Hardly Working (21 page)

It was Fishbreath, our twenty-four-year-old arthritic cat, sleeping as close as he could to the heat without actually catching fire. “Fishbreath,” I crooned. “Come here, honey pie.” The old cat stretched slowly, creaked to his feet and tried to walk over to me. I scooped him up to spare him the trouble, and a fine web of ginger cat hair immediately covered the front of my periwinkle blue cashmere sweater. Ian drew back as though Fishbreath had visibly contracted something horrible and contagious.

“He's just old, Ian. In cat years, he's about a hundred years old. He's the most ancient cat I've ever known. He's been around since I was seven. He ought to get a prize for being so old.”

Judging from Ian's expression, he must have had a sudden vision of
me
when I got to be that old.

“We can't stay long,” he said, looking anxiously at his gold Rolex then at me.

“Don't we have to talk to my mother? Have tea? We always have tea at four when she's at home. It's a ritual.”

Ian shrugged.

“Take off your coat and relax.” I went over to him and helped him out of his brown suede, sheepskin-lined coat, which I laid on the couch. I led him over to one of the two big armchairs near the fire and said, “Poke it if it gets low.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“The fire. I'll get my mother. She's probably in the kitchen.”

I went along the woody-smelling corridor. There was something wrong with me. It actually felt good to be on home turf. My mother was there in the pale green kitchen preparing tea for her army of students, clattering around with dishes that were all antiques. Her back was to me.

“Hi, Mom.”

She turned to face me. “Di Di. Lovely to see you. Are you staying?”

“I brought Ian. He's in the living room.”

“Lovely. We'll have the smaller pot in there. I'll just take the big one out to the kids. Darjeeling all right?”

“Fine.”

My mother piled cookie tins, milk and sugar onto an enormous tray and disappeared out the back door to call the “kids.”

She reappeared and began to prepare the four-tiered antique cake tray for us. “Let me see, there's a little of that short-bread, some very nice carrot cake, and how about some crumpets?”

“Crumpets? I haven't had crumpets in over a year. Oh, wait. I bought some organic grape jelly at the Barking Dog vineyard. We stopped along the way.” I dug in my pocket, found the little jar and gave it to her.

“Lovely,” she said.

Since my meetings with my father, I had been bursting to tell her all about Rupert Doyle and Hector but I knew that it was impossible. I knew what her reaction would be. Rare incandescent fury. So again, I kept the conversation safe. “And we could use some extra butter and plum walnut jam, too,” I said.

“Righto.”

We toasted the crumpets, set everything out on the plates and onto the cake dolly, and took it into the living room.

Ian stood up slowly when my mother came in. “Nice to see you again…Marjory.”

“You too, Ian. I see your color has returned.”

He gave her a dark glare.

“Ian. Now. Have a crumpet while they're hot. Milk? Sugar? No? I'll have some. Three teaspoons. So kind. Like it good and sweet. Do believe it comes from all that boarding-school deprivation I suffered as a child. Left me with the most dreadful sweet tooth.” Then she laughed melodically, and something in that laugh, so self-assured and ringingly happy, made me feel that there couldn't possibly be anything wrong with the world. And in that same moment, I wondered what my problem was, why I had ever paid over a cent to Thomas. My mother was perfect.

And then she picked up her binoculars and went over to the big picture window with its ocean view. “Got a limp dorsal out there, Di Di.”

“Uh-oh, somebody's not happy.”

“No, she's not happy at all. Not much light left now. Won't spot them today. Grays. This one lost her calf to the nets. We've called her Mara. Awfully worried about her.”

I winked at Ian and said, “Whales. It's one of my mother's projects.”

He looked bored. “Uh-huh.”

My mother spoke from behind her binoculars. “Which reminds me, Ian. I'm terribly afraid I shan't be able to free myself up for your little documentary. Can't possibly leave when there's a limp dorsal. Could be months before it's erect again, if ever.”

Ian was speechless. He made some strange huffing sounds and ran his hand through his hair, which didn't budge.

I ate my crumpet and licked my wrist when a dribble of butter rolled onto it. For several minutes there was a warm lazy quiet, the only sound in the room the crackle of the flames. It was broken by a quiet scuffling sound and Ian's
voice. “Oh, Jeeezus, would you call off your bloody dog, Dinah.” Ian sounded as though he were in pain. Spritzer, the dachshund, had singled out Ian and was having a passionate love affair with his leg.

My mother grabbed him by the collar. “Spritzer, do stop humping the poor man's foot. It's very uncivilized of you.” But Spritzer leapt back again and wouldn't stop. I let him go on just a little too long.

As Ian unsuccessfully tried to get the dog off, Spritzer started to make little grunting noises. Finally, my mother went over again, yanked him off, gave Ian a little smile and carried Spritzer outside.

“I was counting on your mother to do the documentary.”

“Well, uh…”

“This would never happen on the East Coast,” ranted Ian. “People on the East Coast take things seriously.”

My mother had just come back in. “You're from the East then, Ian?”

“Grew up there. I went to Harvard. I was very good friends with the Vanpfeffer family,” he said testily.

“Harvard, you say. Well, yes, I know some of the Vanpfeffer family. They're very involved with ecology and the arts on the East Coast.”

Ian frowned. He'd suddenly lost the urge to talk.

Another quiet moment of munching cookies and sipping tea took over. My mother picked up the poker and gave the fire a prod. Flames leapt and sparks shot out. And then there was another silence.

Until out of nowhere, a high-pitched blood-chilling howl, like a child screaming, cut into the peace. Something small and brown shot through the air across the room and landed on Ian's head. He jumped to his feet with a squawk. His teacup and plate crashed to the floor and shattered. His clothes were soaked with scalding tea. He clutched at the brown thing, screaming.

It took me a minute to get my bearings. And then I laughed. “Bomba.”

I'd forgotten all about her.

Bomba, the gibbon, and the latest addition to my mother's menagerie, was shrieking and showing her teeth and attempting to chew off Ian's ear. His arms flailed and grabbed at the gibbon. He shouted, “Ow, ow. It's biting me. Get the fucking monkey off me. Get it off me.”

“It's not a monkey, it's a gibbon,” I said. “The gibbon is a member of the ape family.”

“Just fucking get it off me,” he yelled.

My mother stood up and calmly plucked Bomba off Ian's head, then cradled the gibbon in her arms like a baby. Bomba was contrite. Ian was white and trembling.

In a soothing tone, my mother said, “Bomba, aren't you a bad girl? Leave the poor man alone. Take the cookie. Go on. Take it. There's the girl. I think she likes you, Ian.”

Ian had a bad case of
bronca.
He stood up and vainly swatted at all the wet spots on his clothes. “A bathroom. I need a bathroom.”

“Come with me.” I led him along the hall to the small downstairs sink.

He didn't look at me as he said, “I want to get going. I think we better get back on the road. It's nearly dark.”

Dinah Nichols had satisfied her maniacal need to give Ian Trutch the inevitable and defining Nichols experience. When Ian came back into the living room, as damp and furious as ever, he retrieved his coat, pulled it on, quickly pulled it off again, grimaced and said in a quiet, incredulous voice. “One of your fucking animals has just peed on my coat.”

Fishbreath lay nearby on the couch, looking quite helpless. I crooned to him, “There, there. It's okay, Fishie. You couldn't help it.”

On the ferry crossing back to Vancouver, and the drive
home, Ian didn't say a word to me. Four hours of total silence that I couldn't be bothered to break. What was there to say?

Had I done it on purpose?

Hmmmm.

Ian let me off at my place, let me open my own door and get my own bags, impatient to see the back of me. He did a wheelie as he drove away. I mean, a
wheelie.
How juvenile is that?

Monday

O
n Monday morning in the boardroom, Ian looked past me, then nearly walked through me, forcing me to step aside. He went straight on over to the chair next to Penelope. He touched her back lightly, and smiled brilliantly.

Cleo swooped into the seat next to me. “What is going on over there with Little Miss Muffet and the Spider?” she whispered.

“Reorganization of priorities. Me out, Penelope in.”

“Penelope in for some in out, in out?”

“Depends. He's very smooth, you know.”

“Just like that?”

“It can be explained by animal behavior, I think.”

“What?” Cleo was fascinated. “Would you look at that? She's trying to be so cool and aloof but her nipples are
standing at attention under that schoolgirl blouse of hers.”

“Cleo,” I protested.

“What?”

“Your talking is keeping me awake.”

“He's going to be having hot sex with his right hand as long as he's with Penelope.”

“I'm not sure. Could be that I'm going to be the Office Virgin while Penelope becomes the man-eater. How's it going with Simon?”

“Simon's beautiful.”

“Good, I'm glad.”

“This meeting is called to order,” interrupted Ian's voice. “I want to address the problem of office Internet time and computers being put to personal use. Anyone found surfing the Net, checking personal e-mails, or using the office computers for anything other than GWI business, will be risking redundancy. Part of the new zero tolerance policy. Coffee breaks will be exactly fifteen minutes long and must be taken at eleven o'clock. Break time cannot be hoarded and added on to the lunch break. You are to be accountable at all times for your whereabouts. I would prefer not to have you all punch a time clock, but if it turns out to be necessary, I'll have one installed. After the Space Centre event, I'll be holding personal interviews with each of you to review your performances in detail.”

Cleo whispered, “We need to find a nice high bridge to push him off.”

 

I picked up the phone and punched the number. “Hal Ridley, please. It's Dinah Nichols.”

“Dinahhh,” yelled Hal down the line. “What can I do to you?”

“Hal. I'm still waiting for your answer on our big Decem
ber Space Centre event. What do you say? If you come with your news team, I can promise you guys a great party.”

“Oh yeah? What's the wine?”

“A nice little California Frizzantino.”

“Uh-huh? What are you serving for food? You know I don't eat red meat.”

“You'll like this, Hal. There's going to be finger food—crab cakes, chicken satay skewers with peanut sauce and crossover sushi designed to look like the stars, nebulae, and galaxies in the Hubble space photos. Very sophisticated stuff. So what do you say, Hal?”

I'd been working on Hal (The Groper) Ridley for months to inveigle him into doing the news story; GWI Vancouver and GWI Moscow Working Together to Make a Better World was already a headline. He would give us our PR sound bite, and in return, Hal would get to reap his reward for this charitable act by sneakily fondling his way around every female buttock in the crowded room.

He thought we didn't know about it.

Forewarned is forearmed.

“I'm in,” he said.

Wednesday (the following week)

Penny and Ian hadn't been sighted for days. I knew that they were out there exploring. It got to the point where Jake, who was not happy at all about the new development, was considering having serious words with Penelope.

I resumed my tango lessons that week. Hector sensed that something was up. He was surprisingly sensitive to my state of being. He looked right into my face and said, “You are unhappy tonight. You are having problems with your man?”

“Problems at work. And the lack of a man.”

“That is the main reason people are unhappy. The man. The woman.”

“Then this is probably a good place to be. I'm in exactly the right mood for the tango,” I said.

He studied me wordlessly, strolled over to turn on the music and said, “Tonight we try to dance a little. No rules.”

Then he did something I absolutely did not expect and it was so comforting. He pressed his forehead against mine in true
milonguero
style. It was the kind of dancing I'd seen in the lesson tapes I'd taken out of the library, to try to get on top of things, something peculiar to the dance halls of Buenos Aires. I let myself be led and forgot about my brain, let it slide into my legs, let the movements be my only thoughts. It calmed me. The music and dancing did all my feeling and thinking for me.
Caminata, salida, risolucion, zarandeo, cruzada, ocho, entrada, giro
were no longer a foreign language but a language I was now speaking with my body.

We danced in the dimly lit hall with a strange new spirit. Both of us were silent for the whole lesson, just anticipating the other's movements. We were aware that the mood was different, intensified by my list of disappointments and the things we'd said to each other. All my troubles were coming out of me, taking shape, dancing between us, throwing a shadow, like a third
milonguero.

 

When I got home, I put “Scarlet Tango” on the CD player and stood at my window in the dark. Jon was working out. My sighs and the music kept rhythm with his movements. My mind whirled out of control and ended up tangoing in a bed with all those muscles. When I realized what I was doing, I reprimanded myself, “Forget it, Dinah. Just forget it. He's not
available.
”

I wanted to run down and knock on their door, but Jon had started clearing up and setting out candles. They were probably going to have one of their heart-to-heart nights, and it would have been selfish of me to intrude.

Thursday

I made phone calls. Everything was in place for our big Space Centre Donor Event. Except for Hamish Robertson. But I was still hopeful. And I had a plan.

Our donor events were the moments in which we did a little fund-raising and rounded up all the donors who'd given more than five hundred dollars and invited them out to say thank you to them in a big way.

Of course, our own Ian Trutch of the thousand-dollar-a-night hotel suites had not made one single personal donation. I'd checked with Ash who'd checked with the bank. No employee donation module coming from Ian Trutch. So I sent him an e-mail.

 

Dear Mr. Trutch,

As previously mentioned, all GWI employees give as generously as they are able. I would ask you to consider doing the same, if only for the sake of form. Many of our employees have opted to bring a bag lunch rather than lunching out. They then donate the daily difference. Even that seemingly minimal difference, Mr. Trutch, makes a difference. We encourage you to cut back on those fancy restaurants, five-star hotels, and exclusive weekend getaways you've been writing off as Green World business expenses (read: Wickaninnish). We are counting on you to set an example to all the GWI employees throughout the lower mainland and make your gift a substantial one.

Thank you in advance,

Dinah Nichols, Communications and PR Associate

 

I was just doing my job.

Which was more than I could say for Ian Trutch.

I could see exactly what he was doing.

He was laying out the red carpet for himself and his buddies. All that stuff about transfers and applications from
other GWI branches meant he was planning to get his cronies beside him.

The Dark Side was building his empire.

I mentally shoved Ian Trutch aside and went back to the business at hand.

A second later, Lisa popped her head into my office and said. “I've been meaning to tell you about this for ages but with everything that's been going on lately, I just forgot.”

“Oh, yeah, what was that?”

“I had another lunch date.”

“Oh right. With the yellow slicker guy?”

Lisa corrected me. “Roly.”

“Right. Roly. How did it go? Was he wearing the rain gear this time?”

“As a matter of fact, he was not. It was pretty interesting.” She seemed excited.

“So what was it like?”

“Well, at the first meal, he paid for everything. And he didn't talk with his mouth full. And I also noticed he had all his own teeth and they weren't bad.”

“That's nice. So he paid for the meal. There went his welfare check, I expect.”

“Maybe. And he was dressed okay. He was clean. He looked nice. His hair was washed and his beard was combed.”

“No kidding. That's a major heartbreaking effort for some of those types.”

“Yeah, but that's not the best part.”

“No?”

“Uh-uh.”

“So what was the best part?”

“The second meal. What we talked about.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Everything.”

“How everything?”

“We talked about everything. Oh…life, love, the oceans,
forestry, whales, seals, cougars, coyotes, oil, the recycling program, sustainable development, Red Cross, Green World International and Mudpuddle. We even talked about money. I mean, gosh, Dinah, money. I've never talked about that with any man.”

No. The men in Lisa's life usually just took her money and ran without talking about it. Or thanking her for it.

She went on, “He is the most amazing guy. Very, very smart.”

“That's quite…interesting.” I really didn't want to encourage her. After all, she'd already been the supplier of free lunches for so many lame ducks and hash pipe technicians. Poor Lisa. She just didn't know how to say no.

“I thought it was pretty interesting myself. Not what I expected at all,” said Lisa, grinning, “so I invited him to the Space Centre event tomorrow.”

 

I had been working for more than a year to get the Space Centre to donate their venue. Now my big Planetarium soiree was finally about to happen. The speeches and Mudpuddle presentation were going to take place right there in the H.R. MacMillan Star Theatre with its wraparound panoramic screen and its circular seating with room for two hundred and thirty people. The reception was going to be held in the Star Deck, which had great views of English Bay and downtown Vancouver.

There were problems though. Jake practically had to kidnap Penelope to get her to do her job. She'd been flouting her duties so badly lately that Jake had to take her aside and remind her of her job description, because she was never at her desk to answer the phone when the Moscow GWI people called, and the rest of us, even when we pooled our linguistic resources, had a joint Russian vocabulary that amounted to the words
vodka martini.

The Moscow people were arriving that afternoon and
no one in our office except her spoke Russian. Penelope had been sneaking out the door, on her way to lunch with Ian without a word to any of us. As far as we could tell, and from what she'd let slip to Lisa, she was falling, her whole life precipitating toward Ian's. She took every opportunity to be with him and go as far as possible without actually letting Ian take out his rod and do a little ice fishing in her pond. All her responsibilities were going to the dogs. It would have been easier for us if she were a drug addict. We could have given her a good knuckle-rapping, then forced her into a rehab program. Unfortunately, as far as we knew, no programs for sex-crazed virgins existed. Yet.

Jake nabbed a pouting Penelope at the front door and dragged her off to the airport. It was the fact that the Moscow people had decided to attend our event and have a first face-to-face meeting that had turned the Space Centre people around and convinced them to donate their venues and their staff. I'd promised them excellent press coverage and a certain amount of prestige, given the stature of our guests. They were even willing to let me do a little decorating in the Star Deck. I'd had the idea of putting up gold-and-silver helium-filled Mylar stars and moons, hitched to the tables and floating upward in long strings.

It was about to happen and it was looking good.

Friday

The Star Theatre was packed by 7:00 p.m. Jake was a basket case. He'd made the mistake of wearing a dark shirt and the sweat patches were louder than his tie, which was very loud indeed. “I can't believe you've found Hamish Robertson, Dinah. You've achieved the impossible.” The sweat came more profusely as we approached the moment of his speech and he continued to mop his beaded brow with an
enormous white handkerchief. He was standing at the vending machine, about to plug in his coins.

I sighed. “It's too bad he can't be here tonight in person. Business in Tokyo. But we have the next best thing. A conference call. Just hope the technology doesn't go on the fritz.”

“I'm sure everything will be great, just great. Great.” The chocolate bar dropped to the bottom and Jake reached in and grabbed it.

“How do the guests like their accommodation?” I asked him.

“You'd think they were staying at the Pan Pacific and not the Y. They love it. It makes me think things must be pretty harsh for them at home.”

Cleo approached us, looking splendid in a moss-green raw silk minidress.

“Where's Simon? Didn't you bring him?” I asked her.

“No. He's staying and helping Joey with you-know-what.” She seemed as tense as I was. As soon as Jake was gone, she whispered, “It's a crazy idea. It's never going to work.”

“It's just to buy time. When you have a clear idea of what you want, it eventually happens. So Simon's not coming at all. Not even after?”

She shook her head.

“I see.”

Cleo raised her eyebrows. “Is that ‘I see' supposed to mean something, Dinah?”

I beat a fast retreat. “No, no. Just making conversation.”

She was smiling, but she was definitely tense.