“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?”
“I’m here on my own. The music camp for underprivileged kids I support just won an award. I volunteer every summer.”
Of course you
do, Mr. Selfless. How does the guy find the time and energy for these good works? The closest I’ve ever come to a charitable act was resisting the urge to frame a “Cigarettes Kill” poster as a birthday present for Lola. I’m a selfish git.
“So,” Tim continues, “are things going better?”
“A little. The Minister is actually letting me write speeches.”
“That’s great! Did you write today’s?” I nod reluctantly. “It was terrific!”
“Thanks,” I say, beaming. “God knows I won’t get any praise around here.”
“In my experience with Clarice, you only know you’re doing okay by the absence of complaints.”
Once again, he’s managed to make me feel good about myself. Maybe he sees me as another one of his charities. I can’t imagine he’s interested in me. In fact, he’s probably already seeing some do-gooder he met at a fund-raiser—a Big Sister, or a Girl Scout leader. They’ll spend their weekends working in soup kitchens, wearing matching sweaters knit by South American peasants.
I’m not feeling so good about myself anymore.
“Libby!” Margo is signaling me from across the room where she is pitching in by schmoozing the dignitaries. “We’re hungry over here!”
For once I’m grateful for Margo’s intrusion. My tray of crab cakes has developed a noticeable tremor: it’s the damn pheromones again.
“A speechwriter’s work is never done,” I say, smiling at Tim, “I’ll see you.”
I’m carving a path through the hungry masses when I hear him call after me, “Congrats on a great speech, Flower Girl!” Somehow it’s bearable when he says it, so I turn and smile. Then I pan down and confirm that he’s wearing black socks with his suit tonight.
14
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Blubber Alert
Lola,
Just wanted to warn you that I’ve gotten as big as a house so that you won’t be shocked when you see me at the café tomorrow. I fear I’m already “starting to show.” Don’t say I’m imagining it, because my clothes are telling the real story. The stress of the job is turning me into a compulsive eater— I’ve even dedicated a desk drawer to emergency rations. Mind you, I’ve behaved better since bumping into Tim. Can’t wait to tell you about that!
Lib
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: A Solution to your problems
Hi Lib,
Actually, I noticed at Emma’s party that you’ve put on a few—the drawstring pants were a dead giveaway. I have a suggestion: instead of meeting for fancy coffees, why don’t we start a running program? Although my weight doesn’t yo-yo like yours, I could definitely afford to tone up. What do you say?
Lola
The Internet truly does make people bold. Even Lola wouldn’t dare say in person that I’ve “put on a few.” What a bitch! Her job as a friend is to tell me I look great, regardless. Why do I keep this woman around, anyway? Oh right, because Roxanne is thousands of miles away and Emma is caught up with new husband and homestead. Even a beleaguered speechwriter needs a social life.
The nerve of her suggesting we take up running as if it’s something I don’t do all the time—or at least occasionally, which is more than I can say for that little smokestack. Nature may have blessed her with an hourglass figure, but she can’t climb a flight of stairs without hacking up a lung. Put your sports bra where your mouth is, my friend.
With this thought, I shoot off an e-mail agreeing to her suggestion and start scheming. Lola is known for dragging her stiletto heels, so I’ve probably got a few weeks before she gets around to embracing this new fitness regime. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to her, I’ve already run three times since I saw her last, and I’ve mostly given up whipped cream on my mochaccino. If I can just sneak in a few more runs before we officially kick off the program, I’ll leave Lola in the dust.
I’m thinking about buying myself state-of-the-art running shoes when the phone rings.
“Hey, it’s Lola. Let’s start running tomorrow—strike while the iron is hot, I always say.”
Since this is something Lola never says, I realize there’s a man behind the fitness craze. There’s usually a man behind any change of this magnitude— I should know. Michael must be transcending his tech nerd beginnings.
“Excellent,” I say. “Why don’t you come to my place at 6:00 tomorrow morning?” Lola is a notoriously late riser.
“You’re on,” she says. Michael is definitely a contender.
Lola arrives at 5:55 a.m. in a steady drizzle. Left to my own devices, I would certainly have crawled back into bed, but the spirit of competition stirs. Lola’s feeling it too, judging by her new Lycra leotard and matching Skechers. She looks fabulous.
“I’ve got pockets,” I say, slapping my sweatpants. “Want me to carry your smokes?”
“Very funny. Cinch that drawstring a little tighter and let’s hit the road.”
Soon we’re trotting along Bloor Street and Lola is turning heads, even at that ungodly hour. Her hair is pulled back in a careless ponytail with fetching tendrils framing her face. Mine is in a ponytail too, but the layers are busting out all over and curling into horns at the temple. Worse, I’m actually struggling to keep up with Barbie, although I suspect her energy stems from the new rubber she’s wearing. When we hit a red light, she continues to jog back and forth, while I gratefully seize the opportunity to stand on the spot. Suddenly I see why everyone is staring: “Lola, for God’s sake, get a sports bra.”
“You don’t need one with these Lycra outfits. The guy at the sports store said so.”
“Since when did guys offer reliable advice on support?”
“Like I always say, if you’ve got ’em, flaunt ’em.” (This she does always say.)
“Well, if you want to avoid tucking them into your socks after a few runs, wear a bra. In fact, wear two.”
“Why, thank you! Did you hear that, girls?” she says to her boobs.
Fortunately, the elastic in Lola’s getup soon starts to give and she slows down considerably. Great. Now that I can breathe, I’ll tell her about my seeing Tim. I open my mouth, and—
“Isn’t Michael fabulous?”
Or we could talk about Michael.
“I wouldn’t know, you held him prisoner on the porch at Emma’s party—after deserting me, I might add.”
“Sorry about that, we just really hit it off. He called me the next day and invited me to drive to the country in his Audi TT.”
“That must have been nice.”
“Not half as nice as his new penthouse! He’s had the whole thing professionally decorated and let me tell you, that man knows the meaning of luxury. I spent the next couple of days there, as a matter of fact.”
“That luxurious, huh?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Hot tub?”
“Yup.”
“Steam bath?”
“Check.”
“Egyptian cotton sheets?”
“Four-hundred-thread count.”
“Slut.”
“Look, it’s not a pickup truck, but what can I say, I’m easy.”
We both laugh, which is remarkable, considering we’ve passed the twenty-minute mark in our run. Finally, I try broaching the subject of Tim again.
“So, I saw Tim last week.”
“Really? Where?”
“At the office. He was—”
“Michael took me for a tour of his office. It’s this renovated warehouse space full of art deco furniture and Italian leather.” She glances over at me to see if I’m absorbing the splendor of it all and detects my frustration. “Sorry, Lib. You were trying to say something about Tim. Why was he at your office?”
“Supporting yet another of his good causes. He—”
“Michael’s company donated over 10 grand to the Hospital for Sick Children last year. He must be doing very well!”
I give up on tr
ying to share the nuances of my encounter with Tim, since it all pales in comparison, and encourage her to babble on for the remainder of the run, taking comfort from her wheezing. By the time I usher her to her car, she’s about to keel over. I, meanwhile, have enough gas to run up the street to the Second Cup, waving merrily to her as she sinks behind the steering wheel.
I’ve actually given some thought to what I’m wearing, but when I see the crowd at Storm, I realize that no matter how I try, I will never be cool enough. My black pants are classic and my cashmere blend sweater casually elegant, but cool they are not. And then there’s the matter of footwear: since I walked from my place, I made the sensible choice and am wearing my Blundstones. It’s not like my parents ever notice what I wear.
They’re already at our table and shifting uncomfortably in steel mesh chairs when I arrive. I kiss them, sit down and take a look around. Elliot had said the place is trendy but I wasn’t prepared for this. There’s a waterfall dividing the dining room from the cocktail lounge. In the latter, blue light dances off a gleaming silver bar. The barstools are covered with lime-green fun fur, and white plastic egg chairs are suspended from the ceiling with chains. Macy Gray is blaring from the speakers and my mother winces when she realizes the backup singer is chanting, “Fucky for you.”
I’m going to kill Elliot. He never batted an eye when I told him I was planning to bring my parents here. He’s met my parents: it’s not like he could think that this is their kind of place. Obviously, it’s one of his little jokes on the suburbanites.
“What an unusual place, dear—so imaginative!” As usual, the nicest woman in the world is trying to be positive. She’s squinting at her menu, where the shiny blue lettering fades into the aqua background. My father is tilting his to catch the light.
“Can I get you drinks to start?” the waiter asks, gazing blankly at us through pale blue aviator glasses. He’s wearing floral bell-bottoms, and a tight, ribbed T-shirt.
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