Speechless

by Yvonne Collins

  At my desk, I apply lip gloss, grab an empty water bottle as a prop, and sail off to the water cooler, a course that takes me past Richard’s office. I slow down to dangle the bait as I troll by his doorway. He looks up from his desk, sees me, then looks back at his work without so much as a nibble. No “good morning,” no smile, no glimmer of recognition. I’m clearly using the wrong lure. Strange, because these boots rarely fail. Sure, they bring me up to six-five, but Richard has an inch on that. Did I imagine interest last Friday night? I could have sworn he was giving me the eye.

  Demoralized, I clip back to my desk. The boots are already killing me, but maybe I can take advantage of the added height by menacing Margo a bit.

  My forehead almost crashes into the keyboard as I input the Minister’s revisions to Wiggy’s latest speech. This is by far the dullest thing Wiggy has ever produced and not something I should be tackling with only three extra snoozes this morning. I make a mental note to ask Laurie to ply the audience with coffee in advance of the Minister’s speech at the Textile Museum.

  Desperate for a diversion, I log on to my e-mail.

  To: Mclib@hotmail.ca

  From: Romanobean@torlives.ca

  Subject: The Announcement

  Lib,

  My date with Michael was so good it ended only an hour ago! I may not need to host a Counterfeit Wedding after all. But don’t worry, I’m still sympathetic to the cause. There are plenty of women out there like you, who have trouble hanging on to a man. I’ve even come up with an idea for your invitation:

  Together with her disappointed parents,

  Miss Elizabeth Anne McIssac (yes, still single)

  Requests the honor of your presence (and we do mean presents)

  On…

  Regrets will definitely not be accepted

  Nor will donations to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Spinsters.

  Ludicrously expensive gifts, however, are most welcome.

  Libby, this is so much fun. What do you think about serving each guest a nuked Lean Cuisine dinner for one?

  Your co-author in crimes against the traditional wedding,

  Lola

  There are plenty of women out there like you, who have trouble hanging on to a man. That, dear Lola, is because some of us consider a choke hold inelegant. Seems like every time I let my guard down with that woman, she takes a shot at me. How can I write a book with her? I should call right now and tell her I’ve had a change of heart. Picking up the phone, I punch in the first few digits of Lola’s number, then hesitate. She’s a pain in the ass, all right, but this is still a good opportunity to get published. I dial my voice mail instead.

  BEEP—“Hi, Libby, it’s Tim. It’s Sunday afternoon and I thought you’d be home working on your book. I meant to call sooner but it’s been a crazy week. Listen, I’d love to take you for dinner Friday night if you’re free. I know the perfect place—the food’s amazing, the bar has good bourbon and best of all, none of my students can afford it! Let me know.”

  BEEP—“Hi, Flower Girl, it’s Elliot on Monday morning and I want to say I’m picking up some very interesting vibes about you. I could swear you’re off your rock again without my consent. Have fun, but absolutely no pickup trucks. You have way too much class for that—and if you don’t I’m ashamed for you. Let’s get together. Günther’s band is going on a six-city tour next week—in a tacky little van, if you can believe it, which leaves me alone, boo-hoo, but available to my devoted clients and—” Click.

  BEEP—“Libby, we discussed this answering service. I cannot communicate all I need to in three minutes. By the way, are you wearing your boots right now? You feel extra-tall today—and extra-sexy. I’d do you myself if it weren’t for that unfortunate second X chromosome of yours. Call me, doll.”

  I go back and listen to Tim’s message twice, check the time it was sent, and save it for my future listening pleasure. He must have called while I was in the shower yesterday. I dial his number and leave a message accepting his dinner invitation. If all goes well when Lola contacts the publisher this week, I may not even have to lie to him about writing a book.

  “There’s a meeting in two minutes and your presence is requested.”

  I look up to see Laurie standing at my cubicle “door.” “Requested by whom?”

  “Margo wants the entire staff in the boardroom, pronto.”

  “What now?” I sigh, getting up and following Laurie down the hall.

  Five minutes later, I am standing with Laurie at the back of the boardroom as Margo lectures us about the new office rules.

  “The Minister would like to instill the office with a more formal atmosphere. She asks that everyone stand as she enters a room and wait to be seated until she is seated herself. Then, as she leaves the room, all will rise again.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. My filtering device must have shorted out.

  “Have you known me to kid, Libby?”

  Come to think of it, never.

  I have a chance to experience the new formality within hours. I’m in the front passenger seat beside Bill, waiting for Margo and the Minister. Mrs. Cleary is scheduled to open the new Power Plant Gallery installation today. When they finally emerge, Margo opens the door, then closes it again abruptly when the Minister, still standing outside the vehicle, mutters something in her ear. Margo steps over to my window. Glancing dubiously at Bill, I roll it down.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “The Minister wants you and Bill to get out of the car while she gets in.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “You heard me, Libby,” she snaps. “Remember the new formality.”

  I lean toward Bill, whispering, “Wasn’t there an HBO special about the royal family this weekend?”

  We both climb out of the car and close the doors. The Minister declines to meet my eyes as she slides into the back seat. Bill closes the door gently and we get back in.

  Unbelievable.

  When we return to Queen’s Park, Bill cuts the engine and we disembark while the Minister remains seated in the back with Margo. Bill opens her door and she sweeps past me without acknowledgment. Margo emerges a second later and informs me that the Minister would like to see me right away. Muttering obscenities about the “new formality,” I follow the trail of perfume through the hallways.

  “Yes, come in Lily,” the Minister says as I arrive at the door. My butt is already halfway into the leather chair when she adds, “You may sit down.” I spring back up again and then settle back into the chair, as if for the first time. “I’ll get straight to the point. What did you think of this?”

  She’s holding Christine’s latest speech, the one I revised earlier. Fearing this is a test to find out whether I’m willing to bad-mouth a fellow writer, I play it safe.

  “Well, it’s not the most dynamic speech you’ve delivered, Minister, but textiles aren’t a very lively subject.”

  “The speech is duller than the complexion of a woman who doesn’t exfoliate. Have you noticed Christine’s face?” Not being an exfoliator myself, I remain silent. “Very dull, indeed, Lily. However, her dullness is well-timed. I want to become more ‘hands-on’ with my speeches. I could spice them up by adding personal anecdotes.”

  She seems to think the personal anecdotes are her idea, but I’m so chuffed she’s consulting with me at all that I don’t mind. I want to encourage her to confide in me.

  “Casual ad-libbing could add some interest to this speech, Minister.”

  “I knew I could count on your support, Lily.”

  Bill and I are lounging in the car when the Minister emerges from Queen’s Park. We wait until the last possible second, and then hoist ourselves from the car while she takes her place in the back seat. We’re off to the Textile Museum and I’m nervous. I can’t imagine what the Minister plans to add to her speech by way of personal anecdotes, but perhaps she knows more about the textile arts than I do. During
the drive, I offer to rehearse with her, but Margo promptly reminds me that I should not address the Minister unless she addresses me first. I hazard an uninvited glance over my shoulder to find the Minister gazing out the window and smiling.

  I’m disappointed at the small turnout at the museum—until I hear the Minister deliver her speech, that is. And I do mean, her speech: Wiggy’s words have all but disappeared. They were boring, yes, but at least they made sense and drew a link to the Ministry’s work. The Minister, on the other hand, is rambling on disjointedly about textiles in the fashion industry. In fact, it appears she’s speaking on the fascinating subject of “dresses I have owned and loved.” And—wait for it—there’s a nugget of wisdom people can take away: “As I always say, Lycra is a woman’s best friend.” The audience responds with a polite chuckle.

  Praying that she won’t ask for my opinion on the speech, I head over to the Minister to surrender her purse.

  “Well, Lily, I’m not one to toot my own horn, but I must say, I saved that speech! The audience loved it. Just think, if it weren’t for your encouragement, I might not have attempted this. I must do it more often!”

  I am wracked with the kind of guilt and worry that only a trip to the refreshment table can cure.

  I’ve just discovered something else to like about Tim—the man knows a good restaurant. As I savor the last bite of his white-chocolate mousse cake, I tell him so.

  “I’m glad you were able to make it,” he replies. “After the trouble I had with some students last weekend, I needed something to look forward to.”

  “Don’t tell me Mr. Kennedy has bad days.”

  “Occasionally. It builds character.”

  “More character you don’t need. What did they do this time?”

  “Three boys in the orchestra got their hands on a bottle of vodka and after our concert at Nathan Phillips Square Saturday night, they got shit-faced on public property.”

  “Oh no.”

  “A couple of police officers patrolled the area as Curly, Larry and Moe got into a pissing contest—literally—against the Mayor’s reelection banner. They were hauled in for drinking underage and destroying public property. Naturally, they called me and it took me the rest of the night to convince the cops to drop the charges and release them.”

  And I’ve been having such a good time up till now. Any minute he’ll ask what I did last weekend and I’ll have to conceal that I spent most of it bone idle, worrying about whether he’d call.

  “I’d never have the patience to work with teenagers,” I say, suddenly glum.

  “Libby, relax. I didn’t tell that story to prove I’m a long-suffering saint. Besides, you’ve already confessed your dark secret to me.” I must have a puzzled expression on my face because he says, “You know, the one about how you like to take it easy on the weekend?” Oh, that dark secret. “I want you to know that I’ve thought a lot about that.”

  His tone is unexpectedly serious and my mouth suddenly dries out. If there’s one thing I’ve acquired from my vast collection of self-help books, it’s finely-tuned intuition. It’s so obvious: Tim has invited me out tonight with the sole purpose of dumping me face-to-face. Which is more evidence of his excellent character, because a phone dump is quite acceptable after only two dates. He’s leaning across the table now and I sense the bullet hurtling toward me.

  “Am I coming across as some boring martyr, Libby?”

  “Boring, definitely not,” I reply, taken aback. “But I do have this vision of you combing the streets of Toronto searching for youths to save.”

  “That’s unfair. I also search out seniors and indigents. There aren’t enough lost youth in this city to keep me challenged.” Tim’s eyes are twinkling with mischief.

  “All I am saying is, your heroic tendencies could make some people—not me, of course—feel a little unworthy.”

  “That’s crazy. I’m just following my own interests and doing what I like to do. At any rate, I certainly don’t want anyone else—particularly speechwriters entirely lacking a social conscience—to feel bad about how they spend their time.”

  “Don’t knock the life of the morally depraved until you’ve tried it, pal. You could use a rest from your mission work.”

  “I’d love to lighten up a little. Maybe you could give the teacher a lesson or two on relaxing?”

  He’s taken my hand and for a second I wonder if my sleeve has caught fire on the candle, because I feel heat racing up my arm. Obviously my intuition needs tweaking.

  “Anyway, Lib,” he continues as we leave the restaurant and stroll down the street, “I don’t know how you can comment on my patience when you put up with Clarice and Margo all week.”

  “Margo has never locked me in a Porta Potti. Mind you, I do spend a lot of time in the ladies’ room with Mrs. Cleary.”

  “I suppose those purses you haul around contain a lot of makeup?”

  “Bingo.”

  “Just think of the muscle mass you’re acquiring,” he says. “I guess you need it for taking out the competition when you’re fighting for bridesmaid bouquets.”

  “Or taking on music teachers,” I counter, flexing my biceps.

  “I dare you to try,” he says, slipping an arm around me.

  “Tough talk for a man who waves a baton for a living. By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you, do the white socks you wear while conducting keep you grounded?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but a slightly defiant grin suggests otherwise.

  “I’d be talking about the white athletic socks you wore with a black suit at Rideau Hall last month.”

  “How much bourbon did you have tonight?”

  “I know what I saw.”

  “Look, it was that or nothing. I only had a few minutes to pack for the trip and I forgot my black socks.”

  “Let me guess: you were at a ‘save the whales’ fund-raiser and rushed home with seconds to spare before taking on further good works.” What the hell, if you can’t join ’em, beat on ’em.

  “Actually, I was shooting hoops with the guys.”

  “More likely you were tied to a frog during a standoff with developers over the Rouge Valley Marshland.”

  “Listen up, Miss I-Don’t-Do-Charity,” Tim says as he hails a cab, “if you have a problem with my attire, maybe you should volunteer to help single guys dress.” He pulls open the door of the taxi, then adds, “Or undress.”

  “Where to?” the cabbie asks.

  Tim gives the driver his Harbourfront address, then looks at me questioningly. “But we might stop in the Annex first.”

  “Are you crazy?” I say. “There’s a five-dollar charge for extra stops—it says so on the guy’s rate card. Think about the people you could help with that money.” I tell the driver to head straight to Harbourfront. “Don’t worry,” I reassure Tim. “We’ll give the cash to a good cause.”

  19

  I awake to the muffled clattering of pots and pans and wonder for a moment where I am. Then I notice the covers thrown back on the other side of the bed and panic swells in my chest. What possessed me to commandeer that cab last night? I practically threw myself at Tim! And on our third date, too. I’m a goddamned cliché. Soon the clattering downstairs stops and the smell of pancakes wafts into the room. He’s cooking breakfast for me.

  Before I can ponder a discreet exit out the window, something brown and white streaks into the room and lands square on my chest—a very fat, very exuberant Jack Russell terrier. She licks my face, throws herself onto her back, jumps up and licks my face again in an abasement of joy. I laugh in spite of myself.

  “Get down,” I say and she promptly rolls onto her back again. Then she seizes the sheet I’m clutching to my chest and starts pulling. This isn’t the well-trained canine I expected of “dog trainer” Tim. Maybe I’m not the only one who lied at Emma’s wedding.

  There will be no peace here, I quickly surmise, and get out of bed. The dog bounds around as
I retrieve my clothes from various points in the room. Steps ahead of me, she seizes my bra and races out of the room trailing it behind her. She’s flattering herself: that Jack Russell is no 36B. I’m not about to chase her naked, however, so I head to the en suite bathroom and climb into the shower. A few minutes later, the foggy shower doors reveal a small, spotted missile leaping repeatedly into the air and scratching the doors on the way down. I left the bathroom door ajar in case she wanted to bring the bra back, but there’s no sign of it as I emerge. She launches herself against my bare legs. Yelping myself, I struggle to towel dry my hair and get dressed while fighting interference. Then I rummage in Tim’s medicine cabinet for toothpaste and scrub my teeth with my index finger—the worst aspect of the morning-after “walk of shame.”

  I’m about to head downstairs to join Tim when I notice the framed photographs on his dresser. Although it feels like spying, I examine the pictures of Tim with friends, family and students. There’s a black-and-white of a beautiful woman tucked way in the back. This must be the ex who moved to Vancouver. Fair and petite—everything I am not. It looks like the Hospital for Sick Children in the background. I expect she volunteered there while earning her many degrees. Beautiful, brainy and selfless…he’s probably still in love with her.

  “Good morning!” Tim says, as I enter the kitchen. He hugs me and sets a bottle of maple syrup on the kitchen table. “There’s fresh coffee brewing and blueberry pancakes in the oven. I hope you’re hungry.”

  “Always,” I say, managing a weak smile.

  Actually, my stomach is in knots, but he went to such trouble that I sit down and work my way through a couple of pancakes and mug of coffee. I can’t shake the uneasy feeling I had when I awoke; seeing Florence Nightingale’s photo on his dresser only made it worse. I don’t belong here, having Tim fuss over me like this.