Kitabı oku: «Speechless»

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.