Speechless (16 page)

I’m loitering by the bulletin board near Richard’s door when Margo appears.

“Thinking of buying a boat?” she asks.

“What?” I look at her incredulously.

“Well, you’re staring at that ad for a sixteen-foot power boat.”

“Not at all. I’m looking at this ad for the dog walker,” I say, pointing to it.

“You don’t have a dog.”

“How do you know that?”

“You’re obviously a cat person.”

“I am not,” I say, bristling. I hate being labeled a “cat person,” as if I’m some old spinster living in a Victorian house that reeks of cat pee.

“My mistake. No need to get defensive,” Margo says, grinning.

A simple elbow to the temple, and she’d be down for the count. It’s ridiculous to have to rein in my brute strength like this day after day.

“I’m not defensive,” I say, defensively. “I like cats—and I’m getting a dog.”

“Yeah, what breed?” She looks skeptical.

“A Jack Russell—they’re bred to hunt rats, and I could use the protection around here. Anyway, is there something you want from me, Margo?”

“I noticed that the reference shelf is
still
in disarray.”

“Did you notice the two speeches I put on your desk?”

“Perhaps I failed to explain how important these reference texts are to the Minister.”

“You’ve explained. I’ve just been busy.”

“Maybe you could look into it when you’re done with these ads.”

She scuttles off and I’m turning to leave myself when Richard pokes his head out of his office with a curious smile. Evidently, he’s overheard our petty conversation. That’s what I get for trolling.

Thanks to my unexpected run-in with Margo, I arrive at the theater a few minutes late. Tim has already bought the tickets and the trailers are starting as we sit down. A group of people move into the row behind us, knocking into my seat repeatedly as they pass. I turn around to glare and find it’s the six juvenile delinquents from the concert.

“Hi, Mr. Kennedy!” they chorus.

Tim looks around in surprise. “Well, girls, this is a coincidence! You remember Miss McIssac? In fact, I think you have something to say to her.”

The ringleader, who is directly behind me, speaks up: “Sorry about locking you in the Porta Potti last week, Miss McIssac. It was an accident.”

“An accident?” I say, raising my eyebrows.

“Yeah, we thought it was Shelley in there and we were just joking with her. Right, Shelley?” Alpha Teen turns to a girl farther down the row, who blows a bubble and cracks it before nodding at me.

I can’t see their faces very well in the darkened theater but I sense a row of smirks. Tim is oblivious to mockery and smiles proudly at his students. He’s fallen for their bullshit, hook, line and sinker. He finds them hard to ignore during the movie, however. Every few minutes, one or another asks him to explain the plot. They laugh overly loudly at the jokes and make kissing noises during the love scenes. About halfway through, Alpha Teen leans forward and says,

“How do you feel about the recorder, Mr. Kennedy?” He shushes her, but moments later, she inquires, “How tall are you, Mr. Kennedy?”

“Six foot three. Now, be quiet.”

I smile smugly in the darkness, but then they start whispering for my benefit.

“What’s that perfume?” Shelley asks Alpha.

“It’s called Outhouse,” Alpha replies.

“Man, it reeks.”

Somehow I manage not to rise to the bait. The fact that Tim has taken my hand gives me strength. Later, the girls simmer down and settle for pelting me with popcorn and kicking the back of the chair in a restrained way, so as not to attract Tim’s attention.

I’ve never been so glad to see credits roll. Tim quietly suggests we give our entourage the slip and find a quiet coffee shop. I’m all for it, but when I stand to leave, my feet won’t move. They’re stuck to the floor and my efforts to free them tip me sideways onto Tim. He pushes me upright and stands himself. The girls have moved out into the aisle, and are standing there, snickering. My feet, it turns out, are glued to the floor with a soft drink that the Ruffians deliberately spilled behind me. A struggle reminiscent of the chicken dance finally frees me to stalk out of the theater ahead of Tim. He catches up to me in the lobby and sheepishly points to the paper napkins stuck to my shoes. The girls advance again while I’m peeling them off, but Tim stops them in their tracks with a severe “Good
night,
girls.”

Realizing they’ve worn out their welcome, the girls disappear down Yonge Street amid much laughter. We head in the opposite direction and find a quiet café in Yorkville. Tim plucks kernels of popcorn from my hair as we sit down.

“Sorry,” he says. “I seem to have to say that to you a lot.”

“Well, you can’t help it if you’re a hit with younger women.”

“They don’t have your sophistication.”

“True. You saw the way I handled the soft-drink-and-napkin crisis.”

“Grace under pressure.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice lately.”

We order Spanish coffees and Tim is soon regaling me with stories of his work. His passion for teaching is obvious.

“You’re lucky to have found your calling,” I say. “Until I started writing speeches, every job I’ve ever had was just that—a way to pay down the Visa bill.”

“And now?”

“Now, I know the fulfillment that comes of carrying designer handbags.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Libby,” Tim says, “you’re also a great waitress. And you’re not half-bad at speechwriting. At least it’s something to fall back on.”

“As long as I never have to teach. Those girls of yours scare the hell out of me. “

“Their bark is worse than their bite,” he says, smiling. Then he turns serious. “They’ve
had
to be tough, Libby. All of them have overcome serious problems to get where they are. Brianne, for example, was a homeless kid who I met when she was busking on Queen Street. I got her into a shelter, then into a technical school and finally she auditioned for the Youth Orchestra. You wouldn’t believe how far she’s come.”

My God, the man is some sort of musical missionary, cruising the streets of Toronto for opportunities to change lives. He really cares about these kids. No wonder they adore him. Whereas, in my spare time, I pay Elliot to tell Me more about Me. Not that Tim is trying to make me feel small. On the contrary, he’s leaning across the table and his arm is touching mine. He doesn’t seem nearly as repelled by my shallowness as he should be. Clearly, I need to help him fathom my complete lack of depth.

“Tim, it’s amazing the way you support these kids. I have to confess, the closest I’ve come to helping humanity was when I considered smothering Margo in a motel room last month—and even then, I was too lazy to follow through. All I seem to want to do on weekends is chill out and it’s never occurred to me to volunteer. I guess that’s pretty selfish.”

“There are plenty of weekends where all I do is hang out with my dog,” Tim says. “Besides, I’m sure you put a lot of energy into writing your book.”

Damn that book, I curse the moment I invented it! Since we’re sharing this confessional moment, I should come clean right now. But he looks so earnest and kind that I hate to disappoint him. Surely I’ve humbled myself enough for one night.

“Well, I haven’t made a lot of progress lately…so busy…”

“That must be frustrating, when it’s your creative outlet.”

Why can’t I be like other girls and choose flawed men who allow me to feel good about myself? Instead I’m sitting with the nicest man in the room and lying to him. Really, I’m despicable.

“How do
you
find the time to juggle so many things?” I ask.

“I’m just used to it. These days, it’s only stressful when someone throws a curveball.”

“Like what?”

“Well, a few months ago, one of my guys from music camp showed up at my door with a black eye and a dislocated shoulder. His mother’s boyfriend has been roughing him up. My life became a series of court dates and meetings with the Children’s Aid Society. It was brutal, but I’m grateful he could confide in me.”

“I don’t know how you handle it.”

“You just do, Libby. You’d do the same if it were you.”

I’d never let it stand between me and a mochaccino, that’s for sure. The man refuses to accept just how frivolous I am. The same blind eye he turns on his students’ bad behavior is now benefiting me. Tim’s life seems terribly grown up, whereas mine is all about petty battles with Margo.

The combination of shame and Spanish coffee is bringing me down. I sit back in my seat and withdraw my arm from the table. By the time Tim drops me off at my house, I’m wondering why on earth he’d want to spend a minute with me. He’s as sweet and charming as ever when we say good-night, but I jump out of his Jeep before he can kiss me—or worse, avoid kissing me. No sense in becoming too attached to a guy who’s bound to see through me anyway. I’ll save him the trouble of spurning me: the self-dump has long been my preferred method of saving face.

The phone is already ringing when I reach my cubicle the next morning. As I pick up, I notice that nothing is on my desk as I’d left it: Margo has been rifling through my things again.

“Hey, Lib, it’s Lola. Remember Julie Redding, from journalism school?”

“How could I forget? She’s the one who told me I should get my teeth done.”

“Yeah, well, she told me that smoking was aging me,” Lola replies.

“Smoking
is
aging you.”

“And you
should
get your teeth done. Cosmetic dental work is far more advanced than when we were in college.”

“When you get your first face-lift, I’ll do my teeth and we can write a book about it,” I suggest. “So, why are you calling?”

“To tell you that Julie has just published her second book.”

“Jesus.” I feel like the wind has been kicked out of me.

“I know. Her first one sucked.”

“A total piece of crap.”

“I paid full price for it, too,” Lola adds.

“I got it out of the library, but at least you were able to deface yours.”

“True. I wrote profanity in the margins and sold it to a secondhand book dealer.”

“Yet they’ve set her loose on the page again. It’s so wrong.
We
should be writing books, you know. Julie Redding has nothing on us.”

“Except that she actually
does
it, instead of just talking about it, you mean.”

“Exactly, but if we were to write, we’d be far better than she is.”

“That goes without saying.”

“So, thanks for ruining my day.”

“My pleasure,” Lola laughs.

When I get home, I pick up the latest compelling addition
to my woo-woo self-help library,
Write it Down, Make it Happen,
and vow to work through every exercise. I don’t have a lot of hope though, because I’ve kept a journal for twenty years and nothing much has come of writing it all down. At least I’m consistent, having listed writing a book as my goal for the past decade.

Despite a brisk round of affirmations, I feel demoralized as I climb into bed. Talentless Julie Redding is writing books full-time whereas I’m best known for carrying someone’s handbag. Furthermore, I’m dating a man who is too good for me. I should give him Julie’s number.

There’s been a lot of press on “sick building syndrome,” but Queen’s Park is probably the first case of “horny building syndrome.” On my way in today, the security guard told me he’s patrolling hourly, because a couple keeps coming in off the street to have sex in the women’s washrooms. He’s caught them in the act three times in two days. This never happened before Richard arrived. Fortunately, he won’t be with us on a full-time basis or no one would get any work done. Margo just informed me that he’ll be flying in from London as his schedule permits. I’m wondering if I’ll get to meet him before he leaves, when Margo adds, “By the way, the Minister expects you to attend the Opera Company event tonight. Richard and I will be there, of course. It’s black tie, so please make an effort.”

Thanks for the advance notice, Marg. I have no choice but to resurrect Roxanne’s lucky dress. To my relief it fits better than it did a month ago. With the aid of two dozen bobby pins and heavy-duty hair spray, I anchor my hair in an elaborate up-do and still make it out the door in record time.

Forty minutes later, I’m watching a soprano perform a painfully long piece. Literally. Every time she warbles the high notes, I feel an invisible stake driving into my gut. The control-top panty hose must be squeezing my spleen against my kidneys. Not that I had any choice about wearing them
tonight—without them, I wouldn’t have the courage to meet Richard.

The Minister finally takes the stage to address the crowd and for the first time, I’m thankful for her habit of racing through her speeches. She’s had a glass or three of champagne and keeps giggling over her own (i.e., my) jokes. Fortunately, the crowd seems to find this endearing. They even laugh warmly at the reference to the Sawdust’s song—not that the Minister intended this to get a laugh but I couldn’t see any way to work it into the speech other than to make a gently self-deprecating joke at her own expense. I trusted that she would not read it in advance, and I was right. Her champagne consumption is an unexpected bonus. Although momentarily taken aback by the laughter, she soon joins in and when the speech is over, she floats off the stage and across the room with Richard in tow.

“Richard,” she says, “I want to introduce you to Lily. She helps me prepare my speeches.”

Helps me?!

“It’s a pleasure to meet you—” he takes my hand, and I’m overcome by an urge to bury my head against his chest “—Lily.”

Did he just call me Lily? Better address that right away. I don’t want him screaming that into my pillow. I give myself a mental slap and release his hand.

“Hello, Richard. The name is
Libby.
”

“Libby?” he repeats, turning quizzically to the Minister.

“Will you excuse me for a moment?” she says. “I see Monique LeClerc.” She leaves me alone with Richard and my burgeoning hormones.