Speechless (22 page)

“So, Libby, Margo’s been keeping you chained to your desk?” Tim asks, with a trace of bitterness.

“Very busy, yes,” I mumble.

Margo says nothing, but watches closely, alert for clues.

“Oh, she gets out,” Richard says. “We met at a bookstore recently.”

Both Margo and Tim look annoyed at this—and Richard has only begun peeing around me.

“That was shortly after I arrived from London. Of course, I still go back every other week to consult with two major British corporations. So, remind me what you do, Tim?”

“I teach.”

“University?”

“High-school music.”

“Oh, an
artiste,
” Richard says, condescendingly. “I suppose you’re also quite an accomplished musician?”

“Quite.”

“I see. What a rewarding career—although not financially, I’m sure, unless they pay teachers better here than they do in Britain.”

Suspecting that Richard will only stop posturing if I leave, I call out to the Minister, who’s across the room chatting up the Chair of the Art Gallery of Ontario: “On my way, Minis
ter! Please excuse me,” I say to the others, “the Minister waved me over.”

“She didn’t,” says the ever-helpful Margo.

“She did. I don’t expect you can get a good view from your position. I do have the height advantage,” I say sweetly.

Tim, Richard and Melanie all laugh. I’ll pay for my impudence tomorrow, but at least I’ve lifted the mood. I bid a polite good-night to Melanie and Tim and nod curtly at Richard before I leave. How dare he suggest there’s something between us? And how dare he mark his territory by diminishing Tim?

I spend the rest of the evening avoiding them all. As much as I’d like to follow through on my earlier attempt to apologize to Tim, I keep out of harm’s way, huddling behind a pillar, swathed in the Minister’s wrap. Tim and Melanie certainly seem very comfortable with each other. How could he be that comfortable with someone else so soon? It’s only been a few weeks since our last date. Maybe he was already seeing her, the cad!

Meanwhile, Richard cuts a dashing figure as he works the room. He may be a pig, but he’s the sexiest pig I’ve ever met.

“Lily, for heaven’s sake, give me that wrap. I am catching a chill.”

Dr. Hollywell completes the final work on my veneers and hands me a mirror. At this point, I hardly care how they look, but to my relief, they’re great! I flash my new teeth to the women in the office, then hurry off to the MAC boutique to select four new shades of lipstick. Now that it’s done there’s nothing to do but enjoy my own beauty!

Not one colleague notices my new choppers—not even Richard, who’s been holed up in his office. It’s rumored he’s working on a campaign to bring order to this office and the first step will be shooting down Margo’s idea of a road trip through the northern constituencies. The Minister has called a meeting to discuss Richard’s preliminary observations and for a change, Laurie and I are invited.

The Minister is in a good mood when we arrive in the boardroom. She’s sitting beside Richard and keeps touching his arm. Dour Margo, who has a coffee stain over her left breast and red jam on her sleeve, is on the Minister’s other side. Laurie and I take seats at the end of the table, where the air circulation is a little better. I’m worried my pheromone receptors might overload, even though I’m still annoyed over the way Richard treated Tim.

Richard begins by delivering a short presentation that deftly congratulates us on past successes while pointing out areas for improvement.

“My media analysis revealed a great deal of favorable coverage, due in no small part to Margo’s efforts,” he says, smiling at her. “I would like to hear more about your plans with respect to traveling to northern Ontario.”

Margo says that the trip would give the Minister a chance to promote Club 3:30 in a region she hasn’t yet visited. In response, Richard suggests, in the nicest possible way, that she’s a complete idiot. He says that the trip is unnecessary, given the heavy media coverage that program has already received across the province. After our recent adventures on the road, we’d be better to focus on generating press through a series of positive announcements about our upcoming programs. We’re far more likely to get good press about the arts in the big city. In fact, we’ve been getting consistently good coverage of local events, he notes, “thanks to some excellent speeches from Libby.” The Minister beams at me.

Richard concludes by saying that he’d welcome further discussion with Margo, who has turned an unusual color. She must be beside herself, because she storms out of the boardroom without so much as touching the tray of perfectly good pastries.

A battle is heating up between Richard and Margo. They’ve been ignoring each other all week, speaking only when ab
solutely necessary. The Minister has called another meeting to discuss Richard’s findings.

I am making my muffin selection when Richard and Margo file into the boardroom. Wasting no time on pleasantries, they start throwing punches. Apparently, Margo has continued to plan the trip to the north, despite Richard’s disapproval.

“Minister,” says Richard in a rare show of protocol, “I want to remind you of the words of Albert Einstein: ‘We cannot solve problems with the same thinking that created the problem.’ We must try something different.”

“With all due respect to Richard, Minister, I believe I understand the political environment in Ontario a little better than he does.”

“I’m sure you have an
excellent
understanding of Ontario’s unique perspective, Margo,” Richard says, “but I have nearly two decades of experience in anticipating the reactions of average voters—of Ma and Pa Backporch, as it were.”

“And how many back porches do they have in London, Richard?” Margo retorts, holding her own.

Richard glares at her. The Minister, on the other hand, appears amused. I suspect she rather enjoys bringing combustible people together to create a little drama in her life.

“Margo, Richard, please… I am open to being convinced either way on this, but we won’t get anywhere with you sniping at each other. What do
you
think, Lily?”

Lily is in a bit of a bind: her heart pounds for Richard, but her brain remembers that Margo currently controls her career. On the other hand, she’d rather endure another round with Dr. Hollywell than sleep in the same room as Margo again. So Lily hops onto the fence.

“Minister, I see Richard’s point and I see Margo’s point. Since we have nothing new to promote on a road trip, why don’t we try Richard’s way first? Perhaps we could travel to the north sometime down the road.”

Margo and Richard are clearly unimpressed.

“Well, I’ll need to think about it,” the Minister concludes, adding with a tinkling laugh, “I hear Wawa is lovely this time of year.”

“Minister,” says Margo, with a smug smile, “perhaps our new consultant could give us an unbiased opinion.”

“New consultant!” Mrs. Cleary and Richard exclaim in unison.

“Yes, we’ve hired Mark O’Brien from Sanders and Stevenson to provide the Ministry with advice.”

“On what?” the Minister asks, furiously. “How could you hire another consultant without asking me first?”

“Actually, the Deputy Minister made the decision. I’ve been trying to brief you on this for over a week, but you’ve canceled our meetings. The Deputy wants strategic advice on introducing the new programs we’re planning.”

“I will speak to him about this directly. It’s ridiculous! How many consultants do we need around here? I
do
apologize, Richard.”

“Not at all, Clarice,” he replies. “I welcome Mark’s input.”

The Minister adjourns the meeting and as Margo stands to leave, she tears the tops from two muffins and stashes them in her briefcase. I’m not sure how she convinced the Deputy Minister to buy it, but it was a masterful stroke. With Mark as her mouthpiece, she’ll be far better able to counter Richard’s Rasputin-like influence on the Minister. I have no doubt at all that she’ll manipulate Mark so thoroughly that he won’t have an opinion to call his own. Richard will recommend one thing, Mark another and the two will effectively cancel each other out. A government dream come true!

E
lliot’s psychic ship has finally run aground. After an extended course of smooth sailing during which he correctly predicted the major events of my life, he’s been proven wrong about the road trip. The Minister, perhaps punishing Margo for bringing Mark on board without her approval, has declined to tour the hot spots of northern Ontario.

I couldn’t be happier. I can’t share the moment with Richard, however, because he’s been giving me the cold shoulder since the Minister’s last meeting. His arrogant male mind has somehow translated my failure to side with him against Margo as a betrayal and a sign of disinterest. Elliot probably has a point about the mixed signals I send, but it’s unfair of Richard to hold a grudge over this. He’s a consultant with other clients and a fancy London refuge, whereas I could only escape Margo’s wrath through an express ticket back to the education policy shop—a slim portfolio under one arm and the standard framed photo of the Minister (signed) under the other.

I refuse to fret too much about the current chill in the of
fice air because the latest issue of
O
magazine advises giving up the “disease to please.” Time to stop taking things personally, Oprah says. It’s not all about me. Besides, there’s a bright side: if my crush never kicks into fourth gear, I’ll save a bundle. No lingerie shopping, no filling the refrigerator with food he likes, no new bed linens, no bikini waxes. And I do hate bikini waxes. If God meant for people to be hairless, he’d have begun our evolution from the reptile line.

“Daydreaming, I see,” Margo says, materializing at my side in the kitchen, where I am staring at the coffee machine after a fruitless stroll past Richard’s office. “What’s on your mind?”

“Evolution…and bikini waxes.” She winces. “Well, you asked.”

“When you’re finished musing, I’d like to introduce you to Mark.”

Mark O’Brien is the consultant she’ll be manipulating shortly. He’s very nice—polite, mild-mannered and seemingly untroubled by extra testosterone.

Richard will take him down in a week.

In the three days since his arrival, Mark has spent a lot of time in my office “consulting” with me. I haven’t a clue what I’ve done to deserve my newfound popularity. Maybe it’s the dazzling smile. Or maybe those bridal bouquets are finally taking effect. I’m glad something is working, but Mark, I regret to say, has absolutely no impact on my hormones—and he’s awfully dull. Even now, he’s in the hall outside my office talking to Laurie about carpenter ants:

“In August, they become
nocturnal
and no one knows why!” he’s saying. “Just when you think ‘thank God they’ve moved on,’ you discover they’re actually devouring your cottage by night. One morning, you get out of bed and BOOM!—you fall through the floorboards.”

Laurie has neither a cottage nor a particular interest in entomology, and judging by her glazed eyes, she’s given up all hope of escape.

“Laurie,” I call out from my desk, “Margo needs you.” She mouths “thanks” and departs at a run. Only a very dull man could make a summons from Margo good news.

Mark steps to my door: “Hi, Libby! How’s it going today?”

Fearing a pop quiz on insects, I rustle some papers and complain about deadline pressure. He takes the hint and leaves, but moments later, the elusive Richard arrives. True to form, he’s decided to acknowledge my existence now that there’s competition.

“What did Professor Snore want?” he asks.

“Mark isn’t so bad.”

“If you’ve got insomnia, you mean.”

“You just have to get him on the right topic.”

“Really? You’re telling me that you actually find Mark stimulating?”

“Well…”

“That’s what I thought.”

Uncomfortable with this line of questioning, I use the time-honored feminine ploy of requesting Richard’s help (
Flirt Now,
Chapter 12). He’s a whiz at all things electronic (or so he boasts), so I ask him to show me how to change my screen saver to feature Cornelius in a fetching pose. Immediately forgetting all about Mark, he takes control of my mouse and leans in very close. I promptly lose all powers of articulation, repeating the words “cool” and “amazing” until I want to slam my own head into the computer screen. In fact, the only thing I learn from this demo is that he still has the hormonal upper hand. To ensure my complete surrender, he strokes my hair as he turns away. I suck back another lungful of pheromones and
purr.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: LUST

Hi Rox,

Remind me how we survived adolescence? Thanks to Richard, I spent another lunch hour shopping. This time, I bought
two new bras, one in an impractical jade-green. I also got some suck-it-in underwear and a pair of fishnet tights. I expect you’ll recognize the signs of a crush thudding into fourth? Gather the girls for an intervention before I cash in my retirement savings!

Lib

I’ve barely hit Send when Richard strolls into my office again.

“What’s so special about Sotto Sotto? I hear that celebrities like it.”

“It’s close to the major hotels and I’ve been told the food is great.”

“You haven’t sampled it personally?”

“No.”

“Well, let’s have dinner there tonight.”

I’m struck by the same feeling I get when a job I’ve been pursuing relentlessly drops into my hand—the joy tempered by terror because now I’m expected to deliver the goods.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” he asks.

“Uh—well, I’ll need to think about it.”

“What’s to think about? We go out, we eat, we drink, we talk. Nothing to it.”

“It sounds like a date.”

“And…?”

“And dating you would make my life miserable.”

“Ouch!”

“You know what I mean. These sandstone walls couldn’t contain Margo’s wrath.”

“She wouldn’t find out.”

“She would, she
always
knows.”

“Always? How many guys have you dated around here?”

“Never mind, but thanks to her, I’ve adopted a no-dating-colleagues policy.”

“Well, my job is to recommend changes to current policy. And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m on a roll lately.”

“It’s not that I wouldn’t like to…”

“I can see that,” he says, reaching toward the lingerie bag beside my desk.

I snatch the bag away from him and point to the door. He swaggers out, seemingly
encouraged
by this exchange. Infuriating man!

I’m devouring an Oh Henry! bar and watching my Lean Cuisine manicotti revolve in the microwave oven. Chocolate isn’t my usual appetizer; its purpose tonight is to distract me from thoughts about how much better the manicotti would be at Sotto Sotto. Now that I’m home, I can’t quite remember why I passed up dinner at a fabulous restaurant with a hot guy. Do I want to spend my life alone, sharing frozen dinners with my cat?

Maybe I should call the Sutton Place to see if Richard has gone straight home like a good boy. If he’s there, I could suggest dinner in the west end of the city, where Margo is less likely to have spies on the ground. There’s a little Italian place near High Park….

BEEP— BEEP— BEEP. The microwave brings me back to earth. I put the phone down and tear the cellophane from the manicotti. I wouldn’t be Marjory’s daughter if I allowed a perfectly good frozen dinner to go to waste. On the other hand, it’s because I’m Marjory’s daughter that I’m not gazing across a candlelit table at Richard right now.

“Richard is a mistake you shouldn’t make,” Mom would say, “he probably has a fling in every town.” “Don’t soil the bed you lie in,” Dad would add. And they’d be right. Look at how awkward it is with Tim. Even Joe the Priest bolts when he sees me in the halls. But still, it’s the rare guy who makes one’s arm hair stand on end… A
really good
fling might just be worth the awkwardness and the career risk.

I can handle it. It’s not as if I haven’t dated a few bad boys in my time. Okay, make that one bad boy, but what a blast that was… The wining, the dining, the dirty weekends… Then he dumped me—via voice mail—just as I was falling for him. The trick is to enjoy the ride and avoid the emotional attachment. Lots of women do it. I read about them in
Cosmo,
I see them on TV. If they can do it, I can do it. Marjory is not the boss of me.

If I’m going for it, however, there’s work ahead to turn this place into a love shack. I certainly can’t invite him over without going through the pre-boff cleansing ritual, where anything remotely embarrassing is hidden or vanquished. Hard to believe I’ve accumulated so much since last year’s sort-and-dump for gorgeous Glen Taylor. Before
he
came to dinner, my parents came by with the truck to haul away boxes for their garage sale— CDs, framed posters, old sheets and towels, stuffed animals. The bookshelves always cause me the most trouble. I’d love to keep every book, but clever guys like Richard inevitably think they can figure you out by assessing what you read. My strategy is to intimidate them with the classics. I display works of literature prominently and stack anything embarrassing in secret rows behind them. No guy (and I’ve never been wrong about this) is so desperate to discover the real you that he’ll pull
Pride and Prejudice
off the shelf. If a male hand even hovers near the classics, one need only redirect attention to the interesting array of magazines on the coffee table—magazines like
The New Yorker
or anything with cars on the cover.

Good magazines are useful for another reason: if a lady should ever fight with her gentleman caller, she can hurl
Harper’s
at him instead of
Cosmopolitan.
I’m not saying this happened to me, but it’s true that one fellow did leave with a slight bruise over his heart and the January “bedside astrologer” edition of
Cosmo
lay open on the floor. Libra and Scorpio were indeed destined to part that year. Spooky.

The diet books are just where I left them, behind the great Russians. Only Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky have the heft to conceal such a collection. Richard’s potential ridicule in mind, I cull a couple of the least plausible (e.g.,
The Five-Day Miracle Diet
) before moving on to the self-development section, located behind the complete works of Dickens. Finally, it’s on to the worst of my little bookshelf secrets: the woo-woo spiri
tual section, well hidden on the bottom shelf, behind massive volumes of Shakespeare and Chaucer. I sacrifice one book on exploring my chakras and another on summoning my guardian angels.

I’m rearranging a small modern fiction collection to disguise several books on dream analysis when the phone rings. Hoping it’s Richard, I rush into the kitchen.

“Hi, honey!” It’s Mom, sounding offensively perky.

“Mom,” I say, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice, “it’s after eleven, you know.”

“Yes, Scarborough is in the same time zone, dear,” she burbles merrily. “You sound a little winded. Is everything all right?”

Since Mom is normally asleep by 10:00, she must sense I’m up to no good.

“Of course everything’s all right,” I answer, defensively enough to confirm her suspicions. “I just finished cleaning my apartment, that’s all.”

“Cleaning at this time of night?” She sounds skeptical.

“I’m not expecting company, I just find cleaning therapeutic. You know that.”

“How about some deep-breathing exercises instead?”

“Have you been meditating again?” I ask, suspiciously.

“I’ve started a yoga class with Joan from down the street,” she says, serenely. While we chat, I pull my best wineglasses off a shelf and wipe them with a cloth. “Anyway, dear, I just wanted to make sure you’re behaving yourself. I’ll let you get back to your dusting.”

I stick out my tongue at the phone and immediately feel guilty. After all, the woman’s calling because she cares about me.

“No need to worry, Mom,” I assure her. “Margo’s promo trip to the northern constituencies is a no-go and I’ve got some quiet days ahead.”