Speechless (14 page)

Eventually the stream tapers off and the Minister emerges. She takes her purse and rummages through her cosmetics bag. While applying the finishing touches with an eyebrow pencil, she examines me in the mirror.

“Margo could do wonders with those eyebrows, Lily.”

Having seen the Minister without benefit of makeup, I’m aware that her eyebrows have all but disappeared under Margo’s care. Still, I don’t want to ruin the moment.

“That’s very kind, Minister. I’ll set something up when I have a little more time.” Like when hell freezes over. God gave us big brows for a reason—although I have no idea what it is.

“You know, I used to have unkempt brows myself, back in junior high.” I let the insult slide since she rarely speaks to me about anything personal. “I wanted to tweeze, but my mother was dead set against it. She wouldn’t let me pierce my ears either, although all my friends were doing it.” I’m bewildered by her sudden familiarity. Have my unruly brows tipped her off to the fact that I’m actually human?

“That must have been
horrible
for you,” I say, oozing sympathy.

“It
was
horrible, Lily. In fact, it was a very difficult time in my life. That was the year when my ballet instructor, Madame Boulier, dismissed me from class—permanently.”

“What happened?”

“Madame was not a woman of refined tastes and she failed to appreciate my style. In fact, she advised my mother that
I had
no talent.
Her exact words were, ‘There’s nothing more I can do for Clarice. She is holding back the class.’”

“That’s a terrible thing to do to a child.” For once I am sincere.

“I feel the humiliation to this day, Lily.”

I’m amazed: Mrs. Cleary is not only human herself, but almost likable. Suddenly, I have an idea.

“You know, Minister, sharing stories like this one would really help you connect with your audiences, just as humor does. I’d like to use more personal anecdotes in your speeches if you agree.”

“I suppose so, Lily, although I’d want to review them well in advance. I’ll see what else I can come up with.”

She snaps her cosmetic pouch shut, drops it back in the Louis Vuitton and hands the bag over to me. I’m already wondering if I just imagined the last five minutes when she pauses at the door and turns to me.

“Just after I took office, Madame Boulier was selected for an Ontario Diamond Award for her contributions to dance. Her name mysteriously disappeared from the list before the ceremony. It was the strangest thing.”

“You
didn’t,
” I gasp.

“It’s a joke, Lily. You take everything so seriously. But quite frankly, what
would
Madame do with a Diamond Award in a retirement home anyway?”

She smiles and raises a penciled-on brow in a sinister arch as she walks out the door.

R
unning with Lola has inspired a snack drawer makeover. When I open it now in search of sweet inspiration, a box of low-fat granola bars is sitting front and center. I’m crunching virtuously as the phone rings.

“Libby, it’s the Minister. Come to my office right away. I have an idea for one of my speeches.”

I toss the granola bar on the desk, pick up a notepad and make my way down the hall. Ten minutes later I’m back, cursing my own big mouth. The Minister has been pondering what I said during our moment of washroom bonding and wants to get “more personal” with her audiences. For starters, she wants to quote a favorite poem from her childhood at next week’s fund-raiser for the Canadian Opera Company. She can’t remember title or author—just that it’s in praise of song. All I have to work with is a Post-it note upon which she’s scribbled a few lines. Although they’re hardly operatic, I hate to discourage her, so I start searching Web sites on poetry.

Half an hour later, I remember the half-eaten granola bar: it’s disappeared. Strange, I think, rifling through the papers on
my desk. Then I remember the rattrap under my desk. Surely the rodents aren’t making midday rounds? Last time I checked, I was still at the top of the food chain and I’m not prepared to share.

I open the drawer and pull out the box of granola bars to discover it’s almost empty. Didn’t I just open it yesterday? Or has my compulsive snacking reached the point where I forget what I’ve eaten? I shake a premakeover bag of fruit cream cookies. It’s as light as air, yet there’s no sign of forced entry. This rat is either extremely dexterous or it’s of the redheaded variety.

“Locking up your secrets?” Laurie asks, when she finds me searching for a padlock from the supply cupboard.

“Locking out the vermin, actually.”

Rat Girl is on a diet.

BEEP—“Lib, it’s Emma. Give me a call, I’ve got something to tell you—
Bob, stop it, she’s not there—
” Click. Tell me what? Why didn’t she just leave details?

BEEP—“Hey, Lib, just making sure we’re still on to run tomorrow morning.” Jesus! Why doesn’t she give it up?

BEEP—“Libby…hi, it’s Tim Kennedy.”
Oh my God!
“I hope you don’t mind, but I asked Bob for your number. I know it’s short notice but I just got pressured into buying a couple of tickets for a benefit concert tomorrow night and wondered if there’s any chance that you might join me? Give me a call.”

BEEP—“Lib, it’s Bob.” He’s whispering. “Look, Emma’s in the other room so I have to make this fast… She wanted to tell you herself, but he called
me
after all. Tim, that is. He asked for your number. Yeah, I know I vowed not to get involved, but what can I say, I—
Oh, Emma, I’m just—
” Click.

Cornelius watches me dance around the apartment with an expression of disgust on his face. When my heart rate returns to normal I pick up the phone and leave Tim a message accepting his invitation.

“Thanks, Janet,” I tell the Legislative Librarian. “I really appreciate this. I spent most of yesterday searching for this poem and I don’t know where else to look.”

I feel a weight lift from my shoulders as I pass my burden to her. I’ve had a surprisingly productive morning, considering how excited I am about the fact that Tim Kennedy will be knocking at my door in six hours. There should be time for deep breathing and affirmations this afternoon. The Minister is speaking to Grade 11 students at the Royal Ontario Museum but I didn’t write the speech and with any luck, I’ll be able to get away early and hit the MAC boutique on my way home. The occasion warrants a new lipstick.

Margo appears at my partition: “Hurry up, Libby.” Her eyes light on the padlock and linger. I believe it’s the first time I’ve seen her look directly at anything. There’s a twitch in her left eyelid.

“Margo—” the Minister pounces as we enter her office “—don’t you vet the draft speeches before I see them?”

“Yes, always.”

“Then I must say I am dismayed you would let such
drivel
land on my desk.” She’s shaking a handful of papers in Margo’s direction.

“What can I do if Libby sneaks drafts of her speeches to you?”

“Lily didn’t author this insult to my intelligence, it’s what’s-her-name.”

“Who, Christine?”

“No, not Christine, the forgettable one.”

Ah, yes, Forgettable. Her muse must have strayed.

“It wasn’t
that
bad, Minister. I can help you salvage it,” Margo offers.

“You can’t salvage trash, Margo.” To illustrate her point, the Minister turns and feeds the speech into her paper shredder. Margo and I watch in disbelief as the speech she’s supposed to recite in half an hour emerges from one end of the machine in long, thin strips.

“Lily, throw a few points together for me and I’ll ad lib the rest. Maybe I’ll even tell a joke or two.”

I charge back to my office, type a few fragments in size 36 font, then race through the halls of the Pink Palace and launch myself into Bill’s car. I make a few handwritten additions during the five-minute drive and pass the notes off to the Minister with only moments to spare. Her delivery is choppy and her jokes a little lame but she manages to convey the points I’ve given her and the audience seems engaged. With the exception of one ad-libbed—and long-winded—digression about her very first trip to the ROM, I’d say the speech went very well, all things considered. I must be getting the hang of this speechwriting gig. Maybe I’ve found my calling at last.

Rat Girl scents hubris in the air and brings me crashing back to earth: “I hope that speech for the Opera Company is finished, Elizabeth. I expect to see it on my desk tomorrow.”

I’ll be damned if I miss my date with Tim to work on something that isn’t due for a week.

“That isn’t possible, Margo, but you’ll have a draft first thing Monday.”

I expect her to put up a fight but the caterers are rolling out appetizers and her head snaps around so fast the vertebrae in her neck crackle like Rice Krispies.

“Libby, we take deadlines seriously here. I hope this isn’t going to become a pattern.”

I don’t bother to answer since she’s already halfway to the trough.

Recalling my father’s comments about my wardrobe, I slip into a short skirt and high heels before my date with Tim. The skirt is still a little tight across the butt, but the overall effect isn’t bad at all—and it certainly isn’t androgynous.

Tim’s expression when I open the door suggests that my father is right, for once.

“Wow, you’re a girl,” he says.

“Remember
The Crying Game
? Besides, I was wearing a dress when we met.”

“Long and yellow, as I recall. Hoped you’d wear it tonight.”

“I thought about it, but it doesn’t work without a bouquet, and for once I don’t have one.”

Cornelius waddles out of the bedroom and stares balefully at Tim.

“My God! That’s the biggest cat I’ve ever seen,” he exclaims.

“And the meanest—keep your distance.”

“You need a dog to give him a workout.”

“Let me guess, a Jack Russell?”

“The only breed worth having.”

We head out to his Jeep and drive west along Bloor.

“So where’s the concert?” I ask.

“High Park.”

“
High Park?
Is it in a tent?” My voice is squeaky.

“No, open-air. Don’t worry, I brought a blanket.”

“I assumed we’d be inside. I’m a little overdressed for a park, Tim.”

“Nah, you’ll be fine. It’s a beautiful night.” Spoken like a guy who’s never worn a skirt or high heels.

I stumble into a pothole before we’re even out of the parking lot and when we hit the grass, I teeter along on my toes to avoid aerating the turf with my heels. In short, I’ve become one of those girly-girls I mock. My annoyance at my father peaks about the time I have to lower myself gracefully onto Tim’s blanket and find a comfortable position that doesn’t offer the people in front of us a show they didn’t pay for.

During the intermission, a posse of Tim’s teenage orchestra students descends on us—six girls who show a decided disinterest in meeting me. Since eight is definitely a crowd, I clamber to my feet and ask an event organizer to point me in the direction of a washroom. Finding myself before a long line of Porta Potti’s, it crosses my mind that this date is on the skids.

I’m choosing the least vile among the potties, when Tim’s admirers appear.

“It’s Mr. Kennedy’s
girl
friend!”

“I guess she has to pee.”

“Nice skirt, lady!”

They’ve surrounded me now and I’m momentarily grateful for the heels. Were it not for my extreme height advantage, I might be intimidated. These girls have about thirty visible tattoos and piercings between them and they seem aggressive.

“How long have you and Mr. Kennedy been going out?”

“Where did you meet?”

“Do you teach music, too?”

Fortunately, there’s no need to respond. They’re all talking at once and seemingly for their own amusement.

“She probably teaches
choir,
” the ringleader says, as if nothing could be lamer.

“Or the recorder.”

“No, the piccolo. Picture it, she’s a
giant.
”

“I am
not
a giant,” I retort.

“You’re taller than Mr. Kennedy.”

“He’s got an inch on me,” I say, taking the bait, which is exactly what I advise the Minister against.

“Are you kidding?”

“You
towered
over him.”

“It must be the heels,” one says to appreciative snickers all around.

In a feeble attempt to recover some ground, I ask, “So, you’re all musical, ladies?”

“So, you’re all musical, ladies?”
They echo in unison.

“Six-part harmony— I’m impressed,” I say. “A choir unto yourselves.”

Snorts and eye-rolling. Then Alpha Teen speaks up: “What do you do, ma’am?”

Ma’am!
“Why do you want to know?”

“We want to know if you’re good enough for Mr. Kennedy. Duh.”

“Probably not, but to satisfy your curiosity, I’m a speechwriter.”

“Yeah? For who?”

“For
whom,
” I say. Oops. More eye-rolling. “For the Minister of Culture.”

“Whatever.”

“Boring.”

“Do you ever stop talking about yourself?”

Recognizing I have no hope of winning this battle, I try to cut my losses: “I’d love to stick around and chat, but…”

“We’ll wait for you,” Alpha thug offers.

“Look, you should go keep Mr. Kennedy company.”

They shuffle off a few yards and pause, whispering and giggling. If this were a movie, I’d be able to make a dignified exit about now, but because it’s real life—or at least,
my
real life—the only option is to open the door of the nearest Porta Potti and step inside.

The smell is almost overwhelming, but I lock the door and start breathing through my mouth. “Don’t look down, don’t look down,” I chant to myself. I look down: it’s inevitable. Somehow, I manage to do my business without stumbling off my heels or touching anything. There’s a rattle at the door as I’m peeing: the girls must be trying to catch me in the act. Like I’m stupid enough to leave the door unlocked!

The stench is starting to turn my stomach by the time I turn to unlatch the door. It won’t open. I jiggle it, then push on it but it’s clearly jammed. Panic rises in my throat as I realize that the girls have locked me in. Oh God. I can already feel the bacteria eating at my skin but I try to relax: the concert is only half over. There are hundreds of people in the park and some of them will need to pee. At the moment, however, all is silent.

“Hello? I’m stuck here! Hello!”

When I pause to listen for a response, I hear the band start
again in the distance and my heart sinks. Traffic around here is likely to be slow until the concert is over. I could suffocate before anyone finds me.

“HELP! HELP!”

I’m banging vigorously on the door when it occurs to me that things could get a whole lot worse if I tip the place over. Better to chill out. In fact, the air doesn’t seem quite so foul now; I must be getting used to it. My feet are killing me, though, so I lower the lid of the toilet, cover it with strips of tissue and take a seat. Every so often, I offer up a plaintive “help” and finally I start to cry, chafing my nose with low-grade toilet tissue. This is definitely the worst date I’ve ever had.

Darkness is falling on my humble retreat when I finally hear footsteps.

“HELP!” I yell.

“Libby?” It’s Tim.

“Over here!” I shout.

The door swings open and Tim reaches in to help me escape. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say, sniffling. I’d blow my nose, but I’ve got my purse in one hand and he’s still holding the other.

“There was a stick jammed in the handle,” he says. “Someone deliberately locked you in.”

“
Someone!
It was your students. Those thugs.”

“Libby, I’m sorry, they’re a handful sometimes. All of them have difficult home lives and they act out.”

“I can’t feel any sympathy for them at the moment,” I say, sounding as sulky as I feel. “Would you mind if we just went home now?”

“Come on, Libby, where’s that notorious sense of humor?”

“It corroded in there.”

Tim is clearly disappointed but I just want to get out of this ridiculous outfit and into a warm tub with plenty of perfumed bubble bath. I have never felt less sexy in my life.

“I’ll talk to them on Monday, don’t worry.”

“
Talk
to them? This calls for corporal punishment!”

He schticks to cheer me up on the drive home but I can’t rise to the occasion. Convinced that potty fumes are clinging to me, I roll down my window. Tim opens his too. I must really stink. When we finally pull up in front of my place, I jump out of the car mumbling, “Thanks.” He calls out after me.

“Let me make this up to you, Libby. Could we try again next week?” I don’t see the point when we’re clearly jinxed. As he gives me a hopeful smile, he adds, “Please.” I relent.