, would bring a tear to my eye with its beauty if the Minister didn’t look so funny behind it. Like Margo, she is tiny. When she comes around the desk to shake my hand, her height only allows her to reach my armpit, which is probably as disconcerting for her as it is for me. Obviously I’ve been hired for contrast.

“I’m Clarice Cleary,” she announces regally, gesturing to a leather club chair in front of the desk. “Please call me Minister.”

She’s wearing the most beautiful suit I’ve ever seen, with two Cs on the buttons—Coco Chanel or a Clarice Cleary original?

“Libby has been reviewing your portfolio of speeches, Minister,” Margo offers.

“Yes, lovely, Margo.” Looking me directly in the eye, she asks, “So tell me, Lily, what can you do for me?”

I am too intimidated to correct her. I can live with “Lily.” Besides, I’m busy berating myself for not reviewing the lines I prepared for the interview. Finally, after a long pause, I say I’ve noticed inconsistencies in the tone and style of her speeches, due to the fact that she’s been using several freelance speechwriters. I can ensure she develops “one strong voice.” I’m rather pleased with this observation, but she looks unimpressed, so I add that I want to see her speeches reflect her obvious love for the arts—a love that I, incidentally, share. (No need to mention that I’m more Bon Jovi than Beethoven. I’m a quick study.) The Minister and Margo sit watching me in silence, so I ramble for a bit about how excited I am to have this excellent opportunity.

Pushing her chair back, the Minister opens her top drawer. It’s filled to the brim with beauty aids. I continue to speak while she flips up the lid of a gold compact and dusts her face with powder. She selects a tube of lipstick from a tray of at least two dozen and applies it, blots and checks her teeth. When she pulls out a mirror and starts back-combing her short chestnut bob, I finally rumble to a stop, overcome by the realization that I am so boring people forget I’m in the room even while I am speaking.

The Minister eventually looks over her mirror at me and says, “I must make a call if you don’t mind…. Thank you, Lily.”

Thus dismissed, I retreat to my cubicle. I’ve always known that my downtown polish is only skin deep. It’s no surprise that the Minister saw right through me to the shack in the suburbs where I started out.

3

I ’m still studying the sample speeches Margo gave me because I don’t have much else to do. I can barely concentrate anyway, knowing that there’s a baited rattrap under my desk. It’s well out of pedicure range, but if that baby ever snaps, I will too.

Laurie says the rodents have been running amok since the building’s refurbishment project kicked off three months ago. The construction has rousted them from their usual lairs and despite the best efforts of a pest-control company, every employee in the building must have a rattrap in his or her office. According to the running tally on the staff-room chalkboard, five rats have already met their end in the trap lines. Laurie has the Rat Guy on speed dial. No matter how bad my job may become, his is definitely worse.

I check my trap every morning, less worried about finding a dead rat than about finding a half-dead one. Elliot once awoke to a strange noise in the night and found a bloody, mangled rat dragging a trap across the hardwood floor of his hip downtown loft. It was as big as a dachshund, he claims, and its heartrending squeals drove him to seize the only weapon at hand—a plunger—and put it out of his misery. I keep a sturdy umbrella in my cubicle for just such an occasion. A speechwriter must be prepared for anything.

To date, Margo has assigned only stupid, make-work tasks. I suspect it’s part of her plan to beat the “attitude” out of me before it surfaces. She already senses it’s there, because I can’t even feign enthusiasm for my list of chores. Mind you, I’ve done worse in my time than pick up dry cleaning and book appointments. It’s just that I’m anxious to start writing speeches—surprisingly so, given that all this came about so recently. The Ministry of Education would only give me an eight-month leave, so I don’t have long to get something out of this job. When I hesitantly raise the issue with Margo, she says, “Oh, I can’t see your writing speeches for months, Libby,” she says. “There’s so much you need to learn first.”

She tells me to dust the collection of “art” given to the Minister by students in her travels around Ontario. A learning opportunity, to be sure. My attitude must be showing, because Margo lifts her thin upper lip and bares a row of tiny, perfect teeth.

“We don’t stand on ceremony around here, Libby,” she says. “Even the Minister pitches in.”

I doubt the Minister has ever turned her hand to dusting this papier-mâché beaver family, or the clay moose for that matter. Whenever I see her, she’s checking her makeup or patting her stomach to make sure it’s still flat. Not that I dare talk back to Margo. I may be twice her size, but she scares the hell out of me. Her smile is eerily reminiscent of the doll in the Chucky movies, especially now that she has a fresh, carroty henna. I’m relieved when I hear that my field training is to commence. At least it gets me out of my cubicle.

I’ve been trapped for three hours in a car with two women who refuse to acknowledge I exist. It’s not as if they could miss me: I’m in the front seat with Bill, the Minister’s driver, while they cosy up in the rear. A retired army officer and a widower, Bill has a heart of gold under his gruff exterior, which I notice he is careful to conceal from Margo and the Minister. In fact, they both seem a little intimidated by him, lucky man. Today he’s taking us to Sarnia to launch a new YMCA after-school arts program, which the Ministry is funding.

Under cover of a sneeze, I ease the window down half an inch and crane upward for a breath of fresh air. The Minister’s habit of liberally spritzing herself with perfume is wreaking havoc on my allergies.

“Margo, close that window,” the Minister snaps. “My hair is blowing around and there will be photographers.”

“Libby, close that window!” Margo snaps in turn, but I already have my finger on the button.

The Minister goes back to reviewing her speech, occasionally breaking the silence with the squeak of a yellow highlighter as she colors over certain words for emphasis. I sneak a glance over my shoulder. Margo bulges her round eyes at me and I look away quickly, but not before seeing that most of the top page is yellow.

The Minister emerges from the car, switching on a high-beam smile. The YMCA staff, volunteers and kids cheer. Margo and I walk ahead to open the door and as the Minister passes us, she thrusts her purse into my hands without even turning her head. Margo and I then fall into step behind her and proceed in this way through the halls to the auditorium. We stand by the stage as she reads her speech, then fall behind again as she reaches the bottom of the stairs and begins to work the crowd.

I’ve become a lady-in-waiting.

Later, when I break from the procession briefly to speak to a student about his painting, I hear the Minister say to Margo, “Where is the girl with my handbag?”

I slouch behind an easel, determined not to spring forward to press the Gucci into her hands, but Margo tracks me down. “The Minister is in the staff washroom and needs her purse to freshen up,” she says before rushing off to deal with a reporter. I locate the washroom myself and knock tentatively.

“Who is it?” comes the Minister’s muffled voice.

“It’s Libby, Minister.”

“Who?”

“Libby. Your speechwriter.” Silence. “With your purse, Minister.”

She cracks open the door, sticks out her hand and pulls the bag in without so much as a thank-you.

Yet the crowd loves her and she seems sincerely proud of the program. She even volunteers to stay for a silkscreen demonstration by the Grade Ones, despite Margo’s pressure to leave. As we finally head to the car, one of the kids runs up to the Minister and hugs her around the waist. I suspect Margo of deliberately arranging a cute photo op for the local papers, but realize it’s impromptu when I see the handprint in blue paint on Mrs. Cleary’s butt.

I see no reason to break the silence between us with the bad news.

I hate flying—especially in planes with motors no bigger than a blow-dryer’s—but I will not give the evil duo the satisfaction of seeing how nervous I am as we embark on a couple of meet-and-greets in small-town Ontario.

Minister Cleary sweeps onto the plane in an elegant wrap and takes her seat. Since Margo is offering flight advice to the pilot, I clamber aboard and sit next to the Minister. Eventually Margo gets on, takes the seat opposite, and glares at me: she must normally ride shotgun. In revenge, perhaps, she says, “Why don’t you let Libby read your speech aloud, Minister, so that you can see how it sounds?”

The Minister turns to me as if she’s never laid eyes on me. “Yes, certainly. Did you write this one, Lily?”

Before I can reply, Margo jumps in. “Oh no, Minister, one of the freelancers wrote it. Libby needs to study you in action for a while before writing speeches herself.”

“Yes, of course,” agrees the Minister, losing interest immediately and turning to stare out the window.

Once we’re in the air, I reluctantly pull out the speech. “Minister…?”

“Yes, yes, go ahead,” she says, without turning.

I read a couple of paragraphs, my voice quavering. Damn it! They’ll think I’m afraid of them when I’m just afraid of being airborne in this tin can with wings. I force myself to read on, but the Minister suddenly reaches over and grabs the speech out of my hand, seemingly appalled by my dreadful delivery. She reads it aloud herself to illustrate how it should be done, emphasizing all the wrong words. When she finishes, Margo applauds and exclaims,

“Well, done, Minister! That was excellent!”

“Excellent,” I echo weakly, nursing my paper cuts.

The Minister pulls out her highlighter and begins coloring over her favorite words.

Another day, another small town, another terrifying plane ride. I spend the flight comparing my expectations about this job with the reality. So far, I’ve only been right about the free food. Mind you, I am acquiring something I never expected from this job: a regal bearing. Putting in the time walking behind the Minister and carrying the royal handbag is paying off. When I return to my home Ministry, my special talent will propel me up the ranks. “Who cares if she never wrote a single speech,” the Education Minister will say, “anyone with that polish must be good!”

Roxanne keeps telling me to calm down, it’s early days yet, but I feel as though I’ve stumbled onto one of her film sets: the Minister is the star who is perpetually in hair and makeup. Today I sneeze seven times during her prelanding touch-up and she has the nerve to look at me with distaste. I’m tempted to wipe my nose on my sleeve. She’d notice. While she may not acknowledge I exist, I’ve caught her casting covert glances at my clothes, my shoes, my teeth, my nails and she doesn’t look impressed.

I have a single moment of pleasure today. As we hurry from the plane to the waiting car, a damp breeze wipes all life from both the Minister’s and Margo’s hair. Mine expands at the same pace theirs droops. I see them checking it out and exchanging disgusted looks. The Minister actually rolls her eyes. Once in the car, with my back to the ladies, I give it a good fluffing. Take that, you limp-locked hags.

I try not to look too excited by the brownies on the refreshment table, but there are so few rewards in this job, so far. I set the purse on a chair and reach for a plate.

“Libby!” I withdraw my hand guiltily. Margo is wedging a sandwich into her mouth and has several more on her plate. “Do not— I repeat— DO NOT leave the Minister’s purse unattended even for a moment.” At least, I think that’s what she says, her mouth being full. It’s definitely a rebuke.

The good news is I discover I can hold a briefcase, two purses and a notepad and still get a brownie into my mouth. Someday those two will realize how much talent I pack into this pear-shaped body.

I’m on the subway en route to my first glamour event, wearing Roxanne’s lucky dress—as in “get lucky.” She insists I borrow it while she’s away because she won’t have much use for it on the Isle of Man.

The dress is sexy despite offering enough coverage to be appropriate at a quasi-work function. The secret is in the flow of the fabric, although there’s less flow now than there was when I tried it on last month. Blame it on the brownies. In fact, the dress is pulling slightly across the thighs, but I wear it anyway, because I only have one other formal dress and I vowed never to wear it again after getting dumped in it after a wedding a year ago (tenth bouquet). Until Margo coughs up a clothing allowance, there will be no new frocks. I hate dressing up anyway and I’m not very good at it, judging by the fact that I snagged two pairs of fifteen-dollar stockings and put on my tights in the end. The dress is floor-length on Rox, mid-shin on me, but it still hangs several inches below the coat I’ve borrowed from Lola. This wouldn’t bother me so much if I had a ride to the event, but no, it’s public transit for me, while the Minister and Margo ride in the car sent by the sponsors of the event. No room for Libby now that she’s put on a few, I suppose.

I arrive at eight sharp, by order of Margo; she and the Minister are late. I explain I am on the Minister’s staff and make small talk with the organizers while I wait. They chat me up, imagining I have some influence. At last the Minister arrives, brushing by me without acknowledgment. Wait, she’s coming back my way, and…yes, she passes the handbag. Margo beckons and I heel like a well-trained poodle. We follow in the Minister’s wake, a few discreet paces behind. I am at leisure to look around, however, and another dream implodes: no handsome eligibles in this crowd. Just as well. They’d hardly be impressed with my role as lady-in-waiting.

I’m speaking to a woman I know from the gym when the crowd parts for Margo.

“Libby. Please go to the washroom.”

“Actually, I just went, Margo, but thanks.” My friend looks at Margo as if she’s nuts.

Margo is not amused. “The Minister needs you.”

Meaning she needs her handbag. I excuse myself and locate the Minister by checking for her size fives under the bathroom stalls. I knock on the door. No response.

“Your purse, Minister.”

She sticks her hand out under the stall and I slip the DKNY clutch into her waving fingers. When she emerges, I lean against the counter pretending not to watch as she reapplies a full range of cosmetics and sprays perfume around her head in a cloud. The other women in the washroom are also watching, as she goes through the ritual. I try to look serious and powerful, as if I might be a police officer overseeing my VIP. Then the Minister hands over her purse and back into the crowd we go. She signals that I am to stick with her by snapping her fingers quietly at her side, yet she does not introduce me once as she works the room. When she takes the stage to speak, I pause by the stairs with the royal bag. Despite her lackluster delivery of a mediocre speech, the host gushes and presents the Minister with an enormous bouquet, which she subsequently shoves into my arms.

Suddenly I realize that all my years of training at weddings haven’t been wasted. I’m just getting paid for my efforts now. Next time I’ll wear the peach satin bridesmaid dress and see how that grabs the Minister.

I am disappointed about Rox’s (get) lucky dress and when the procession passes a pay phone, I call her to tell her so.

“Your lucky dress isn’t.”

“I’ve never known it to fail.”

“That’s when you’re wearing it. I’m cursed, remember? Toronto’s eligible men don’t seem to attend charity events.”

“Wait a second, Lib, are you on the pill?”

“I went off it last year to see if my ovaries work. You never know, I could still need them.”

“Didn’t I tell you that the dress only works when taken in combination with the pill? Taking the pill sends a message to the universe that you’re available.”

“Yeah, yeah.” But it’s true that Rox has never really had a dry spell.

“Don’t ‘yeah’ me. Get your prescription filled, my friend. Take it and they will come.”

“All right, I will. So when’s your flight?”

“Seven a.m. I’ve already said goodbye to Gavin and—”

“Libby, I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” Margo strikes again. “The Minister needs her handbag.”

“She just freshened!”

“There are photographers everywhere. You’re here to work, remember.”

“Listen, Rox—”

“Never mind, go. And don’t talk back to Margo!”

I emerge from the ladies’ room in the Minister’s wake, reeking of her perfume and in some discomfort because I couldn’t use the toilet myself. There was nowhere I could safely put the Minister’s purse and the flowers—plural now, since two additional bouquets have arrived. The Minister, holding me by the wrist to ensure I don’t disappear, approaches a tall, attractive man and trills, “Why, Tim, how nice to see you!”

“Minister Cleary, the pleasure is all mine!”

I am about to gag when I realize it’s Tim Kennedy, the garter-catcher from Emma’s wedding. He recognizes me immediately and says, “Well, hi there! How’s the forehead?”

The Minister looks momentarily displeased, then slaps on a wide smile for a passing photographer. The smile disappears as quickly as the photographer, and the Minister turns her attention back to Tim. “Oh, so you already know…” she struggles for my name “… Lily?”

“Uh, yes,” Tim says, confused. “We met recently at a wedding.”

“Isn’t that lovely. So tell me, Tim, how is your work going?”

The Minister releases my wrist and steps directly in front of me. This would be a more effective blocking strategy if she were a foot-and-a-half taller, but I take the hint and escape into the crowd.

“Oh, Lily! Lily!” It’s Tim calling me in a singsong voice.

“Shut up.”

“Now, Lily, is that any way to greet an old friend?”

“You’re not funny, old friend.”

“You’re just grouchy because you’ve caught yourself another bouquet.”

“Make that three.”

He’s grinning and I can’t help smiling myself. “So, what’s the deal?” he says. “I asked Clarice whether you are working with her and she said, ‘I believe so.’”

“Well, it’s only been a month, she’ll figure it out.”

“I thought you were writing a book?”

“Uh—yeah.” So he did take me seriously. Well, now is not the time to enlighten him. “That’s right, but I couldn’t turn down this excellent opportunity to—”

“—carry the Minister’s flowers.”

“And her purse. The job isn’t as easy as it looks.”

“Knowing Clarice, it wouldn’t be.”

“Actually, I’m supposed to be writing sp—”

“Libby!”

“Oh, hi, Margo. This is Tim Kennedy.”

“We’ve met. So sorry to interrupt, Tim, but the Minister needs Libby urgently.”

I sigh, excuse myself and head to the washroom.

Margo actually offers me cab fare home, but only because she wants me to stop at a retirement home and donate the three bouquets. It’s almost 1:00 a.m. and I suspect the seniors won’t welcome my arrival. Besides, now I really need to pee. So, in my first act of outright defiance, I flout Margo’s orders and take all three bouquets home with me. She’s got me so spooked, however, that I examine them for tracking devices. If she asks where I left them, I’ll tell her I couldn’t read the sign on the senior’s home in the dark.

I load the flowers into juice pitchers and I distribute them around my tiny apartment. The funereal quality suits my mood.

I already have a “sneak” voice mail from Rox when I get up. She was at the airport before dawn and was the first to see the photo of the Minister and me on the front page of the Toronto Star.

“My dress looks great on you,” she says, “but lose the flowers, okay? You’ve got enough trouble with wedding bouquets.”

On my way to work, I stop at my local café to find Jeff, the owner, has pasted the photo above his espresso machine. The Minister is smiling broadly and looks stunning in her beautiful blue gown. I am standing beside her, arms full of flowers and handbags. Thank God one of the bouquets strategically blocks the tightest part of the dress. But wait—there’s a man’s face in profile in the upper right corner of the photo. It’s Tim and he’s smirking. At least it looks like a smirk to me.

I field calls from fans all day. Emma gets through first: “What was Tim doing there?”

“You tell me.”

“Well, he’s a music teacher at the Toronto School for the Performing Arts, but he’s also involved in all kinds of youth causes. This must have been one of his things.”

“Well, he’s annoying and I hope I’ve seen the last of him. Is he still with his girlfriend?”

“Yeah, and last I heard she got some hotshot job with the Vancouver school board. She’s a child psychologist.”

“Not that I care.”

“Of course not.”

“It’s just that I looked like a fool carrying those flowers and the Minister’s purse.”

“He probably thought the designer purse was yours.”

That I doubt, but I feel cheered just the same.

4

I n the realm of romance, I peaked at age nineteen. That’s when Scott, the perfect boyfriend, moved to Halifax to attend Dalhousie University. We’d been together for two years, nine months, five days and seven hours. Scott was a ringer for Jason Priestley from Beverly Hills 90210. He was also very kind. His pals teased him about my height constantly, and he never let on it bothered him. I only figured it out when I overheard him claiming he was five-nine, when he was really five-six. As a gesture of support, I began claiming that I was five-eleven, although I hit six-two in Grade 10. Despite this agreeable fiction, however, Scott had to stand on the bottom stair of my parents’ front porch to kiss me good-night.

We vowed to stay together while half a country apart. He called every Sunday without fail, but at Christmas he went to Hawaii with his parents and on reading week he went to Fort Lauderdale with his pals. I didn’t realize I’d been dumped until he passed through Toronto en route to the west coast for a summer of tree planting. Roxanne and I bumped into him at a local bar, where he was hovering over his new girlfriend, Kelly, who like her 90210 counterpart, was blond, beautiful and petite. While Rox distracted Kelly, I asked Scott, “Did it occur to you to mention we broke up?”

“Lib, we haven’t seen each other in almost a year (eight months, 18 days). I thought you knew.”

So the bastard wasn’t perfect. Kelly, poor thing, didn’t survive the summer, having been supplanted by the even smaller Marta, a Granola Girl who stunk of patchouli oil and didn’t shave her legs. After that came a succession of girlfriends that diminished in size to the point where the guests at his wedding needed a microscope to find the bride.

Elliot says I “lost courage” after Scott, but I think I was damned brave to go out with the number of men I dated during my twenties. Finally, I met Bruce and it seemed as though I may have found it—it being, in Elliot’s view, Scott all over again, but without the good looks. Not that Elliot is really in any position to criticize: his longest relationship lasted six months. Coincidentally, it, too, was with someone who strongly resembled Jason Priestley. Or so he tells me.

When I arrive at the Manhole, Elliot’s favorite bar, he’s holding court at his usual table, which happens to afford an excellent view of both the bar and the door to the men’s room. A waiter is sitting across from him. At first it looks like they’re holding hands, but then I realize Elliot is reading the guy’s palm. Not that I’d have been surprised: Elliot’s charm is legendary and he’s particularly dashing this evening.

“The positive energy is rolling off you in waves!” Elliot greets me with a delighted squeal, sending the waiter scurrying off to get me a beer. “And you look hot, too,” he adds, leaning over to kiss my cheek. “Scorching! Too bad it’s totally wasted in my domain.”

“Not at all,” I say, smiling. “I’ve been hit on here before.”

“That’s nothing to brag about, doll,” he says, but he’s laughing, because he enjoys it more than anyone when I’m mistaken for a drag queen.

“Buy me a martini?” Elliot asks. It’s his way of telling me he’s picking up psychic signals about me and is willing to share them—for a price.

“Do I want to know?” Elliot is not the type of psychic to spare one bad news.

“I’d say so, Flower Girl, but enter at your own risk.”

Elliot’s presence in my life is entirely Lola’s fault. I would never have consulted a psychic myself, but she took to him during a fact-checking phone call five years ago. They clicked over their mutual interest in great food, exotic smokes, and getting laid (not by each other, clearly). Elliot has ranked first in Toronto Lives “best of” edition as the psychic to see for the past four years—the one “most likely to make you feel great about yourself.”

At first I paid fifty dollars a session and cringed over his carnival-barker–style delivery. Now he gives me the ten-dollar “family” rate if I meet him at a boy bar and buy him a drink. I’ve grown to find his performances hilarious. Although he never makes me feel great about myself, he’s frequently dead-on with his predictions. For example, Elliot said that Bruce and I wouldn’t last two years; we survived only twenty months. Mind you, anyone who saw Bruce and me together might have predicted that. My brother, for example, said, “Pay me five bucks and I’ll predict your future with ‘Bwuce.’”

“Tell me all about the Minister, first,” Elliot says. “Has she mentioned me yet?”

His crush on Clarice Cleary predates my employment. She’s all about appearances and he respects that. Besides, Elliot is an artist as well as a psychic and has been the grateful recipient of several Ministry arts grants.

“She hasn’t even acknowledged I exist yet, but I do have some news.” He leans forward with unexpected focus, given the constant parade of handsome men past our table. “She’s been shopping—two Armani suits and an Ungaro ball gown this week alone.”

“Jewelry?” Elliot is practically drooling.

“Not this time, but last week she picked up a stunning tennis bracelet and two new Kate Spade handbags.”

“And you didn’t call me?”

“I wasn’t speaking to you.”

“Oh right, you were still in a snit. Look, it’s not my fault if the universe sends me messages you don’t like. I am merely a medium.”

“Yeah, but would it kill you to keep your mouth shut if you know I won’t like the message?”

“It would.” Elliot is smiling over my left shoulder and I don’t have to be a psychic myself to sense that fresh prey looms on the horizon. “Oh my, the man of tonight’s dreams,” he says, already out of his chair and gliding toward the men’s room.

I have a moment of worry that he’ll be too distracted to give me the good news he’s coaxed out of the cosmos about me, but he’s back presently, with a beautiful, bashful youth in tow.

“Libby, this is Zachary,” he says, “never Zack.” It takes another hour and a second martini before I can get him to focus on the reading. “Okay, Libby, if we must talk about you, fine. I intuited something remarkable about you today, which intensified as you walked through the door. Something different from anything I’ve picked up in months…years, even. In fact, since I’ve known you. Zachary, you would not believe Libby’s luck with men.” Zachary smiles in silent sympathy.

“Elliot, get to the point.”

“Don’t interrupt the energy flow.” Which means he wants to put on a show for Zack. “It’s been a long time since Libby’s had sex, if you must know, Zachary.”

“Must he know, Elliot?”

“He must.” Elliot’s hand is now resting on Zack’s forearm. “How else will he appreciate the significance of this news? Because, Libby, honey—(pause for dramatic effect) you are going to get laid.”

I’m silent for a moment, then, “Really?”

“Don’t sound so surprised. It has happened before—just not in recent memory.” Zack is giggling and gazing admiringly at Elliot. “But what’s truly amazing, is that it’s going to happen more than once. And with different people.”

I’m staring in stunned disbelief.

“I absolutely feel this in my bones,” Elliot continues, voice rising. “You will have several opportunities in the coming months, some of them quite unorthodox. And for a change, I actually see you taking them.”

“Can you sense anything about the men?”

“Who said anything about men?” Elliot says, laughing, but then his brow furrows. “I also sense conflict, and on many fronts.”

“What else is new?” I shrug, undaunted. This news was worth a dozen martinis.

Zachary excuses himself and I taunt Elliot about his penchant for youth. “You’re a cougar,” I tell him.

“And you’re jealous,” he responds.

“I don’t know how you do it,” I sigh. “You were gone less than five minutes and returned with Zachary clinging to your arm. What am I doing wrong?”

“I told you, it’s the sign. Take it off.”

“Don’t start with me.”

“Okay, leave the ‘I’m available,’ and strike a line through the ‘Fuck off.’”

“And we’ve been getting along so well…”

“Actually, you need to get along home.”

“Fine,” I say, becoming huffy in an instant.

“I just want to woo Zachary. You know I’d do the same for you.”

He would, too, but it’s never been necessary. I slip my coat over my raised hackles, reach for my purse and grudgingly kiss Elliot goodbye. On the way home, I stop at the drugstore and fill my prescription for the pill. Best be prepared for all that sex.

I hear my admirer long before I see him. That’s because he is singing—and quite loudly—in the dreary halls of the Pink Palace. Not the worst item in the catalog of male flaws, but it’s unusual, even by government standards. Every day for two weeks, he’s warbled up the long hall to my cubicle, stopped abruptly, then started again ten feet past me. Since male birds sing to attract a mate, I put two and two together.

No doubt sensing I’d prefer to remain anonymous, Margo hastens to introduce me to my songbird, Joe Connolly, an analyst with the Ministry’s policy branch. After a few days of dropping by with policy papers and arias, he gets the nerve to leave me a note inviting me for a drink. Elliot’s predictions in mind, I pick up the phone. Joe might be a weird opera lover, but he’s the only canary chirping by my cubicle; I can’t afford to send him down the coal mine just yet.

We meet at a pub up the street and I am pleased to find, on closer inspection, that Joe is actually cute in a nerdy sort of way. Unfortunately, it becomes clear with the first pint that we have very little in common. The man loves a debate, and the more heated, the better. I, on the other hand, loathe debating because I exhaust the full extent of my knowledge on any issue within five minutes. Besides, I have a tendency to cry during a heated discussion, which rather undermines me in an argument, even of the recreational variety. When his efforts to engage me on political issues fall flat, he takes another tack.

“So, how do you feel about marriage?”

I inhale a lungful of beer but this doesn’t deter Joe from interrogating me about my wifely qualities. By the time the second pint arrives, I tell him I’m uncomfortable, so he switches to the abstract, as in, “Is a good marriage possible in these difficult times?”

There isn’t a third pint.

I can tell from the expression on Margo’s smug, slappable face that she has something on me and mentally scroll through my sins.

“I saw you with Joe Connolly last night,” she blurts.

Who knew she ever left the building? No matter when I shut down at night, she’s still at her desk, and she beats me in every morning. I’ve assumed she just hangs herself up in the corner like a bat and catches an hour’s sleep at dawn.

“And?”

“And it’s inappropriate to date colleagues.”

“Dating isn’t the word, Margo.”

“Well, you were talking about marriage when I walked by, so you can see how I got that impression.”

“We’re not dating.”

“Maybe he thinks so. He came by this morning singing.”

“He’s always singing.”

“It was something from Andrea Bocelli’s Romanza and he was carrying a rose.”

“A rose? (gulp) It was probably for the Minister.”

“Not likely (witheringly). He left with it when he saw me.”

“Look, Margo, there’s no rule saying I can’t have a drink with a colleague after work.”

“No, but in this office, we’re governed by special considerations. You’re not in the bureaucracy anymore, Elizabeth. We must avoid the perception of preference among the staff. I am sure that Father Connolly understands the nature of your position, but—”

“Father Connolly?”

“He didn’t mention the seminary?” I am speechless. “Well, he may not be a full-fledged priest,” she qualifies, “but he left the seminary just last month. You can see why it would be awkward for us if you got involved. There would be talk, and the Minister can’t afford talk. Protocol is everything in our business.”

She smiles and her perfect teeth look like fangs. Then, as I stand to leave, I notice that Margo appears to have doubled in size: I am diminished. Nonetheless, when my minstrel later appears (without the rose, which probably died in Margo’s presence), I propose dinner. I’m determined to see him again simply to defy Margo. Besides, I’m intrigued by the seminary thing.

At a restaurant far out of reach of the Minister’s Office, I try to bring the discussion around to the priesthood, but he evades my clumsy efforts. I can’t come right out and ask; it just seems so personal. Too bad I’m not more like Margo, who has no trouble shoving her nose in where it doesn’t belong. For example, when I walk into the office the next morning, she casually throws out, “And how was your dinner with Father Connolly last night?”

Unbelievable. She must be consulting with Elliot, too. “Oh, lovely, thanks.”

“Good!” she replies. Full-fang smile.

Around noon, I hear strains of “Con Te Partiro” in the hall and quail. What’s the point, when I don’t feel any sparks? This must be another of my romantic dead ends. But somehow, when Joe invites me to meet him at his new condo before catching a movie, I find myself agreeing. In the end, it’s the sight of his single bed that emboldens me. It says so much about his hopes for a wild new life outside the monastery walls.

“What’s this I hear about the priesthood?” I ask, standing before a crucifix on the otherwise bare walls.

Joe explains he left the seminary following a “year of grave doubt.” The door is always open for his return, he says, and he’s not sure what the future holds. I’m quite sure of what it holds for us as a couple, so when he walks me to the subway and leans up to kiss me, I present my cheek. Surely he will get the message?

I arrive at the office to find a voice mail from Joe asking me out again. He’s humming as he hangs up. There is nothing for it but to call Elliot.

“A priest? Are you crazy?!” Elliot squawks.

“Look, you told me there were guys on the horizon. I’m trying to be available.”

“I said unorthodox, if you’ll recall. Put that sign back on right now, Libby and get back to your rock until I tell you otherwise.”

He’s no Jason Priestley, Joe, but he’s very sweet. I suppose that’s why I find myself picking him up one sunny Saturday morning en route to the parade. The “Pride” parade, to be exact. As in “Gay Pride.” It’s a major event in Toronto, and I look forward to it for months. Elliot always holds a raucous Pride Day party that starts after the parade and lasts through the next day.

Joe is as anxious as any Pride Parade virgin. The nudity, blaring music, water guns and S & M gear are quite shocking and the only way to get past it is to set free one’s inner prude. A shirtless woman in jeans and work boots throws her arm around my shoulder and plants a kiss on my neck, not being able to reach my cheek. Joe lurches away in horror, but I just laugh.

Elliot and Zachary soon cruise into view on the float sponsored by the Manhole. Zack is wearing nothing but a skimpy Speedo bathing suit and when he spots me on the sidelines, he leaps off the float, races over and drags Joe and me to the float. Elliot stops dancing to “YMCA” long enough to pull me onto the moving stage, and hands me a water gun to fire out into the crowd. Meanwhile, Zack, Speedo askew, is doing his best to hoist Joe onto the float but Joe is flailing and resisting.

“Come on up, Joe!” I yell. “The view’s amazing!”

Elliot blasts me full in the face with his water Uzi and I’m laughing so hard I almost choke. By the time I can see clearly again, Zack is back on the float, leaving Joe flat on his back in the street. A tall man in fish-nets, a leather miniskirt and red platform sandals is trying to help him to his feet before the next float rolls over him. I catch a last glimpse of Joe as his companion leads him—and his inner prude—into the crowd.

I hope he realizes it isn’t me.

5

M y cousin Amy’s wedding triggered the bouquet curse. I was eight years old and thrilled to play the role of “junior bridesmaid.” The dress was powder blue and I daydreamed for months about walking up the aisle in it, carrying a beautiful bouquet of daisies and pink roses. By the time the big day arrived, however, I had grown and the dress pinched terribly under the arms. Amy handed me a bouquet of polyester flowers in powder blue and white, and I burst into tears. “It doesn’t even look real,” I wailed, to my mother’s shame. “But it matches your dress perfectly and you’ll be able to keep this bouquet forever,” Amy said.

The universe has been making it up to me ever since.

My mother made me keep the fake bouquet so as not to hurt Amy’s feelings. It sat on my shelf for years until I eased it past Mom and into the basement. I urged her to sell it in the annual family garage sale, but she was convinced that Amy—who had relocated to Winnipeg in the late ’70s—would catch her in the act. My mother is the nicest woman in the world. Although this is admirable, for me it’s a lot like driving with the emergency brake on all the time: I’ve got my foot on the gas, but something keeps slowing me down.

I tried to weasel out of attending the bridal shower my mother is hosting for Amy’s daughter. I barely know Corinne, who recently left Winnipeg to attend the University of Toronto. Hell, I barely know Amy, she’s been gone so long. But I do know Amy’s mother, my father’s eldest sister, Mavis. She brings out the worst in me. Even my mother acknowledges Mavis is “difficult” but that doesn’t mean she’ll let me off the hook for the shower. While she doesn’t insist, she refuses to say I don’t have to come and she knows full well I’ll be driven by my own guilt to show up. That’s how the nicest woman in the world manages me. It’s called Emergency Brake Psychology.

I arrive at the family homestead—a standard gray-brick bungalow in Scarborough—an hour early, ostensibly to help my mother prepare, but really to stake out my turf before Mavis takes over the house. Mom doesn’t need my help. She’s been throwing the same shower about twice a year for decades and she’s got it down to an art. The cardboard wishing well is ready and waiting to be filled with gifts for Corinne, the child bride. Pink-and-white crepe-paper bells and streamers hang over the easy chair that serves as the bride’s throne. Otherwise, the basement looks as much like the set of Wayne’s World as ever. Mike Myers grew up a few blocks from here and our parents obviously had the same taste. Mom, however, refuses to redecorate even now. Whenever I complain that my brother Brian’s old Def Leppard posters still adorn the walls, she reminds me that the posters are all she has left of him—as if he’s dead, rather than thriving on the west coast. And when I suggest that the rust shag has seen its day, she says that it’s in perfect condition. Ditto the swag lamp.

But there it is, home.

No need to open the refrigerator to know what’s on offer for the luncheon. If it’s a shower, there must be pinwheel sandwiches—peanut butter spirals with a banana in the middle, and pink-tinted cream cheese surrounding a gherkin. The cranberry-lemonade punch (alcohol free) is already in the bowl. The daisies and pink roses adorning the cake remind me to suggest to Corinne that she simply hand me her bouquet at the wedding. Why risk putting out my eye when we all know where it’s going to end up? Not that I’m bitter. Well, I am bitter that there’s no booze in the punch, but I found my way to my parents’ bar at age fourteen and I can do it again today.

Fortunately, there’s plenty of vodka, because Mavis is definitely on her game.

“Libby!” she exclaims as my mother leads her down the stairs. “What a surprise to see you. Who’s carrying Minister Cleary’s flowers today? Yes, we saw your picture in the paper, dear. Corinne thought you looked a little heavy, but the camera really must add ten pounds, because you look fine now. Mind you, the light in this basement has never been good, has it, Marjorie?”

My mother turns on the swag lamp and gives me a pained smile that says, “I don’t like this any better than you do, but look how well I am bearing up.” I kiss Mavis’s cheek, excuse myself, and add a little more vodka to my punch.

“Libby, darling, could you get some tape and a paper plate for the bow hat?” Mavis trills. “I wouldn’t like to guess how many bow hats you’ve made in your day. Still hoping to wear one yourself?”

“No immediate plans, Aunt Mavis, but never say die.” I get the paper plate, stalling in the kitchen long enough to hear Mavis telling my mother, “I can’t imagine how you feel with Libby still alone. Amy was only seventeen when she married Earl, but I was so relieved. And now Corinne engaged early, too… We have been blessed.”

Amy, visiting from Winnipeg, hugs me as she comes in with Corinne. I’ve forgiven her for the fake flowers. It was the ’70s, after all.

“I don’t know what the boys are thinking, Libby,” Mavis says. “Amy had been married almost twenty years at your age.”

“I was at the wedding.”

“That’s right, you caught the bouquet, didn’t you?”

“It almost knocked me over. I was only eight.”

“But you were always very tall for your age, weren’t you?”

“Yes, and I just read that some people continue to grow even after they die, Aunt Mavis.”

“Marjorie, your daughter is having sport with me.”

“Get your aunt some punch, Libby.”

I make the bow hat, as I always do. Corinne’s bridesmaids are too busy giggling in the corner and cooing over the gifts. It is quite a haul: a full set of china, dozens of plush towels, bottles of wine and champagne, crystal vases, a stackable washer-dryer for their new condo (gift voucher only in the wishing well) and a certificate for a day at a spa.

Once the gifts are open and on display, my mother enlists my help to circle the room with trays of sandwiches and exchange pleasantries with various aunts, cousins and family friends. That’s when I discover I’ve become an object of considerably more interest now that I’m working for a “personality.” I’m not surprised that everyone has an opinion on Minister Cleary and I manage to say the right things. She’s lovely in person, yes. No, I don’t think she’s had any “work” done. Yes, she really is a size zero. And yes, she’s every bit as nice as she seems. Classy is indeed the word. It takes a swig of spiked punch to coax this last comment out of me.

I am, however, surprised to find that people suddenly expect me to discuss politics. It’s not as though I didn’t hear opinions during my tenure at the Ministry of Education, but everyone recognized I was just a bureaucrat and left me in peace. Now that I’ve gone over to the dark side, people want to engage me in spirited debate. I guess I’d better get used to taking a stand if I’m going to write political speeches.

But not today. Today I can watch from the sidelines as the debate heats up, with the shower guests, led by Mavis, jumping between culture and education. Most of the women in the room are mothers or grandmothers and they’re concerned about rumblings of government cuts to music programs.

“My great-granddaughter, Madeline, has a marvelous voice but her school has canceled its choir,” Mavis says. “How do you explain that, Libby?”

“Teachers aren’t leading extracurricular activities this year, Aunt Mavis. They’re ‘working to rule’ because they’ve been forced to teach an extra class each day.”

“And what is your Minister doing about it? Can you talk to her? Maddy’s school must have a choir.” Mavis’s ruddy face has flushed and her sparse gray curls are bobbing as she angrily swivels to make sure the rest of the guests support her.

“Minister Cleary is launching several programs that give kids access to the arts, but school choirs are out of her jurisdiction, I’m afraid. That’s a Ministry of Education issue.”

“But it’s a choir and music is culture. This is outrageous! Maddy is born to sing!”

Mavis is almost shouting now and the room has fallen silent. I look around to see my mother hovering anxiously near the door. Amy looks embarrassed and Corinne is pouting on her throne. Mom hurries over to press more pinwheels on Mavis.

“Now, Mavis, have another sandwich.”

“No, Marjorie, I have had enough. And I have had quite enough of what this government is doing with my tax dollars. Why, I—”

“Aunt Mavis?” I say, bravely. “Could I speak to you alone? I need your advice.”

“Well, of course, Libby,” Mavis, says, mollified. “I’m always glad to help.”

We adjourn to a corner. Mom watches us, grateful, but suspicious.

“I’m having boy trouble, Aunt Mavis, and I can’t talk to my mother about it.”

“Small wonder. Marjorie never did understand men the way I do. It’s a miracle she and your father have stayed married.” Actually, Uncle Harold only survives Mavis because he has virtually moved into their garage with his huge model train set. “So, what’s the trouble then?” Mavis, having recovered her appetite, takes a bite of cake.

“I’ve met this really nice man at work.”

“Really.” Aunt Mavis stops chewing and rests her plate in her paisley-covered lap.

“Yes, he’s very bright and talented. He sings, you know—opera.”

“Opera! Well, you know, little Maddy is quite a singer. It’s such a shame she hasn’t been able to develop her talent through a choir—”

“That’s what reminded me to ask your advice about Joe. He’s such a fine man, but there’s a slight problem.”

“What is it?” she asks, taking another mouthful of cake.

“Well, he’s Catholic, and—”

“Catholic! That won’t do at all, Libby. He’ll want a large family and you are already thirty-seven.”

“Thirty-three, actually. I still have a few good eggs left— I’ve gone on the pill to conserve them. Anyway, the problem is not that Joe is Catholic, but that he’s just left the seminary and is still torn about becoming a priest.”

“A priest! My goodness, are you crazy?” Mavis inhales the last of her cake.

“Aunt Mavis, be careful! Here, drink my punch.” I smile as my aunt swallows the better part of a glass of spiked punch, then I quickly offer to get her some more.

Mom intercepts me at the bar. I expect she is going to blast me for baiting Mavis, but instead she holds out her own punch for a shot of vodka. She comes closer to grinning than she has since running over my father’s new experimental jazz CD with the vacuum cleaner. I clink my glass against hers and whisper, “I’m going back over the wall. Wish me luck.”

Mavis has briefed the crowd by the time I return and I feel I’ve earned more respect, simply by becoming a temptress luring a man from the arms of God. Amy raises her eyebrows and smiles at me.

“How’s the speechwriting working out?” she asks.

“Well, they’re easing me in, but I think I’m going to like it when I get going.”

“Amy is an excellent writer,” Mavis announces.

“Mother, I am not.”

“You are a gifted writer, Amy. If you had just finished high school before marrying Earl, I expect you’d be writing for the premier by now. Don’t roll your eyes at me. This is a talent you and Libby both got from my mother, who had beautiful penmanship.”

I escape up the stairs to the kitchen and start washing up. Mavis’s voice floats up after me. “Libby is doing very well for herself. We are all very proud of her. I always advised her to pursue a career in political writing. I just wish Amy had had the opportunities Libby has had to develop her skills. But then, Amy devoted herself to raising her children and family does come first. Corinne is just like her.”

An hour later, I collect my father from his hiding place in the backyard and tell him to boot Mavis out. As her baby brother, he’s the only one who can handle her. He’s pressing the door closed behind her when she says, “Libby, give up on the priest. It will never work.”

“I think you’re right, Aunt Mavis. I’ll take your advice.”

“What priest?” Dad asks, curious.

“Never mind, dear,” Mom says. “Shower talk.”

It’s a relief to be alone with my parents. We sit down with the last of the punch and as I tell them about the past few weeks, I realize how stressful it’s been. I haven’t wanted to worry them, because they were so enthusiastic about the new job. But now I spill the story of Margo, the cubicle, the joe-jobs and the damned handbag. Soon they’re on their feet, taking action. Mom hurries to the kitchen and gathers the ingredients for brownies. Dad steps outside to start the barbecue so that he can grill me a burger. I’ve told him I’m a vegetarian countless times over the years. He always smiles vaguely and pretends I am speaking an incomprehensible language. Even my mother prefers to think of this as a bad phase. She indulged me for a year by creating a succession of unusual bean dishes, but today she’s thawing beef patties in the microwave. I’ve decided this isn’t a battle worth fighting and become a vegetarian by convenience.

“First pick goes to the speechwriter-who-doesn’t,” Dad says, holding out the plate of burgers. “Choose carefully.” It’s an old family joke. Years ago, Dad used to get tipsy while waiting for the charcoal to heat up and sometimes he’d drop a patty into the fire, or worse, into the dirt beside the barbecue. He’d put a safe burger on mom’s plate, then let my brother and me take our chances with the rest, laughing heartily if one of us got a mouthful of grit.

“I’d still like to know about the priest,” Dad says. The man knows when he’s on to something.

“Reg, don’t pry.”

Mom never pries—wouldn’t be nice. Besides, I don’t think she’s all that interested in my love life. She has never put any pressure on me to marry. At least, I don’t think she has. Sometimes I wonder if it’s so subtle I can’t see it, yet it’s slowly driving me insane. Why else would I be so worried about being single? Overtly, at least, she’s always had very moderate expectations of me in all things. “Just do your best is all I ask.”

Dad is more forthcoming about his ambitions. Each year on my birthday he allows himself a joke about adding something—maybe a few head of cattle—to my dowry, just to see if he can’t stir up some interest.

Tonight, however, Dad only jokes about the Minister and Margo. And Mom gets out the Baileys Irish Cream to serve with the brownies, as if it’s a special occasion. When I climb into my beat-up Cavalier and drive home, I am stuffed, but somehow feel ten pounds lighter.

6

L aurie is pacing up and down, wringing her hands. The Minister is hosting a dinner for a Spanish ambassador tonight and as in-house events manager, it’s Laurie’s job to ensure that the elaborate dinner is perfect. Mrs. Cleary has decreed that each table will feature a centerpiece of magenta tulips, her favorite flower. The buds are to be three-quarters open when the guests arrive—no more, no less. About really important matters, the Minister is always quite precise. The florist, however, is more freewheeling, having delivered twenty gilded pots of pale pink, tightly-closed tulip buds.

“Those flowers are all wrong,” Margo announces, inspecting the pots Laurie has arranged on the boardroom table.

“Tell me about it,” Laurie says. “The Minister’s going to flip and there’s no time to get more. The event starts in an hour.”

“The success of an evening is in the details, Laurie,” Margo intones.

Laurie turns on her. “What would you have me do?”

“Actually, I’ve got an idea,” she says, turning to me. “All these need is a little heat to bloom. Since Laurie is busy, Libby, why don’t you fetch the Minister’s blow-dryer and heat up the flowers?” I feel my eyes rolling skyward of their own accord. Noting this, Margo adds, “I hope you’ll be more agreeable during our trip.”

“What trip?”

“The road show to the eastern townships to promote Kreative Kids.”

It’s the first I’ve heard of any road show for Kreative Kids, the new arts program sponsored by both the Ministries of Education and Culture. With the teachers’ unrest in Toronto, the Premier’s Office has obviously decided our Ministry should do the promotion. The teachers are already on record as saying that the government’s funding cuts killed school arts programs three years ago.

“How long is the trip?”

“Maybe ten days. You’ll need to get someone to take care of your cat.”

How does she know I have a cat? Is she having my house watched? Worse, do I just look like someone who’d have cats?

“Will I be writing speeches?”

“Of course not. A tour is no time to begin writing. Besides, I’ll need you to support me with the logistics and coordinate the freelance writers.”

In other words, I’ll be a makeshift event planner, and planning isn’t my strong suit. My sour look must have reappeared, because Margo smiles and waves me away. “Go get the blow-dryer. I’ll give you a hand moving the tulips to your office.”

“You mean my cubicle.”

“Whatever. You’ll have to take care of them there, because the Minister is meeting some of the guests in the boardroom before dinner.”

At least she hasn’t asked me to spray-paint them magenta, I think, directing hot air at the first pot. The blooms quickly over-heat to the point of collapse; my efforts to revive them at the water cooler are unsuccessful. The second pot works beautifully, however, and I am at work on the third when a man’s voice shouts “hello” over the screaming blow-dryer. Startled, I drop the dryer and knock the pot to the floor. Tim Kennedy is standing behind me.

“So, Clarice has found another way to use your skill with flowers,” he says, with a delighted grin.

“I’d take the time to laugh if I didn’t have a deadline to meet,” I reply sarcastically, stooping to collect the flowers and stuff them back in the pot. “The least you could is help.”

“And get my hands dirty before dinner? I don’t think so.” But he kneels to collect the blow-dryer from under my desk. “My God, what’s that?”

“A rattrap.”

He’s silent for a moment. “What did you say your job is?”

“I didn’t.” I’m disgruntled enough to be rude.

“Oh, come on, Libby, lighten up.”

“Fine,” I say, sighing as I start on a new pot. “What brings you to my humble cubicle this evening?”

“I’m meeting with Clarice before dinner. I manage the Ontario Youth Orchestra, which your Ministry generously supports. Now, tell me what you do here.”

“I’m the Minister’s speechwriter and flower wrangler. My mission today is to ensure that these tulips are precisely three-quarters open by the time you pick up your salad fork.”

“Did you write tonight’s speech?”

“No, but I coordinated it.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I collected it from the freelancer and blew up the point size so that the Minister can read it without her glasses.”

Tim snorts. “Here, let me give this a try.” He takes the blow-dryer from my hand.

“Careful, now. Three-quarters, no more, no less.”

“So, how’s the book coming along?”

Still with the book. Ah well, it’s way too late to explain now. “Fine, I guess. It’s hard to make a lot of progress while working full-time….”

I’m lying with newfound ease because Tim has flipped the dryer to high and can’t hear me anyway. He is leaning in for a closer look at the tulips when Margo’s head suddenly pops over the side of the cubicle. Tim fumbles the dryer, knocking the pot to the floor again. He drops to one knee to pick up the battered buds.

“Don’t, Tim, Libby will get them,” Margo says. “The Minister is waiting for you.”

He grabs his briefcase and squeezes my arm. “Sorry, Libby.”

Margo tows him away, looking back over her shoulder at me, one Vulcan eyebrow raised. The rattrap is probably big enough to take her down if I can find the right bait.

I’m taking matters into my own hands. If Margo won’t assign me a speech, I’ll create my own opportunity. With this in mind, I review the Minister’s calendar to find an event for which no speech is required. I plan to craft brief but compelling remarks and ask her to review them. At best, she’ll decide to deliver the speech; at worst, she’ll offer advice on improving. It’s a desperate move, I suppose, but at least she’ll see me as eager.

The most promising event is the upcoming visit to a junior school where the Minister is to judge a poetry contest. Recalling that the Spanish ambassador who visited yesterday is a well-known poet in his country, I decide to propose that Mrs. Cleary tell the kids about his visit, read a poem and comment on how poetry can transcend borders and unite us as human beings. Wonderful sentiment! How could she fail to recognize my genius?

Laurie sneaks the Spanish ambassador’s books out of the Minister’s office for me and I select a poem that seems appropriate for children. By midafternoon, I have a draft, but I’m stumped about my next move. If I give the speech to Margo, she’ll refuse to share it with the Minister, but how can I slip it directly to the Minister when Margo never leaves her side? Then it hits me: I’m joining the dynamic duo at the unveiling of a portrait of a former Premier in the Queen’s Park lobby this afternoon. It’s a short event, but chances are good that the Minister will need to freshen up. When I escort her handbag to the washroom, I’ll seize my opening.

Sure enough, the velvet curtain is barely drawn when the Minister turns and snaps her fingers at me. I follow her down the corridor to the public washroom and take my position beside her stall, heart pounding.

“Minister?”

“What?” (Ever gracious, my lady.)

“You’re judging a poetry-writing contest at Earl Gray Public School on Friday and I thought it might be a nice opportunity to mention the poetry of the Spanish ambassador who visited yesterday.” Silence. Voice shaking, I continue. “I drafted a few lines of introduction—about how the arts draw people together—and selected a poem that the children can understand. Would you like to review my draft?”

“I suppose so,” she says, and flushes the toilet.

“Shall I slip it into your handbag?” I shout over the running water.

Taking the lack of response as permission, I click open her purse and tuck the speech between her glasses and the massive cosmetic bag. The Minister swings open the stall door and snatches her purse from me with a disgusted look. She continues to cast hostile glances at me while touching up her makeup, before finally saying,

“I’ll look at your speech because it’s my job to spread the word about culture, Lily, but please don’t corner me in the washroom again. This is private time.”

My delight over my coup outweighs my embarrassment at the reprimand. Later, however, I overhear Mrs. Cleary talking to Margo when I’m passing her office.

“Her remarks were quite good for a first attempt, Margo, but the poem is utter drivel. It makes no sense at all. Maybe it lost something in the translation? I’m so glad I didn’t read any of his poetry before we honored him at dinner. I couldn’t have kept a straight face….”

Disappointed, I take comfort from the fact she saw some promise in my remarks. Margo soon arrives to admonish me: “Nice try, Libby.”

“What do you mean?” (innocently)

“All material for the Minister must be vetted by me so that I can ensure everything has the proper tone and content. Your draft, incidentally, did not.”

“Really? It must have lost something in the translation,” I say.

Margo flushes blotchy puce. “Don’t do it again.”

I’ve just logged on to my computer to send Roxanne an e-mail when Margo pops her head around my partition to tell me the good news. I’ll be rooming with her on the trip. My shrill protests do nothing to dissuade her.

“Elizabeth, this job is all about optics. We can’t be seen to squander taxpayers’ dollars. The Minister will have her own room, of course, and the rest of us will double up.”

I manage to extract from her that the “away team” is comprised of only the Minister, Margo, Laurie, Bill and me. Obviously Bill and Laurie aren’t doubling up.

To: Roxnrhead@interlog.ca

From: Mclib@hotmail.ca

Subject: My sad life

Rox,

Glad to hear you’ve arrived safely in Douglas, although the constant rain sounds depressing. If it’s any consolation, the micro-climate here at Queen’s Park is equally miserable. Remember that trip we’re taking? Margo is making me share a room with her. Since no one else is doubling up, I have several theories about her motivation:

a) she has a crush on me;

b) she’s worried I’ll be off writing speeches and slipping them into the Minister’s handbag;

c) she suspects Laurie and I will plan a mutiny if we spend our nights together; or

d) two of the above.

I have every reason to think that Margo hates me as much as I do her, so it’s likely choice (d).

Well, she’s a brave woman. I will have nine opportunities to smother her while she sleeps. Try to make it home in time for the trial, will you?

Libby

I’ve been freakishly hungry since I started this job. My stomach always seems to be growling, despite the fact that my waistband is constantly cutting off my circulation. The day of the pre–road show speech-planning meeting, the internal grumbling escalates to a howl. Although I’ve dealt with the freelance speechwriters for weeks, it’s the first time I’ve met them in person. I’ve already developed a burning resentment of them, simply because they get to write while I “coordinate.” One of the writers is forgettable—or would be if only she’d stop talking about communing with her “muse” (she needs a new muse—her writing isn’t that good). The other, Christine, is considered the “intellectual,” which is reason enough to hate her. She also has a frightening wiglike growth on her head. I promptly christen Christine “Wiggy.”

Mrs. Cleary is surprisingly engaged in the meeting and Wiggy and Forgettable are vying for her favor. I’m pleased to note that Forgettable is frequently on the receiving end of the blank Ministerial stare— I presumed such moments were my exclusive domain. Mind you, I am totally excluded from the discussion and sit in silence until my stomach speaks on my behalf, gradually increasing in volume until Margo turns to me and says, “Libby, can you keep it down?”

After the meeting, I realize that what I am experiencing is not hunger, but low-grade indigestion brought on by common jealousy. I never used to be a competitive person, but frustrated ambition has possessed me like a demon, which explains why I’ve been eating for two.

Fortunately, I have a little project underway that will simultaneously improve my profile while improving the Minister’s speaking style. I’ve attended enough events by now to know the latter also needs work. The problem is two-pronged. First, the Minister only occasionally reviews her speeches prior to delivering them. Second, she won’t wear her glasses. Instead, she demands that her remarks be formatted not in the standard speech font of 14 points, but in a 40-point font that wouldn’t be out of place on a street sign. At this size, very few paragraphs fit on a page; even a brief greeting can run to twenty pages, while a keynote address rivals the phonebook in bulk. This does not faze the Minister. She simply heaves her portfolio onto the lectern and stumbles through the speech as fast as her long nails allow, grabbing a breath wherever there’s an opportunity.

“This is ridiculous,” I whisper to Margo one day during a lengthy page-flipper in a high-school auditorium. “She has to wear her glasses. Her delivery is so disjointed people are tuning out.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“A teacher in the second row is snoring.”

“You’ll need a lot more experience under your belt before taking this on,” she advises.

So I launch Project Diminishing Font. One day, I reduce the font to 38 points, with no discernible impact on the Minister’s delivery. Then I try 36, after which I ease it down half a point at a time until I have the Minister reading a 28-point font with apparent comfort. Even this has made a big difference to the amount of text I can cram onto the page. Obviously, she never needed 40 points in the first place.

The Minister slips a streamlined folder onto the lectern and starts into her speech. We’re at a conference for teachers of children with disabilities sponsored by the Hearing Society and the National Institute for the Blind and she’s tearing through the first page quite smoothly, considering she didn’t read it in advance (as evidenced by the lack of yellow highlighting). By the second page, where the text is denser, she starts laboring. By the fifth, she is getting some of the words wrong and by the eighth, she keeps pausing to guess. After leaning in so close to the lectern that all we can see is the top of her head, she finally lifts the speech and holds it inches from her face, muttering into the page. Meanwhile, a teacher standing behind her struggles to simultaneously translate her remarks into sign language.

Perhaps my decision to dip to a 26-point font was a little ambitious.

At the end of the event, I scurry to the car and sink as low in the front seat as possible.

“Ask her,” the Minister says to Margo in the back seat, in an eerily calm voice.

“What happened to today’s speech, Libby?” Margo’s voice is calm too.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what size is the font?”

“I’m not sure,” I hedge.

“Give us your best guess.”

“Well, it’s pretty big. Maybe 32 points.”

“Did you reduce it deliberately?”

Recognizing that evasion is futile, I confess. “Actually, I did. I couldn’t understand why it’s usually so large. It’s difficult to deliver a speech smoothly with so little text on a page. And besides…”

“Yes?” Margo asks.

“Well, flipping that many pages is very hard on a manicure.”

“Libby, when you’re ready to think for yourself, we’ll let you know. Let’s return to a 40-point font, shall we?”

Much later, the Minister says, “Margo, you don’t suppose anyone thought I was mocking the people from the Institute for the Blind?”

“Of course not, Minister. You could barely tell there was a problem.”

Margo, who is sitting behind me, hoofs the back of my seat.

I’m about to become a glorified roadie. During the Ministerial tour through the eastern townships, I’ll be part of the “advance” team that sets up the show. This could actually be fun, since Bill and Laurie comprise the rest of the advance, but with Margo, nothing comes easily. Bill and Laurie will drive ahead in a Ministry “limo” (a government-issue sedan), while the Minister flies from place to place in the tiny government plane. I really want to travel by car, but Margo apparently considers me “plane-worthy.” I’m certain this has less to do with wanting me on the plane than with not wanting me to have a good time in the car. It’s her “divide and conquer” philosophy.

This means Bill will often have to leave an event site, pick me up from the closest airstrip, and rush back to ensure all is ready for the arrival of the Minister. Meanwhile, Mrs. Cleary and Margo will stall for time in a separate car with a local driver so that they can make a grand entrance. It’s a pain in the ass for all concerned, but Margo has somehow convinced the Minister that it’s a sound strategy. It’s Margo’s special gift: she can dress up any stupid idea in flawed logic and present it as viable to the Minister. Since the Minister does not appear to be a fool, I assume she has her reasons for accepting Margo’s decisions.

We three roadies have prescribed tasks. Laurie will schmooze the event organizers and keep the kids calm. They’re always wound up at these events, even though they don’t have a clue who the Minister is. Bill and I are to make sure the auditorium is set up properly, and the sound system is working. My special job is to ensure that the podium is appropriately situated to display the Minister to good effect. Specifically, it must be low enough so that she’s visible and properly positioned to allow the lights to gleam off her burnished locks.

My biggest challenge is that we require lecterns that accommodate an 8.5 x 14-inch folder, the standard being 8.5 x 11 inches. The Minister has decided, as a result of Project Diminishing Font, I presume, that her speeches will be printed on legal-size paper to get more 40-point text on each page. Besides, this way she’ll barely need to lower her head to read. Looking down is unflattering around the chin line and even having a prominent cosmetic surgeon as a husband cannot completely erase the effects of time.

Not that I’m totally insensitive on this score. My many years of rebound dieting foretell of early wattle. Maybe the Minister will grow to like me and give me a voucher for some cosmetic work in her husband’s luxurious clinic. I plan to age gracefully, but if the nip-and-tuck were a gift, well, it would be rude not to accept it.

To: Mclib@hotmail.ca

From: Roxnrhead@interlog.ca

Subject: Roughing it on the Isle

Hi Libby,

Bridget Wilkinson refused to come out of her trailer and shoot her scenes today. It all started when the local caterers assumed her request for turkey bacon was a joke. You don’t laugh at Bridget! The executive producer stormed over but despite all the yelling, Bridget never appeared on set. I know how much you love the Diva Report, so I hope you’ll still be able to access your e-mails during your trip.

Rox

P.S. I haven’t missed Gavin at all, which doesn’t bode well. I suspect I’ve seen the last of him and his mangy mutt.

I try reverse psychology on Margo with good results. Fearing she will forbid me to bring the laptop on our journey, thereby cutting off my electronic lifeline to Roxanne, I blithely announce my intention of leaving the computer behind.

“You must bring it,” she declares.

“Why?” If she weren’t staring at my shoulder, she’d surely detect the desperation behind the bravado. Rox e-mails often when she’s on location and I’ve been relying on the celebrity gossip more than ever lately to distract me from my woes.

“Because it will be useful, that’s why.”

“But I’ll have to carry it around and it’s heavy. It’s not like I need it to write speeches.”

“You’ll need it to revise the freelancers’ speeches.”

“Well, okay, but I have back trouble, you know.”

“You can get Bill to help you carry it, but I’ve made my decision.”

To: Roxnrhead@interlog.ca

From: Mclib@hotmail.ca

Subject: Victory

Rox,

If they fire Bridget Wilkinson, tell your director I’m ready for my close-up. My superb performance this afternoon convinced Margo that it was her idea to bring a laptop along on our trip. I even managed to look annoyed and resentful when she put her foot down. It wasn’t much of a stretch, since it’s becoming second nature anyway.

Can’t say I’m surprised about Gavin. Country boys were never your type.

Lib

With the trip less than two days away, my worries about rooming with Margo haven’t diminished, particularly as her food issues become more obvious. We’re constantly being offered refreshments at events and on several occasions, I’ve caught her slipping food into her bag for later, presumably because she never goes home. Or maybe she lived through the Irish potato famine in a former life.

Today I catch her removing a plastic cup covered with a napkin secured by an elastic band from her briefcase (i.e., there was planning involved). In the cup are a dozen large shrimp in cocktail sauce. I recognize them from the buffet table at an event we visited hours earlier.

“Margo! You’re not going to eat those are you?” I say. “It’s salmonella waiting to happen!”

“Never mind!” she retorts, slipping them back into her briefcase and stalking out of her own office.

No wonder we have a rat problem. And no wonder her clothes are often a mess, with stains and her shirttail hanging out. The Minister frequently whispers, “Margo, your blouse…”

Still, as much as it pains me to admit it, Margo is actually quite attractive. What’s more, for all her compulsive eating and hoarding, she barely tips the scale at a hundred pounds. Maybe she could get me a similar pact with the devil. I imagine she has some pull.

“Are you drunk, Libby?” my mother asks when I call to tell her we’re shipping out at dawn.

“No, why would you say that?” I counter, scooping the ice cubes out of my glass so that their clinking won’t give me away.

“You seem a little withdrawn, that’s all. And you’re slurring.”

“I am not slurring.”

“You’d drink a lot less if you had Mrs. Bingham living next door, monitoring your recycle bin as she does mine.”

“I don’t drink enough to interest the Mrs. Binghams of the world. Worry about my chocolate consumption if you must worry.”

“You’ve been miserable since you started this job.”

“I’m fine,” I slur soothingly. “How’s Desdemona doing?”

“Desdemona? The Binghams’ poodle? Good Lord, she died in the ’70s!”

“Yeah, but they had her stuffed and standing by the fireplace last time I was there.”

“That was a decade ago. I’m sure they’ve thrown it out by now.”

“Her. Desi was a girl. Maybe they sold her at their garage sale last year.”

“I think I’d have noticed that. I’d have bought her for your father.”

“He could keep her beside his recliner.”

“Don’t suppose your diversionary tactics are working, by the way. They may work on your aunt Mavis, but they’re wasted on me.”

“Not if I’m sober, they aren’t.”

“So you are drinking!”

“Mother, you’d be into the bourbon too, if you were facing the week I am.”

“Never bourbon,” she says. “I’m sure it won’t be as bad as you fear. And when you get back, I’ll make some Nanaimo bars you can take into the office to sweeten Margo up.”

They’ll be just the thing to tempt her into the rattrap.

7

T he Royal Tour is off to a majestic start. Witness this day in the life of the average political speechwriter.

7:00 a.m.: Libby arises immediately upon alarm, only to have tiny, fleet-footed Margo stampede by into shared washroom and slam door. Boots up computer instead and checks hopefully for e-mails from Rox.

7:30 a.m.: Showers while Margo throws personal effects into suitcase and races off to all-you-can-eat buffet at motel restaurant.

8:10 a.m.: Rushes into motel restaurant only to hear Margo announce there’s no time to eat—plane awaits.

9:00-10:00 a.m.: Another terrifying flight in the provincial crap can with wings.

11:15 a.m.: Arrival at public school. Royal entourage attends lengthy theatrical production of Harry Potter adventures, tours art and music rooms, and listens to choir recital (songs from Lion King). Lib smiles until gums dry out.

1:30 p.m.: Lunch in school cafeteria. Mix and mingle.

Highlight: Student, age 7, asks Minister, “Do you work in a church?” Minister looks annoyed.

Lowlight: Student, age 7, asks Libby, “Are you pregnant?”

Result of Lowlight: Baggy sweater destroyed by sundown.

2:30 p.m.: Departure for school number two. As rare treat, Lib rides with Laurie (Margo evidently has top secret biz to discuss with Minister). School itinerary virtually same as before, except theatrical production is scene from Free Willy. Boy in black-and-white costume flops around the stage as Willy. Choir’s tunes are from The Little Mermaid.

Highlight: Student, age 5, remarks to Minister, “You smell.”

Result of Highlight: Minister grabs handbag and applies even more expensive cologne in staff washroom.

Lowlight: Whale child cited previously rediscovers arms and legs, snatches Ministerial handbag from chair beside Libby, and runs off with it. Lib pursues. Ruckus is sufficient to provoke Minister to whisper savagely, “Lily, I would appreciate your attention during my remarks. You need to set an example for the students.” Libby glares menacingly at purse-snatcher at snack time, noting nonetheless that Margo stashes two butter tarts in briefcase.

4:00 p.m.: Departure to Town Hall for glad-handing of boring local politicians. MPP, age 70, holds Lib’s hand too gladly and too long. Margo, generally so quick to interrupt, is nowhere to be seen.

6:00 p.m.: Arrival at Lakeside Inn, located not by a lake but a major highway. Margo promptly disappears. Lib skulks to Laurie’s room to make plans for dinner.

6:20 p.m.: Margo arrives at Laurie’s door, shifty-eyed with paranoia. Could Lib and Laurie be plotting mutiny? Lib blurts out that she is simply borrowing curling iron from Laurie, who promptly produces one. Returns to room to add fake ringlets to hair under Margo’s watchful eye.

6:30 p.m.: Margo decides that the Minister needs contact lens solution and sends Lib to town to buy it. Lib picks up submarine sandwich en route, dazzling “sandwich technicians” with curls.

9:00 p.m.: E-mail to Rox, bitching and whining.

10:30 p.m.: To bed, too exhausted to read.

11:00 p.m.: Margo crashes into room, turns on all lights. Consumes butter tarts with snuffling noises. Prepares for bed as loudly as possible.

12:00 a.m.: Lib lies awake listening to Margo snore.

Another day, another town, another school visit. It’s 7:00 p.m., and we’ve just checked into the Downtown Motor Lodge, which (surprise) is a twenty-five-minute drive from downtown anywhere. I feel at home immediately, because the rust, orange and brown decor is reminiscent of my parents’ basement. Having gained a small head start on Margo, I switch on the swag lamp and throw my things on the bed closest to the washroom. I’m stretched proprietarily across it when Margo crashes into the room and I smile innocently in response to her glare. There was a candy machine in the lobby; maybe I’ll curl up with a bag of pretzels and watch mindless sitcoms on TV. That’s about all I feel up to tonight. I hide the remote while Margo unloads her beauty aids in the washroom, then start digging through my wallet for change.

“So, Libby.” Damn. It speaks. “I’ve made some revisions to tomorrow’s speeches. I want you to input the changes and have them printed.”

I look at my watch pointedly before responding. “And where do you propose I do that, Margo? It’s almost 7:30 and we aren’t in the heart of a thriving metropolis.”

“It isn’t my job to help you figure out how to do yours. I’m sure you’ll find a way. I’ll be in Mrs. Cleary’s room if anyone needs me.”

I throw my shoe at the door as she closes it behind her. Okay, I wait a few beats first so she can’t hear the thud, but the act of defiance still makes me feel better. I input her changes, which, in my humble opinion as speechwriter/lady-in-waiting/flunky, were completely unnecessary, and head over to the motel office, computer disk in hand. My faint hope that someone there can help with the printing flickers when I find Dwayne, the night manager, hunched over the front desk crafting a Gents sign with a wood-burning kit. But he surprises me.

“Sure, we have a printer, honey. Come on in.”

At this rate, I may even be able to catch the second half of Will and Grace. My heart sinks when I see the primitive piece of junk they call a printer. I explain politely that my disk is not compatible with their printer and Dwayne directs me to a place in town that can do the job. I collect the keys to the government “limo” from Bill, who’s ensconced in his room with a detective novel and a large pizza. He offers to come along for the ride, but fraternizing with Laurie is what set Margo off in the first place, so I decline.

During the drive, I imagine all the ways I could tell Margo to shove it. If the copy shop is closed when I arrive, I’ll head right back to the motel and compose a snotty resignation letter, I decide. Oh, right, no way to print it. Fortunately, the shop is open and I am soon on the road again, having surmounted another of Margo’s obstacles. Hard not to feel good about that! I perk up even more when the Golden Arches appear on the horizon— I do deserve a break today. And how nice to discover a new talent on my drive back to the motel… Like my father before me, I am able to eat a Big Mac with one hand and steer with the other. Since I’m starting to feel quite good about myself, I chant my affirmations between bites: “I am an accomplished speechwriter. I embrace my challenges with grace. I accept all the blessings the universe offers me.”

Then I wipe my mouth on my sleeve and burp. What the hell?

The extra duties Margo assigns me are obviously part of her scheme to isolate me and break my spirit. She wants me out, of that much I am sure, and if she sees me as a threat she must sense my potential. Well, bring it on, baby. I am not going anywhere because I embrace my challenges with grace.

Full of renewed enthusiasm, I burst into our room, only to find it empty. Well, if these speech revisions are so damned important, I’ll deliver them personally into the Minister’s hands. Maybe I’ll even convince her to rehearse them for a change.

When I knock at the Minister’s door, Margo’s dulcet tones ring out.

“Who is it?”

Ignoring the fact that it’s Margo, I carol out, “It’s me, Minister. I brought your revised speeches for tomorrow!”

“Is that you, Lily? For heaven’s sake, Margo, get up and get the door.”

“No problem, I’ve got it,” I call, pushing the door open and freezing at the sight of Margo on her hands and knees in front of the Minister.

“Well, come in, Lily,” says the Minister. “Don’t be shy.”

Flustered, Margo scrambles to her feet, dropping a bottle of black-cherry red nail polish in a cloud of cotton balls. I’ve interrupted a pedicure. The Minister, quite oblivious to Margo’s dismay, leans back in her chair, smoothing the feather trim of her diaphanous lounge outfit.

“Be careful,” she says as Margo stumbles over a pair of feathered mules. “Do you realize how much those shoes cost? Lily, what was wrong with the speeches?”

“Margo made a few changes and sent me into town to—”

“Some minor but critical edits, Minister,” Margo interrupts smoothly. “Libby was good enough to see they were made.”

“Thank you, Lily. I hope you got dinner?” Mrs. Cleary masterfully hoists a California roll to her mouth with chopsticks.

My jaw drops even further. Is she warming up to me? Or just warming up to the open bottle of wine on the table? And where the hell did they get that fine spread of sushi in this backwoods town?

“I did, yes, thanks.”

“Well, we have enough to spare if you’d like to—”

“Libby can’t stay. She has work back in our room,” Margo says, pushing me out the door.

“This little piggy stills needs polish, Margo,” the Minister says as the door closes behind me.

Speeches still in hand, I head back to our room, retrieve the remote from under the mattress and flick on the television. Only one channel is clear enough to watch and at the moment it’s running Dukes of Hazzard. I turn down the volume and call my answering machine. It would be nice to hear the voices of family and friends just now.

“You have no new messages.”

And the sun sets on another fine day.

Everything looks better in the morning—or so says my mother, the incurable optimist, who has never met Margo. Still, it is going a little better today. First, I was victorious in the shower wars, thanks to my proximity to the bathroom. I raced in the moment I heard her stirring, and then deliberately took twice as long as usual to style my hair. By the time Margo got her turn, Laurie was knocking on our door to warn us about checkout in ten minutes. Margo chose to spend the ten minutes shovelling scrambled eggs into her mouth and has therefore been running around without makeup, her wet hair drying in pleasing strings. We’re on the plane before she gets a chance to pull her cosmetic bag out of her briefcase.

Mrs. Cleary, who has been idly flipping through a decorating magazine during the flight instead of reading her speech, wrinkles her perfect little nose and exclaims, “Good Lord, what is that smell?”

At first, all I smell is her own cloying perfume, but then I detect an acrid odor. The Minister’s gaze is fixed on Margo, who is shrinking behind a green Clinique hand mirror, as she applies her eye makeup.

“Margo? Answer me, please.”

“I have no idea, Minister,” my roomie replies, looking guilty as she casually snaps the lid of her briefcase closed with her elbow.

“Open it,” the Minister commands.

“My briefcase? Why? There’s nothing in it but notes.”

“Let me see for myself,” says the Minister, more bemused than harsh.

“Why don’t I ask the pilot? It smells like chemicals.”

“Margo, open your briefcase.”

Margo clicks it open reluctantly to reveal a few date squares from Monday’s school visit, half a tuna sandwich of relatively recent origin and an ancient orange, molded almost beyond recognition.

“Eeeew!” the Minister and I exclaim in unison. “Get rid of that immediately,” the Minister adds.

Sheepish, yet defiant, Margo stashes her treasures in the plastic bag I hand her. The Minister turns to me and rolls her eyes dramatically and we both laugh. We are actually having “a moment.” I laugh even harder when I notice that Margo has only applied her makeup to one eye and is looking like a “before and after” picture. Unfortunately, the Minister notices too.

“Fix your makeup, Margo, we’ll be landing soon.”

I must look too happy, because she turns to me and says, “As for you, Lily, your eyebrows are unruly. Margo has her waxing kit with her and I recommend letting her help you with them.”

Margo pauses in the middle of her application of mascara to raise one penciled-in eyebrow at me over the edge of her mirror. How will I sleep tonight?

Today was the lightest day of the tour circuit and we move into Fort Everest’s Have-a-Nap Hotel by 4:30 p.m. I have rest and relaxation on my agenda, but thankfully, Margo is here to rescue me from that.

“What we really need, Libby, is a scrapbook of our trip and this would be a great project for you, since you’re so creative. I want you to get started tonight, while it’s all fresh in your mind.”

And there you have it, folks, the spirit-busting task of the day. I knew she’d punish me somehow for my beautiful moment with the Minister, but this is an inspired move. I lack the “craft” gene and Margo knows it. Time to put my foot down, I decide. Skill with scissors and glue is not required of a speechwriter. I practice the words in my head: “Margo, I’ve worked some long days lately and I really need to take it easy tonight.” But when I open my mouth, waffle-talk trickles out.

“Well, Margo, I’m not sure if I’m the right person for a job like that. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

Where’s my father’s legacy now? This is the man who once asked his boss, “Would you like me to shove a broom up my ass and sweep as I go?” Wait, he got fired from that job. Which explains why I soon find myself wandering the aisles of a local dollar store, filling my basket with art supplies from Margo’s list.

Back at the Have-a-Nap, I begin pasting photos, speeches and programs into the scrapbook. Running my glue stick across the pages is actually quite soothing and I don’t even mind when Margo pops her head in the door to let me know that she and the Minister are heading into town to see a late movie. Eventually, I become so relaxed that I’m forced to call it a night lest Margo return to find me glued to the table by my own bushy eyebrows.

8

I am sound asleep when Margo comes into the room. In fact, I’m having an amazing dream about Tim in which we’re having dinner together at Lavish, the trendy new restaurant I can’t afford in my waking life.

Tim looks gorgeous; I look thin (dreams take off ten pounds). He’s entranced by my conversation, and no wonder: every word that falls from my lips is a perfect gem. When the waiter brings the dessert menu, Tim orders chocolate mousse and tries to tempt me with it. He’s describing how he’s wanted to rip my clothes off since the night we met. Soon we tumble into a cab, where we grope each other like sex-starved teenagers. Buttons and bras are springing open seemingly of their own accord. Suddenly a cell phone rings—one of those annoying musical rings, like the William Tell overture. Tim lets go of me to lunge for his phone and my head hits the backrest with a thud. Confused, I hear Margo’s voice squawking away in the distance. I can’t make out what she’s saying at first, but her voice gets louder and clearer and I hear my name.

“Libby! Libby, wake up!

The lights are on and my eyes are open but I’m groggy enough to wonder what Margo is doing in the back of our cab. Then she reaches out to shake my shoulder and I remember where I am. Squeezing my eyes shut, I struggle to hang on to the feeling of Tim’s lips on the back of my neck, of his hands in my hair and—

“What are you grinning at?” Margo asks.

“Grinning? I’m not grinning, I’m grimacing because you’re standing over me in the middle of the night for no apparent reason.”

“The Minister is upset! We’re leaving!”

“Leaving?” I glance at the clock on the bedside table. “For God’s sake, Margo, it’s 2:30 in the morning. What’s going on?”

If it were anyone other than Margo, I’d be on my feet already, certain that tragedy had struck. Because it is Margo, I can only guess that the Minister has broken a nail and I am about to be dispatched for an emergency repair kit.

“Never mind, just get Bill to find us another motel right away.” Maybe it’s resentment over being torn from my dream, but I find the nerve to stare back at her without flinching. I will wait for an explanation. “All right,” she yields, “if you must know, the Minister found something in her bed and refuses to stay here.”

“What? A cockroach?”

Silence. I hold my ground. I will stage a bed-in until I get a response.

“It was a condom—a used condom.” I throw back the covers and pull on my jeans, all thoughts of sex extinguished. “When you’ve taken care of the arrangements, come and get me,” Margo says, rushing out.

Bill finds us new digs and pulls the car around. Laurie emerges from her room and stands, dazed, beside the car.

“You and the Minister can leave now,” I tell Margo when she opens the Minister’s door. “Bill will come back for Laurie and me later.”

The Minister sweeps out in a gorgeous yellow silk kimono, matching head scarf and dark sunglasses. Somehow I manage not to laugh as she clatters toward the car in those feathered mules and slides into the back seat. While she’s pulling her leg in, there’s a flash, as if someone has taken a picture. We all spin to see a man running around the corner of the motel. Bill slams the car door and races to the driver’s side, while Margo hurls herself into the passenger seat. “Libby,” she calls out the window as they squeal off, “go after him! Get the film! Then grab our things.”

I look at Laurie questioningly and she shakes her head; we’ve sacrificed enough for our province. Instead, we return to our rooms to pack. Handling Margo’s belongings is plenty heroic for me, since it means disposing of the garlic bread she lifted at dinner. By the time Bill returns, we’re ready to roll and the three of us laugh ourselves sick all the way to the new fleabag motel.

“Remember the last time we had a crisis on the road?” Bill asks Laurie. “Cleary canceled the rest of the trip. Maybe we’ll get lucky again.”

Bill invites Laurie and me to his room, where he produces a bottle of premium bourbon. Turns out these two can play as hard as they work. In fact, by the time I finally weave my way back to my room and fall into bed, the sky is beginning to brighten.

I feel as though I’ve only been asleep for minutes when I awaken, sensing an evil presence. I struggle to open my puffy eyes, only to see someone standing by my bed, silhouetted by the light streaming through the window. She’s staring at me intently. Waiting. I swallow a scream and croak, “What are you doing?”

“Waiting for you to wake up.”

“If you’re thinking about waxing my eyebrows, forget it.”

“This is no time for your jokes. We have a crisis.”

“I haven’t recovered from the last one yet.”

Margo is still wearing her suit from yesterday and it’s looking decidedly worse for wear. Craning to see the clock, I realize that I have only been asleep for an hour. I also realize that I’m still tipsy. Keeping my face averted to prevent premium bourbon vapors from enveloping her, I raise both eyebrows in a question. She holds up a newspaper, forcing me to lift my pounding head for a closer look. It’s the Fort Everest Chronicle-Times, and there on the front page is Minister Cleary, just as she appeared during last night’s exodus. It is just a black-and-white, so regrettably, the impact of the yellow silk robe is lost. The photographer caught her with mouth agape, one bare leg and a feathered mule dangling out the car door.

“Good thing you did that pedicure,” I say.

“I’m surprised you see any humor in this situation.”

“Sorry. Read me the headline.” I ease my head back onto the pillow.

“Minister Storms Out of Have-a-Nap At Midnight— Motel Staff Mystified.”

Margo tosses the paper at me and sits on her bed, which hasn’t been slept in. The story quotes motel staff speculating on the Minister’s hasty departure: “Her husband is very rich, you know. Maybe our beds aren’t good enough for her.”

“The Minister refuses to do today’s events.”

“That’s just going to make things worse.”

She ignores me and continues: “The Minister wants to know how the reporter found out about it. She thought you might know.”

“How would I know?” When she doesn’t reply, I sit up so that I am eye-to-bloodshot-eye with her. “I hope you’re not implying I called the local paper and leaked this in the five minutes before Bill found us another motel.”

“Not at all, Libby, but we do want you to drive over to the Have-a-Nap and apologize for the Minister’s abrupt departure. See what you can find out.”

“Just let it go. The more we react, the more coverage we’ll get.”

“The Minister wants action, so get out of bed and get going.” She hands me the car keys and walks out.

The definition of “speechwriter” just gets broader every day. I consider telling her I’m too drunk to drive, but she’d only run to Bill, then Laurie, and discover they’re worse off than I am. Instead, I swallow headache pills and head for the car. I can’t believe they think I alerted a paper I didn’t know existed to the newsflash that the Minister would be appearing out-of-doors without makeup for the first time in her life.

At the Have-a-Nap, I chat up the clerk and apologize for our hasty exit. There’s a stack of newspapers on the counter and the unflattering photo is already on display in a cheap plastic frame by the cash register. Gesturing toward it casually, I say, “I can’t imagine how the paper knew we’d be leaving just then.”

“The editor was leaving Millie’s Roadhouse next door as your driver pulled around,” the clerk offers. “Between you and me, he’s thrilled, because there’s so little real news around here. Apparently they’ve picked up the story in Toronto, too.” I must look shocked because she adds quickly, “The Minister’s not upset about all this, is she?”

“Not at all! She has a great sense of humor,” I lie. “I’ll let her know that the folks back home will see her in the news.”

I knock at the Minister’s door and when Margo opens it, I can see the Minister lying on the bed, forearm over her eyes, overcome by the drama of it all. The table is strewn with hair-brushes, makeup and nail polish. Clearly, Margo has been trying to soothe some shattered nerves.

“You’d better step outside,” I tell Margo. She is so shaken by my news that I actually have to restrain her from heading to our room to write a huffy rebuttal to the local paper—and all three Toronto papers, just in case. “Don’t. You’ll inflame the situation. Leave it alone, and it’ll die out.”

“And where did you get your degree in Political Science, the University of Kentucky?” I guess she’s onto the bourbon.

She’s blocking entry to the Minister’s room, but realizing I can turn my personal hygiene issue to my advantage, I lean in nice and close and let the fumes wash over her: “I may not have the degree, Margo, but I know something about public relations.”

My breath has the desired effect and Margo backs away, allowing me to slip past her. “Minister?”

“Who’s there?” comes her weak reply.

“It’s me… Libby. I have something I need to tell you.”

Margo attempts a body slam in the doorway and we stumble into the room together.

“Stop it, you two, my head is killing me. What is it, Lily?”

“I think you should do this morning’s event.”

“I am not leaving this room.”

“The children have been preparing for weeks. They’ll be so disappointed.”

“Can’t you see I’m ill?”

“Surely you could stand for an hour, Minister… Remember, children don’t read the newspaper.”

She lifts her head to glare at me. My imagination must have been working overtime when I thought she was warming up to me.

“I’ll send regrets saying that you’re unwell, Minister,” Margo says.

“If we don’t generate a fresh story, the paper might do a follow-up piece about last night’s hasty retreat and what they make up will be worse than the reality.” Sensing that I’m getting through to her, I continue. “You could put on your new Dolce & Gabbana suit—it’s stunning—and say something funny and self-deprecating to the teachers and parents before your speech. How about I write up a funny line or two to defuse the situation? What do you say? The show must go on, Minister.”

“All right, I’ll do it,” she mutters.

Margo is livid, especially later, when I am proven right. The Minister rises to the occasion, striding onto the school stage looking like a million bucks.

“Hello, everyone,” she begins, “I do hope I’m looking a little better in person than I did on the front page of your paper this morning?”

When everyone laughs, she relaxes and delivers the rest of the speech with ease. Afterward, people surge over to offer support; no one mentions the motel incident. My rare moment of satisfaction is enhanced by the fact that Margo isn’t speaking to me. Later, as we drive to the airport, Margo breaks the news to the Minister about the Toronto paper picking up the photograph. I expect tempers to flare, but much to my surprise, Mrs. Cleary takes it all in stride.

“Well, Margo, we’ll just face this the same way we did today. I managed to maintain public affection quite effectively.”

I won’t hear any praise from them, but I know I earned my pay today. And I did it all with a hangover. I am good.

9

B y some miracle I manage to fall asleep during the forty-minute flight to Ottawa. Maybe Margo slipped a sedative into my Diet Coke, but it’s a welcome reprieve. All good things must come to an end, however, and by the time we pull up to our motel on the outskirts of the city, Margo has clued in to the fact that ostracizing me isn’t having the desired effect and resorts to her old tactics.

“While you were asleep, the Minister mentioned how much she’s looking forward to seeing your scrapbook.”

And I look forward to showing it to her—almost as much as I look forward to sharing a room with Margo. The Minister continues to maintain that her staff cannot squeeze the public purse (though some may be forced to carry it). Rest assured fellow citizens, your tax dollars are not being wasted on me.

Overnight, Mrs. Cleary works herself into a lather about the main event of the road trip—a reception for outstanding youth achievers to be held at Rideau Hall, the Governor General’s residence. Although it doesn’t start until 11:00 a.m., she rings our room at 5:30 to summon Margo, who crashes around long enough to make sure I’m awake. Finally she leaves with the suitcase—the one she keeps locked all the time. I used to think it contained a voodoo doll with big hair just like mine, but when I interrupted the pedicure the other night, I discovered that it’s really a portable spa filled with high-end beauty products. I think she swallows the key each night.

Despite the early awakening, I’m in great spirits when I slide into the vinyl booth of the motel coffee shop across from the Minister and my bunk buddy. My mood fizzles before the coffee arrives. The Minister, dry toast untouched before her, is holding forth about the importance of reaching the impressionable youth of this country.

“Here’s our opportunity to make a difference,” she says, looking expectantly at both of us. Margo is impassively working her way through a large stack of flapjacks, eggs, bacon and hash browns while I study my coffee. “We’re role models for these kids,” the Minister continues, voice rising, “and we must use our influence to set them on the right course while there is still time.” She bangs a fist on the arborite table for emphasis, spilling tea into her saucer.

I can’t tell from Margo’s expression if this is an old rant or a new idea hot off the presses. All I know is that the Minister has spoken to hundreds of kids in the past month alone without any apparent desire to influence them for the good. It’s not till I’m halfway through my waffle that I realize that she’s not worrying about making an impression on young minds, she’s worrying about making an impression on Juliette Moreau, the Governor General. The latter is a lawyer, a generous patron of the arts and a style maven to boot. It seems that the Minister is intimidated.

I try to distract her during the drive by suggesting she rehearse the speech Wiggy prepared weeks ago. “You know, Minister, I have your speech right here in my bag. Would you like to review it?” I turn around in my seat to find her plucking at invisible lint on her dress.

“Can’t you see the Minister has more important things on her mind right now, Libby? Honestly, you have no sense of timing.”

The Minister stares out her window as if our exchange hasn’t registered and by the time we reach Rideau Hall, I’ve become a little nervous myself. It doesn’t help when I see the banner strung across the entranceway: “The Governor General Welcomes Minister Cleary and the Ontario Youth Orchestra.” Fabulous, another opportunity to embarrass myself in front of Tim. On the other hand, I’m wearing a fetching outfit and I’m having a rare good hair day. He could do worse. Maybe this will be the day I turn things around and prove I’ve got it together. Some affirmations will put me in the right frame of mind: I will not be a fool. I will not be a fool. I will not— Wait a minute, affirmations are supposed to be positive. I am a skilled and confident woman. I am poised and centered. I am sexy and articulate….

“Libby, stop daydreaming and get the Minister’s door.”

Scrambling out of the car, I fling open the back door for Her Nervousness. A cloud of powder blue sweeps by and I trot along in her perfumed wake. In the lobby, I scan the crowd for a glimpse of Tim. Fortunately, he stands a little taller than the rest of humanity, so he’s not too hard to locate. Of course, the same applies to me, and when he sees me a second later, he smiles and raises his arm to wave. My heart does a little leap. More affirmations…. I am poised and confident…. I am skilled and centered….

The Governor General is introducing Mrs. Cleary. I should be paying attention, but I’ve just realized that my arm is still in the air, waving at Tim. How long has it been up there? I’m yanking it down when— WHACK!—a bulky Michael Kors shoulder bag hits me square in the chest so hard I stagger backward.

Mrs. Cleary is at the podium now and beginning to speak. I’m trying to focus on what she’s saying but my eyes slide toward Tim to see if he noticed the handbag debacle. Judging from his grin, he saw it all right. I turn back to the stage, muttering aloud, “I am poised and confident. I will not be a fool….”

“Ssshhh,” Margo hisses.

Slow, deep breaths…. Keep eyes averted…. Recovery of dignity is still possible.

The Minister is several minutes into her speech before I can fully concentrate. She’s waxing on about the glacial landforms in the eastern townships. Have I missed a connection to culture? Maybe this is part of her new effort to inspire today’s youth. Oh, there it is—she’s claiming the landscape inspires our artists. That’s original.

“As I traverse the highways and byways of this great province, I am astounded by the beauty of the landscape. Yesterday we passed through Prince Edward County and never in my life have I beheld such a spectacular penis….”

She stops cold, turns the page, freezes. Laughter ripples across the room. Even the teachers are grinning. The Minister, poor thing, is totally nonplussed, nervously shuffling pages of the speech, wondering how to back out of this corner. It seems like hours before she finally speaks.

“That would be peninsula. ‘Never in my life have I beheld such a spectacular peninsula.’ Of course, I’ve never beheld a— But never mind. Excuse me.”

The laughter turns to hysteria and the kids start high-fiving each other with delight. This is an event they will remember for a long, long time. Suddenly, the room erupts with a chant: “Pee-nis, pee-nis, PEE-NIS.” The teachers are working furiously to calm them and just as they’re making headway, a shrill voice rings out over the crowd:

“SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP!”

The audience falls silent. I turn to see Margo standing on a chair, chest heaving in rage. The kids are still laughing, but uncertainly now. The teachers and the Governor General look grim. Finally, the Minister begins speaking again and stumbles through the rest of the speech. At the end, she hurries off the stage, grabs her bag from my arms and makes a beeline to the ladies’ room. I collect the speech from the lectern and scan it anxiously, knowing I could end up wearing this. To my horror, I discover that it is partly my fault. When I formatted the text of Wiggy’s speech two weeks ago into the 40-point font, I split a word between two pages: penin-sula. She read the first half as penis. Shit, shit, shit. She’ll be in dire need of a scapegoat right now and I expect I’ll be the one baaa-ing.

I’m barely through the bathroom door when the refined, elegant little woman turns on me.

“What were you thinking, Lily?” she says, tapping a polished finger against her own frontal lobe. “Did you even read the speech? You’ve humiliated me and I can assure you, speechwriters have lost their jobs for less!”

She’s practically screaming and the reverberation propels a teacher out the door. Yanking her perfume out of her purse, Mrs. Clearly squirts it savagely into the air and steps through it. Then she fiercely dusts her face with powder as I stand by, trying to look contrite. I consider mentioning that this wouldn’t have happened if she’d wear her glasses, but chicken out. At the moment, she’s quite capable of drowning me in a toilet bowl. Finally, she clicks her purse shut and shoves it at me with a parting blow: “Maybe if you weren’t so busy flirting, you could concentrate on what we pay you to do.”

Ouch. She’s gone before my burning face confirms my guilt. Smiling at Tim didn’t cause this screw-up, but I’m ashamed that she knows I was thinking about boys on company time. Besides, I should have paid more attention to the formatting.

When I emerge a few minutes later, the Minister is chatting with Tim and his expression when he sees me confirms I’ve been named the villain of the piece. Maybe he even overheard her tirade. Now she’s clinging to his arm for support, so I slink by to join Laurie and Bill in the audience. The Minister doesn’t have the pleasure of Tim’s company for long, however, because the Governor General soon introduces his orchestra.

Now that my opportunity to impress him has vaporized, I shift my focus to counting the ways he’s all wrong for me, anyway. He’s a teacher, for example. Teachers get no respect and they’re grossly underpaid. What’s more, they’re expected to be role models and their wives probably have to be role models, too. I have enough trouble getting myself through the day without trying to inspire anyone else. Tim is obviously not my prince. My prince is a wealthy man, a man who hangs out with high flyers. A man who is comfortable in Armani. A man who…knows better than to wear athletic socks with a suit. Tim, it appears, does not. His arms are raised to summon the woodwinds when I see the telltale flash of white.

My eyes happen to be in the sock region because they’ve drifted down from his butt. It’s a pretty great butt and it’s too bad I’ll miss out on it, but happily, I’ll also miss out on a lifetime of wardrobe monitoring. The man is in the presence of royalty, or at least a vice regal. Socks matter. As if orchestra conductors don’t have enough strikes against them already! Look at him waving that silly baton around. And what’s with the jutting of his rib cage in the general direction of the horns? The grimace at a squawking bassoon? The blissful radiance over a perfect chord? It’s too much—and it cancels out the great butt, which is a shame, because they aren’t that common.

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