Speechless

by Yvonne Collins

What am I supposed to say? That I write every last word of them and she isn’t involved in any way, other than to deliver them poorly?

  “I believe I’ve seen you at the copy machine,” he says. “You must be lining up facts for Clarice.”

  So he does think I’m the office minion. This has gone far enough.

  “Actually, I’ve been very busy—”

  “—researching and formatting the Minister’s speeches,” Margo interrupts smoothly, materializing with her usual stealth.

  So that’s it: the Minister doesn’t like to admit that she never writes her own speeches. No wonder I get so many mixed messages about my job—it doesn’t really exist! It’s crazy. Very few Ministers write their own speeches, although now that I think about it, I believe Monique LeClerc, Minister of Recreation and friend of Mrs. Cleary, does write hers.

  “Well, tonight’s speech hit the mark,” Richard says, “although Clarice spoke much too quickly. And the reference to that ’70s song was a bit odd.”

  What a discerning fellow he is! My knees are buckling, so I tip half a glass of bourbon down my throat to steady myself.

  “The Minister has good instincts about an audience like this,” Margo pipes up again. “She offered strong direction to Libby in preparing the text.”

  “She did indeed, Margo,” I say, smiling. “Every dosie-dodo…” The booze is going to my head and I can’t resist.

  Margo looks at me as though I’ve lost my mind, then turns abruptly to Richard and changes the subject.

  “Are you a fan of the opera, Richard?”

  “Not at all,” he replies. “I find it exquisitely painful and attend only under duress.”

  I stifle a guffaw and am rewarded by a steady gaze from the most hypnotic green eyes I’ve ever seen. Suddenly the room feels extremely warm and I use my copy of the Minister’s speech as a fan. Then, recalling that fans just move the pheromones around, I judge it safer to remove myself.

  Call it women’s intuition, but I sense that Richard is watching me go. While I stand at the bar waiting for my drink, I chance a look over my shoulder and sure enough, he’s swiveled right around to stare at my butt! He catches my eye and has the audacity to grin at me! I should feel harassed, I suppose, but I’m harassed only by doubts about the quality of my rear view.

  After a few casual sips of my drink, I look around a second time. Mrs. Cleary is at Richard’s side, chattering up at him vivaciously, but he’s looking over her head at me. I suspect he’s been matching the Minister glass for glass of champagne. I have consumed more alcohol than usual myself, but there’s no mistaking the expression on his face. Red alert, Libby! You got away with professional misconduct last month, but do you want to tempt fate again? You’re not that lucky. Richard is still gazing at me and my face is flushing. If he comes over, resistance will be futile. So, I gather my strength, set my unfinished drink on the bar and head out the door. I am not too drunk to know when I’m way out of my league.

  17

  I once switched coffee brands simply because the television commercial for the one I was using featured a woman springing out of bed and singing into the rising sun with a steaming cup of coffee in her hand. The beauty of a sunrise is quite lost on me.

  There are two alarm clocks on my bedside table; a third sits on the dresser across the room. I set the first clock—the one where the snooze button has taken such a beating that the first two letters have worn off—fifteen minutes fast. The second and third display the correct time. Each night, I set the first clock to wake me an hour and a half before I have to be at work. That’s how long it actually takes me to shower, get dressed, blow dry my hair, put on makeup, eat breakfast and walk to Queen’s Park (singing into the morning skies). I set the second clock, the backup, for thirty minutes before I need to be at work. The third alarm, the coma-buster, I set for fifteen minutes later still.

  A morning in the Libby McIssac household might play out as follows.

  6:30 a.m.: First alarm goes off. I hit the “ooze” button. Though far from awake, I still register that this clock is fast and that I therefore have fifteen minutes to doze.

  6:45 a.m.: Alarm rings a second time. I hit the ooze button again. I can still spare a few minutes.

  7:00 a.m.: Alarm buzzes a third time. Time for some choices: breakfast can go. Hit ooze again.

  7:15 a.m.: Alarm goes a fourth time. I cut it short with another press of the magic button. I don’t need much time to get ready. I’m very efficient.

  7:30 a.m.: Not really, it’s only 7:15. Plenty of time. I feel wide awake, so I turn off the alarm. I’ll just lie here for a second and collect myself.

  7:30 a.m.: Real time kicks in as the second alarm clock rings. Okay, no breakfast, no makeup, my hair can air-dry during the walk. I’ll rest my eyes as I plan my attack on the day.

  7:45 a.m.: A quick shower will suffice. I can recoup a few minutes by taking the bus.

  7:50 a.m.: Third alarm rings. Panic catapults me out of bed and across the room to silence it. My hair is more manageable dirty anyway.

  The advent of Richard hasn’t helped as much as one might expect, although I generally regret my failings with respect to personal grooming once the pheromones assail my nostrils.

  Last week, I consulted my doctor about my lack of energy. As usual, she says there’s nothing wrong with me.

  “Any chance you’re depressed?” she asks.

  I briefly consider telling her about Margo and the Minister, about the handbags and the bouquets, about my boy troubles, about the fact that I have to stoop to walk through the doorway at Queen’s Park—a building clearly constructed for the little people of the previous century. But I shake my head: better to keep that between Cornelius and me.

  “Check my iron again,” I say.

  The truth is, I can get up when sufficiently motivated. For example, I give the ooze button a well-earned rest the following Sunday, and am stretching by the door when Lola arrives for a run. I figure I can always doze during the jog as she delivers the next in the series of Michael Monologues.

  “So how’s everything going with Tim?” she asks as soon as our feet are moving.

  Just when I think I’ve got Lola’s number, she surprises me. “You actually want to hear about my life? Is this a new technique for undermining my athletic performance?”

  “Can’t a friend be interested in another friend’s life?”

  “Sure, but you’re usually not that kind of friend, Lola.”

  “That would probably hurt if Michael hadn’t more or less killed me already.”

  Here we go. Michael has been treating Lola poorly from the start. One minute he’s all over her, the next he virtually ignores her. I don’t understand why she puts up with it. This is the woman who once dumped a guy simply because he didn’t always shave before seeing her. Lola’s philosophy has always been that guys are like buses—another will come along in five minutes. Yet, when Michael pulled up to her stop, she suddenly felt blessed to be offered a ride.

  “So what’s he done now?” I ask, planning to shift my brain into Neutral.

  “It’s what he hasn’t done. He doesn’t call enough and he cancels half the time because of work—or at least he says it’s because of work. I’m starting to worry that he’s seeing other women.”

  “Oh, Lola, when would he find the time? He didn’t make millions working nine to five.” But I’m wondering myself. It’s so early in the relationship.

  “I guess you’re right, but it’s depressing. How about distracting me with the details of your movie night with Tim?”

  “Distraction I can provide,” I say, recounting the story of Tim’s students at the theater.

  “He sounds interested to me. Tim’s a good guy.”

  “He is a good guy. Too good.”

  “Bad boys have never been your thing, Lib. I’m the one who likes an air of mystery. Even now, I find it sort of sexy that I can’t figure Michael out. It’s that ‘dangerous guy’ appeal.”

  “He’
s a computer whiz, Lola, not a secret agent.”

  “Don’t let the geeky exterior fool you. The man is complicated.”

  “You can keep your men of mystery, Agatha, I like to know where I stand with a guy. I can’t see why Tim isn’t pursuing someone as serious about life as he is.”

  “You’d be surprised how many men find superficial woman appealing,” Lola says grinning. “It makes them feel good about themselves.”

  “Lola!”

  “I’m kidding, Libby, lighten up. You may not be deep, but you’re usually fun. Why else would I bother with you?”

  We’re passing Dooney’s and Jeff, Master of the Mochaccino, waves from the window. Lola grabs my arm and pulls me toward the door.

  “Enough of this foolishness, Libby. I declare this run officially over!”

  “We’ve barely started,” I protest, but only enough to appear the more dedicated runner.

  Lola flops into a chair and reaches into her new sports bra to produce her emergency cash. “We’ve both had a rough week,” she says. “Coffee’s on me.”

  A few minutes later, Jeff sets two bowls of nonfat mochaccino with extra whipping cream in front of us. Then he pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, hands one to Lola and lights it for her.

  “You are so getting a tip,” she says, smiling appreciatively at him.

  If Jeff had a tail, it would be wagging. This is the effect Lola usually has on guys.

  “You are so getting a fine from the antismoking police,” I tell him. Smoking is banned in Toronto restaurants.

  “You’re the first customers of the day,” Jeff says. “She’ll be finished before anyone else comes in. Smoke fast, beautiful!”

  After Jeff is out of earshot, Lola says, “Obviously, it’s only Michael who’s immune to my charms.”

  “This is how most of us feel early in a relationship, Lola. You’re usually spared the agonies of doubt common people experience. Some of us even exaggerate our assets to impress the object of our affections.”

  “Stuffing your bra again?” she says, drawing the last of the smoke into her lungs and stubbing the cigarette out in the espresso cup Jeff delivered for that purpose. “Or is the lie a little bigger?”

  “It started off as a joke,” I explain. “When we met at Emma’s wedding, I was embarrassed about my lame government job, so I told Tim I was writing a book about my experience with weddings. I didn’t realize he believed me until I saw him at a Ministry event, where I was carrying the Minister’s purse and flowers.”

  “And you didn’t confess because you wanted to look like you’ve got a lot going on in your life.”

  “Exactly.” I thought Lola might understand. She’s been known to stretch the truth herself on occasion. “Look, please don’t tell Emma, I feel like an idiot. Now I’ve left it so long it’s going to be humiliating to admit the truth to Tim.”

  “Maybe you don’t have to confess to Tim that you aren’t writing a book about weddings.”

  “Please don’t tell me I should write a book about weddings.”

  “Actually, I think we should write a book about weddings.”

  “Because we’re such experts in the field?”

  “Remember the column I wrote for Toronto Lives last month, ‘The Anatomy of a Modern Wedding’? A publisher left me a message asking if I’d be interested in writing a book about the Canadian wedding in the new millennium. I didn’t even return the call, but maybe it’s not so ridiculous an idea if we tackle it together. I don’t want to be a copy editor forever and I suspect you want to do more than put words in Clarice Cleary’s mouth.”

  “I don’t know, Lola. The only one who hates weddings as much as I do is you.”

  “Look, it’s a start. Once we’ve proven ourselves, we can move on to more exciting projects.”

  “But I want to write about something I enjoy. There’s nothing enjoyable about a wedding.”

  “What about the free food and booze?”

  “I get that at work. Besides, even if we could suspend our disbelief about the subject, do you really think we could work together? Let’s be honest, Lola, we’re competitive. Aren’t you afraid we’ll kill each other?”

  “Aren’t you afraid that Julie Redding is at a book-signing this very moment?”

  I pause to picture Julie autographing a big stack of books at Indigo. “Well…as long as we’re competing with Julie and not each other, I guess it would be okay. What the hell, why not?”

  We order another mochaccino to toast our new partnership, as well as a slab of chocolate cheesecake. Halfway through the cake, I’m already having regrets about my impulsiveness. How am I going to work with Lola? Worse, how am I ever going to take the subject as seriously as the publisher will? I have wedding issues and the fact that some of my friends are already undoing their “I do’s” has done little to diminish my cynicism. Leanne, for example, married last May and was separated by December. What became of my tasteful wedding gift? Why, it’s ensconced in Leanne’s smart condo, which was in turn financed by cash wedding gifts. It’s not like I want the ceramic bowl back, nor the hand mixer from the kitchen shower, nor the gardening set from the Jack and Jill. What I want—what I deserve—is an antishower where people bring gifts to celebrate my single status.

  Lola waves at me and asks, “You’re not chickening out on me, are you?”

  “No, but I’m indulging in some mental nuptial bashing. I was thinking about how much I resent dishing out wedding gifts. ‘My turn’ may never come and I still have to eat, drink, sleep and entertain in my home. I deserve some nice things, too, damn it!”

  “Hear! Hear! I could tell the publisher that we want to write a book that encourages single women to celebrate single bliss through antiwedding events.”

  “Yeah! It’s time to avenge those $120 designer bowls, to demand payback for every wineglass that cost you more than you’d spend on an entire set for yourself. We could call it The Counterfeit Wedding: A Guide for the Thoroughly Modern Spinster.”

  Since it’s nearly noon, we call Jeff over and order Irish coffees.

  “We’ll take Martha Stewart’s lead and offer step-by-step instructions for holding the Counterfeit Wedding,” Lola continues. “It’s a matter of turning the traditional wedding script on its ear and adapting it to fit our unique premise.”

  “Naturally, we’ll start with a chapter on engagement,” I jump in, “including advice on proposing to oneself and a thorough discussion of self-love.” At this, Jeff’s ears perk up. “Of the spiritual variety,” I assure him, turning back to Lola. “Let’s come out of the gate with a ‘single and proud’ message. What’s so bad about being able to do what you want when you want and spending every cent you earn on yourself?”

  “Right on, sister! Those surveys we run in Toronto Lives always show that single women report being happier than both married women and single men.”

  “I think we’d get plenty of support. Most people can do the math around how much single women fork over in gifts through the years.” I illustrate the basic calculation on a napkin. “Volume of friends/colleagues/acquaintances/relatives times two shower gifts @ $40 plus one stagette @ $40 plus one wedding gift @ $120. And if you’re part of the wedding party, add several hundred more for bridesmaid dresses, additional shower gifts and gift upgrades.”

  “Libby, this is so bent. It’s politically incorrect, it’s offensive…what’s not to like?”

  “Let me write the bridesmaid chapter. I have dresses in every shade of pastel and every style from ‘wench’ to ‘toga.’ Hey, let’s wear them for book-signings.”

  Lola checks the clock and leaps to her feet. “Shit, I’ve gotta go! Michael is taking me to Storm for dinner and I’m getting my hair done to look spectacular.” She hands her bra money to me and asks me to take care of the bill.

  “Say hi to Huggy Bear for me—my dad is still talking about him!” I call after Lola as she sprints toward the door.

  Back at my apartment, I check my voice mail, ho
ping against fading hope for a message from Tim. There’s nothing, so I climb into the shower, dejected. Although Richard has been a welcome diversion in the office, Tim is in the realm of the real and I like him. I’ve checked my messages five times a day since I saw him last week. But it’s probably time to face the facts: it’s Sunday afternoon, and if he were going to call, he’d have done it by now.

  By way of distraction, I flick on the computer and fire off an e-mail to Lola:

  To: Romanobean@torlives.ca

  From: Mclib@hotmail.ca

  Subject: The Announcement

  Lola,

  For reasons that shall remain nameless (Tim), I’m still pondering The Counterfeit Wedding. In Chapter 2, Sally NoSpouse, our heroine, could proclaim to her community that she loves the single life. Okay, so maybe she doesn’t love it, but she knows she’s a hell of a lot happier than a lot of her married friends. She’s committed to getting on with her life and getting the most out of it, man or no music teacher. We’ll walk her through taking out a classified ad in the local paper, hiring a blimp or even renting the pixel board at the SkyDome—whatever it takes to get her message out there! Some sample announcements:

  Ms. Sally NoSpouse wishes to announce that she is joyfully flying solo. She will not be wedded to Mr. Almost Right anytime soon. She is not dysfunctional, nor is she suffering from commitment issues. And no, she’s not a lesbian (not that there’s anything wrong with that).

  Or the blimp-size,

  I’m single…get over it.

  The possibilities for this book are endless, Lola. We’ll be hailed as the champions of the unattached underdog, supporters of single women everywhere to celebrate the power of one!

  Who needs men, anyway?

  Lib

  P.S. How was your date with Michael?

  18

  With Tim seemingly out of the picture, I’ve decided to dust off my fishing pole. I even cut short my morning ritual by several presses of the “ooze” button, simply to have time to polish my lures. I’m wearing the lowest-cut blouse I own—hardly risqué, but a little daring for the civil service—as well as my favorite black skirt and knee-high boots.