Speechless (12 page)

“Nice ass?”

“Very. But enough about
my
sex life. Tell me all about your new victim.”

“Ah, Günter…the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.” Elliot’s usually sharp voice softens noticeably.

“Where did you meet him?”

“At a benefit concert. He’s the lead singer in a glam revival band.” Elliot gets a dreamy look and absentmindedly dunks a bagel chip into the “contaminated” salsa. Wow, this is serious. “You have to come see him perform. You’re going to love him.”

At the end of the evening, I head outside to retrieve Lola from the porch. She’s still with Michael and if they’re discussing the vagaries of the high-tech world, it clearly has them spell-bound. But even Lola’s interest in Michael hasn’t prevented her from lighting up; she’s holding the cigarette at her side and the smoke is curling up around them. Although I know I shouldn’t sink to her level, I can’t resist: “So… Are you two discussing the perils of secondhand smoke inhalation?”

“Libby,” Lola says in a pleasantly cold voice, “have you met Michael?”

“Many times! You seem like a nice man, Michael, don’t you care about your lungs?”

“No comment,” he says.

“Lola, I need to get going.”

“Already? Michael and I are just getting to know each other.”

“It’s after midnight and I’ve had a long week. But if you’d rather make your own way…”

“No, no, I’m coming.” The prospect of being stranded in
suburbia obviously isn’t appealing; she’s not
that
fond of Mr. Dot.com. “Why don’t you go warm up the pickup—er, the car? I’ll join you in a minute.”

Lola’s smile verges on a snarl, but I am unafraid. She has no idea how the Minister and Margo are toughening me up.

T
here’s nothing in the world I enjoy more than an early-morning run. Actually, that’s a lie; what I enjoy is
claiming
I enjoy it. If I liked running that much, it wouldn’t take three coffees and half a row of Oreos to get me on the road. The fact that I’m setting out this morning despite my post–road-trip fatigue is a statement less about my desire for fitness, than about my desire for Tim Kennedy. I’m launching the McIssac Renovation Project.

Twenty minutes into a plod around my neighborhood, I see someone resembling Tim cross to my side of the street half a block ahead. I’m gaining on him when an old lady with a cane hobbles into my path. I dodge around her, sidestep her poodle and run full tilt into a parking meter. Hearing my squawk as I collapse to one knee, the guy turns: it’s not Tim. Complaining that I scared her half to death, the old lady helps me up. I’ve bruised my pride and God knows what else, and for what? I promptly lean against a storefront and remove my shoe to retrieve the five-dollar bill I keep under my insole for emergencies. Then I limp into Dooney’s and order a mochaccino—skipping the whipped cream since I’m officially on a run.

Later, after laundry duty, I call my folks to invite them out for a fancy dinner at Storm, the hot new restaurant Elliot recommended.

“Hi, Dad, I’m home.”

“Nice to hear from you, dear, I’ll get your mother.” Never one for long-winded telephone conversations, my dad.

“Libby! How are you, honey? How did the trip go?”

“It ended up all right, but I hate this job, Mom.”

“Well, it’s still early days, dear,” she says, and there’s trepidation in her voice. Once, when I was fifteen, I quit a part-time job after two horrible weeks and ever since, she worries that when the going gets tough, Libby gets going.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m not going to quit—yet—but I don’t think I’m going to get enough out of this job to make putting up with Margo and Mrs. Cleary worthwhile. They really are bitches.” I don’t like to swear in front of the nicest woman in the world, but sometimes it’s necessary to go to extremes to make an impression.

“Now, Elizabeth, it’s not right to speak of our Minister of Culture that way.”

“Mother, I say it with all due respect. And Margo is even worse.” The whining has officially started.

“Margo must be a very unhappy woman. Keep in mind that one can never fully comprehend what may be happening in someone else’s life, dear.” This is going nowhere. Mom is pretty stubborn about seeing the bright side.

“So,” I say, switching tactics, “I went to Bob and Emma’s last night.”

“That’s nice. How are they?”

“They made us sit through an hour-long wedding video, that’s how they are.”

“Well, isn’t it wonderful that they’re so happy together?”

“Would
you
want to sit through their wedding video?”

“I’m sure Emma looked lovely. She’s a beautiful girl.”

“Arg!”

“Don’t worry, dear, your turn will come.”

Cutting my losses, I extend the invitation for next weekend’s dinner. Then I turn to the cold comfort of e-mail, listing my complaints in a very therapeutic note to Roxanne, who is apparently enjoying the Isle of Man about as much as I enjoy life in the Minister’s office.

Mrs. Cleary is still steaming over the mishaps of the road trip despite a positive finish and amazingly, she is blaming Margo for them. She’s even addressing Margo in the dismissive tone of voice usually reserved for lesser beings like me. Mind you, I think Margo’s relegation to the doghouse is really due to the Minister’s breakout. Laurie heard that Margo introduced a new exfoliater late in the trip. Whatever the cause, the Minister’s alabaster skin is a mess.

Perhaps by way of punishing Margo, the Minister summons me to her office alone to discuss upcoming speeches. Laurie is standing beside the Minister’s desk, speaking on the phone when I arrive. The Minister, meanwhile, is leaning into her magnified makeup mirror, carefully concealing blemishes. Neither one of them notices my arrival.

“You wanted to see me, Minister?”

Laurie turns and shoots me a smile but the Minister doesn’t raise her eyes from the mirror.

“Yes, Lily. My schedule is very tight right now and I don’t think I’ll have time to write my own speeches for the junior school talks next week.” Since I’ve never known the Minister to attempt her own speeches, this is no surprise.

“Good news, Minister,” Laurie interjects as she hangs up the phone. “I was able to book you for facials every morning except Friday, when you’re already scheduled for a trim.”

The Minister shoots Laurie the evil eye and, given the mirror’s magnification factor, the view from where I’m standing is quite threatening. “You can go now,” she advises Laurie coldly.

“Anyway, Lily, I think you can handle drafting these three speeches and I’ll use your material as a jumping-off point.”

“You want me to write
three
speeches?”

“You are the speechwriter, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but…”

“You can’t hide under Margo’s coattails forever.” She turns her attention back to her concealer and thus dismissed, I back out of her office.

Laurie is lurking in the hall and walks me to my cubbyhole.

“What just happened?” I ask, stunned.

“You just got a break.”

“But why now?”

“Well, you got her some good press on the last two days of our tour, which puts you on the radar. But she’s also pissed at Margo and knows this will annoy her.”

Whatever her reasons, I’m thrilled and I waste no time starting the research.

Next morning, I’m again called to the Minister’s office. This time, Margo is there as well. She’s been keeping a low profile since her slide from grace began, whereas I’m already feeling pretty cocky about my new relationship with the boss. Now that the Minister has acknowledged me as her speechwriter, I expect it won’t be long before she invites me to lunch at her club.

The Minister is in midrant when I walk in, rehashing the events of the trip.

“My favorite suit was absolutely ruined, Margo. This
cannot
happen again.”

“It was a beautiful suit,” I offer, causing Margo to frown at me. She is probably sensing I’m the Minister’s new favorite.

“Ruined,” she repeats, shaking her head. Then, still looking at Margo, she adds, “And my handbag was
never
available when I needed it.”

What can I say? It’s hard to get good help these days. By the time the meeting is over, my dreams of quiche at the club have
fizzled, but it’s obvious Margo won’t be dining there anytime soon either.

“Just a minute, Libby,” Margo’s voice is so close behind me I jump. How does she move so fast with those scrawny little legs? “We need to talk about what’s on your plate right now.”

I list off my many tasks, citing each and every minor make-work item she’s assigned me, then finally, when I can avoid it no longer, I mutter that the Minister has given me three speeches to write.

“
Three!
With all the other work you have to do, you won’t be able to write three. You’ll have to reassign two of them to the freelancers.”

“I can manage three.”

“Libby, let me make myself clear: you are to write speeches only when all your other duties are under control. Judging by the condition of our reference shelf, that doesn’t seem to be the case. I want that shelf reorganized this week.”

I retreat to my cubicle to assign two speeches to Wiggy, but I vow to boycott all of the useless tasks Margo has in store for me. Instead, I spend the day working on the one school speech I’ve retained and by late afternoon, it’s finished. I think it’s pretty good—and kid-proof, too. The only problem is that I’m now left with nothing of value to do and it’s too early to leave. Leaning out from my desk, I peer around the partition and down the hall at the reference shelf. It would only take half an hour to clean it up, but I’m a speechwriter, damn it—the Minister said so. I can find something more important to occupy my time.

I’m rooting around in my snack drawer when the phone rings: it’s the Minister calling from her office again. Heaven forbid she take the trouble of walking down the hall to see me in person. Just as well, because Margo took away my “guest chair” recently when she discovered Laurie sitting in it.

“Lily, it’s Minister Cleary. How much progress have you made with the speeches I assigned you?”

“I’ve finished one, but Margo directed me to reassign the other two to Christine.”

“Why, may I ask?”

“She’d like me to focus on my other priorities.”

“And what might those be?” There’s a little menace to her tone, but it’s less intimidating over the phone.

I rhyme off a dozen useless tasks, finishing with tidying up the reference shelf.

“The reference shelf?”

“Yes. It’s in disarray. Margo says it’s my number one priority for the week.”

“Really? Well, I expect to see drafts of all three speeches on my desk by noon on Friday, and I expect
you
to write them. Consider
that
your priority.”

“But I’ve already called Christine.”

“Call her back,” she says and hangs up.

I assure the dial tone that I’ll get right on it.

I’m sipping my morning mochaccino—extra foam, no whip, out of respect for the Libby Reno project—when it occurs to me that I’m actually enjoying myself. My cubicle is cluttered with piles of paper and books from the Legislative Library and I’m well into the research for the speeches I reclaimed from Wiggy.

“What are you working on?”

Startled, I dunk my nose in mocha foam. How does she materialize out of nowhere like that? I wonder if she casts a reflection?

Wiping milk and chocolate shavings off my nose, I offer a smile. “Good morning, Margo. I’m working on the speeches for the junior school talks.”

“Speeches? As in
plural?
I told you to reassign two of them.”

“You did, and I did. But then the Minister called to find out how I was progressing. When I told her that I’d reassigned them, she told me to take them back.”

“I see. Well, then, while you’re at it, you can write a fourth. I just accepted a last-minute invitation for the Minister to speak at the Spirit of Youth Awards on Friday. In fact, the organizers have lost their venue and asked that we hold it here.”

“But it’s already Wednesday and the Minister wants the three I have by Friday! Besides, don’t you think the Youth Awards is too major an event for me to tackle so soon?”

“Not at all, Libby. I have full confidence in you. In fact, it’s the perfect opportunity for you to show your skills—there will be several dignitaries in attendance. I look forward to seeing your draft tomorrow.”

And with that, she disappears. Vindictive cow. I’m just about to stick my tongue out after her when her head reappears around the side of my partition.

“By the way, I just checked the reference shelf and it’s still a mess. You will take care of it, won’t you?”

Half an hour later, I pass her office at the right moment to hear her saying, “The Minister would be
delighted
to present your awards next week, and what’s more, we’d like to invite you to hold the ceremony here at our offices.”

She accepted a last-minute invitation on the Minister’s behalf simply to torment me. And the woman doesn’t miss a detail: since we’re holding the event here, there will be constant commotion around my cubicle while I’m courting the muse.

It’s 10:00 p.m. and I’m still slaving over my keyboard. I’ve been working hard on the Youth Awards speech and I finally have a solid draft. If I can polish it up by noon tomorrow, I’ll still have a day and a half to write the other two school speeches. I pack up my things and am heading toward the elevator when I hear the Minister’s voice drifting out of Margo’s office. Why would she still be here at this hour? As I get closer, however, I realize she’s on the speakerphone with Margo, who must think the building is empty.

“How could you confirm my attendance without asking me first?” the Minister screams. “What were you thinking? I have personal plans that day and worse, my husband’s friends will be at those awards and,
thanks to you,
my face is still a mess. And furthermore, Lily isn’t ready to write this speech. Tell her to give it to Christine, or be prepared to rewrite it yourself if it’s a disaster.”

So Margo really did set this up just to sabotage me—and mission accomplished, because thanks to the Minister’s parting comment, I instantly lose all confidence in myself.

My phone rings an hour before the Spirit of Youth Awards Ceremony.

“Lily, I’ve revised today’s speech myself,” the Minister shouts over the sound of a blow-dryer. “I don’t have time to explain where you went wrong now, so listen closely as I deliver it and try to learn.”

I listen very closely indeed when she delivers the speech at the ceremony, having memorized every word, but I find that Mrs. Cleary has merely replaced half a dozen of my words with her own. Obviously, I did fine and maybe she’ll even come over and tell me so. However, the only person I see heading my way is Margo and she’s carrying a tray of hors d’oeuvres. If she’s willing to bury the hatchet by proffering crab cakes, I can accept that, I decide, summoning a gracious smile.

“Wipe that silly smile off your face and offer these around,” she says. “Remember, we all pitch in around here.”

Shaking my head, I hoist the tray and plunge into the crowd. Fortunately, good things come to those who waitress: I overhear glowing reviews of my speech as I work the crowd. Gratified, I pop a whole crab cake into my mouth. I can serve
and
chew; I am multitalented.

“Waitress!” a man’s voice say. “How about leaving some food for the guests?”

I spin on my sensible heels to find Tim grinning at me. Too bad I’ve barely kicked off the McIssac Reno Project.

“Look, I’ve earned this,” I mumble through a mouthful of crab cake.

“Well, it’s nice to see you working a crowd without flowers and purse for once.”

“Where’s the orchestra?”