Speechless

by Yvonne Collins

  “Is it a peace offering?”

  “It’s flowers, already, you can’t get nicer than that.”

  Emma takes my coat and I follow her into the bedroom, glaring at her.

  “Look, he told me he wasn’t coming,” she explains, shrugging. “He’s got a fund-raiser downtown in an hour—hence the tux. It was awfully sweet of him to drive all the way out here. He even brought us a bottle of champagne.”

  “I wouldn’t have worn pajamas if I’d known he’d be here, Emma. I’m at a psychological disadvantage with this drawstring waistband.”

  “It sounded like you were holding your own,” Emma says, patting my back reassuringly.

  She leads me to the kitchen, where Bob pours me a bourbon. I barely have time to taste it, however, before he’s cueing up the wedding video and herding us to the couch. Tim suggests he and I sit on the floor so that we won’t block anyone’s view.

  “Okay, but I don’t think the etiquette books would approve of your sitting on the floor in a tux,” I say. The moment we sit down, Bob’s beagle, Barney, gambols over and covers both of us with slobber and dog hair. “For God’s sake, Tim, show him your Alpha Dog moves.”

  “They only work on Jack Russells,” he says, unsuccessfully fending Barney off.

  We sit waiting for the show to start while Bob shuts the dog away. I smile at Tim in what I intend to be a warm, friendly way, but he sees through it.

  “You’d rather get down on your knees and kiss Clarice’s pricey pumps than sit through this video, wouldn’t you?” he asks.

  “You already know me so well,” I reply.

  The video is painfully long, a fact to which Emma and Bob seem happily oblivious. Everyone laughs heartily at the bouquet toss and even I have to concede it’s the video highlight. Bob replays the scene twice and is about to hit Rewind again, when Tim speaks up: “Let’s keep going, Bob, I want to see the whole thing before I go.”

  “Thanks,” I whisper to Tim. “I owe you.”

  “Then let up about the tux,” he replies.

  “Fair enough,” I say, laughing.

  The laughter sticks in my throat during the garter scene, however. To my mind, there’s an expression of pathetic longing on my face during my dance with Tim. Fortunately, Lola is not sufficiently drunk to point it out. When I look over my shoulder at her, she simply pretends to get pinged in the forehead with a garter.

  The torment over at last, I clamber to my feet and hasten to the kitchen for another drink. Why did I offer to drive? Now I’ll have to eat a huge amount and stay till the wee hours to burn off the booze. Tim reaches the counter at the same time as I do, and pours me a couple of fingers of Maker’s Mark. With anyone else, I’d consider remembering my favorite drink as a sign of interest. As it is, I can only assume he’s socially gifted. No wonder the Minister loves him.

  “Are you ready to go back out there?” he asks.

  “In a minute. I need to gather my strength. You know what they’re talking about, don’t you?”

  “The wedding?”

  “No, fool, flooring.”

  “Flooring?”

  “That’s right. And tiles. Grout, contractors, housekeepers, strollers, nannies and preschool.”

  “How about life insurance?”

  “That comes later in the evening, along with retirement savings plans and wills.”

  “I think you’re wrong, as least as far as the guys are concerned.” We peer out into the living room via the pass-through. The women and men have already divided into different sections of the room, with the common ground being the dining table, where Emma has arranged canapés. “They’re talking about sports, cars, sports again—and maybe stock portfolios. At least, those are my topics of choice at parties.”

  “And you’re in here with me, where your knowledge is totally wasted.”

  “No, if I met you at the canapé table, I’d immediately refer to ‘conversation starters for girls,’ which includes books, pets, tulips and, my personal favorite, bad bosses.”

  “Don’t get me started.”

  He seems to be releasing the very same pheromones I fell prey to at the wedding. I get this light-headed feeling when he’s around that I certainly never noticed earlier this week with Danny. Mind you, I was too drunk for such subtleties. Now, with only the slightest buzz clouding my judgment, I could swear the man is flirting with me. And he’s off-limits.

  “Shall we?” I ask, gesturing toward the living room.

  “Do we have to?”

  I sense that he’d like to linger and chat, but it’s a little dangerous for my tastes. I’ve done the “other woman” thing and it’s not a role I enjoy. No, we’d be far better off sparring with a table of hors d’oeuvres between us.

  Before I have a chance to take the moral high road, Lola and Elliot burst into the kitchen.

  “Libby, Elliot is dying to hear all about Danny and the pickup truck,” Lola says. The evil glint in her eye tells me she’s deliberately interrupting.

  “Yes, tell Elliot all about it, Flower Girl,” he says.

  Tim looks curiously from Elliot to me and, panicking, I do the only thing that occurs to me: walk away with a brusque “Excuse me.” Elliot grabs at my arm as I stalk by. “Later, Elliot.”

  Well, that was certainly cool. No danger of my making Tim’s “other woman” list after all. I search out Emma and find her in the middle of a discussion on backyard water features. She hurries toward me when she sees my woeful expression.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, it’s just the Tim thing.”

  “What, was he mean to you?”

  “No, he was nice—too nice.”

  “Maybe not,” she says, smiling coyly. “Tim told Bob earlier that the girlfriend is history.”

  “Really?” My heart picks up the pace. “Then it’s a shame I was just rude to him. Well, I guess I don’t want to be his transitional girl anyway. That never lasts.”

  “Oh yeah? I’m a transitional girl and look how that turned out.”

  “That’s right! Everything but the white picket fence.”

  “It’s coming,” she says. “Listen, Tim would be lucky to get you, Libby, but try to be nice, okay?”

  Before I can thank her, Lola and Elliot swoop down on us.

  “I’m so sorry, doll. Obviously my radar is impeded by this,” Elliot says, waving a rather large martini.

  “I expect better from a psychic—especially one who’s predicted romance.”

  “I predicted sex. And I believe I also mentioned conflict.”

  “Look, the guy is taken anyway,” Lola interrupts.

  “Apparently not,” I reply, Emma having left to welcome another guest.

  “Then your rude exit probably didn’t help your cause,” Lola says, brightening. She now considers Tim fair game.

  Given the power of a red dress, I realize I’d better initiate damage control measures immediately. I excuse myself and head into the kitchen again, where I find Bob alone, filling a cooler with ice.

  “He’s gone, Flower Girl.”

  “Who’s gone? And don’t call me that!”

  “Why not? Elliot always does.”

  “Elliot is gay, so he gets away with murder. When you start waxing your chest like he does, you can use his nicknames.”

  “Snap at me if you like, but Tim’s still gone,” Bob says. He’s blushing at the very thought of waxing, though, which gives me some satisfaction.

  “I am not looking for Tim, I am simply getting a refill. Anyway,” I say, contrite, “thanks for stocking my favorite drink. I know that was your doing.”

  “You’re welcome,” he says, hugging me. “Look, Tim’s a good guy—and he asked about you tonight. That’s all I’m saying. Like a wise straight man, I’m staying out of it.”

  He pours just a touch of Maker’s into my glass and reminds me that I’m driving. Emma found herself a good one.

  By the time I leave the kitchen, Elliot is nowhere to be seen and Lola is now deep
in conversation with Michael, Bob’s buddy from the squash club. She looks enthralled by his conversation and keeps fluffing her hair. Now she’s touching his arm. What’s the deal? She’s met this guy a half a dozen times and has never shown the slightest interest in him. In fact, I’m sure he’s the one she dismissed as a techie nerd. Emma’s sister catches me staring at them and says, “Could she be any more obvious?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Lola is way out of Michael’s league and she knows it, but I just mentioned the runaway success of his dot.com company, and suddenly she’s all over him.”

  I end up trapped on the couch between Emma’s sister and another woman, and look up to see Lola sneaking out the back door with Michael. Gee, thanks, pal. Here I am, caught in the conversational cross fire.

  “With interest rates declining, Stephen and I have decided to refinance and invest in a minivan.”

  “Yeah, Dylan and I did that when we were expecting our first, too. Have you chosen a car seat for your precious cargo?”

  My eyes are glazing over but I can still focus enough to see Elliot ushering Emma back into the room. They’ve been on the grand tour.

  “Emma, you must tear down this ghastly wallpaper. It’s so 1999.” Then he spots me and senses a rescue is in order. “Libby darling! Get your sweet ass off that sofa and tell me all about the road trip.”

  Saved! And not a moment too soon—my glass is empty and I’m sucking on the ice cubes for residual bourbon. I excuse myself and join him at the table. He’s examining one of the dips suspiciously.

  “What’s that in the salsa?” Elliot lives in fear of “double dippers.”

  “It’s a speck of hummus. I’m sure it’s fine.” He backs away from the table. “Safer to stick to the veggies, Elliot.”

  “I don’t know… Bob might have cut them up. I doubt he washes his hands properly. Did you see antibacterial soap by the sink?”

  I make a show of stirring the salsa with a carrot stick before popping it into my mouth. “Mmmm, germs!”

  Disgusted, he tries to divert me by asking about Danny. “Was he hot?”

  “He certainly was.”

  “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.

  13

  There’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.<
br />
  “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.