Speechless

by Yvonne Collins

  “Apology for what?”

  “For being a jerk. For coming to my house in the middle of the night, drunk. For insulting me. Take your pick.”

  “I believe it is Dick who is owed an apology.”

  “I was provoked.”

  “Maybe I was upset that you rejected me,” he says, changing tactics. “Maybe I’m hurt that you prefer what’s-his-name’s company to mine.”

  “Mark and I are pals.”

  “Well, I guarantee you he’s hoping for more.”

  “He’s a nice guy, we’re pals, end of story. If you gave him half a chance, you might like him.”

  “I have enough pals already, thanks.”

  “Your loss. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a speech to write.”

  He sulks in his office for the rest of the afternoon but returns around 8:00 p.m., offering to show me how to find “classic” speeches on the web. I find myself accepting and the pheromones heal our rift in no time. In fact, we’re soaking in them when Mark comes by to see if I am leaving. Richard eyes him sullenly as I hastily reply that I have hours of work ahead. Turning to leave, Mark crashes into Margo, who’s materialized behind him.

  Sounding more flustered than the situation warrants, Margo smoothes her suit and says, “Richard, I suggest you leave Libby to her speech. The Minister has already asked for a draft.”

  Richard makes a show of taking his sweet time before leaving. Margo follows him, but returns a short time later.

  “Libby, do you think you’re spending too much time with Richard? We’ve noticed you’re falling behind with your speeches.”

  “If I’m slowing down it’s because I’m exhausted, Margo. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been churning out a lot of speeches lately—including two for last Friday that were never used.”

  “Are you interested in him?”

  “Margo, we’ve been over this before. I’m not involved with Richard—not that it’s anyone’s business but mine.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. I expect the Minister would consider it a ‘career limiting move.’ You know,” she adds, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “I don’t know how anyone could find that man attractive.”

  “I’ve got to get back to work, Margo,” I reply wearily.

  Like I’d ever fall for her faux gal-pal routine! Besides, were I not so convinced she’s immune to normal human desires, I’d say Margo is attracted to Richard herself. She’s been acting weirder than usual around him lately. This morning, I caught her staring at him during a planning meeting. Maybe she’s heard about his political aspirations and it turns her on. At any rate, few seem able to resist his raw sexuality. He has a habit of standing too close and whispering, as if the most mundane statement is a secret you’re sharing. Margo seems as enthralled as the rest of us.

  I’d recover from my obsession with Richard much sooner if he’d just stop touching me. He’s always coming up behind me and putting his hand on my shoulder and yesterday, he actually put his arm around me. For one short, blissful moment I gave myself up to it and leaned on him. Then I remembered I must be aloof, like a cat, and moved away. It was all I could do not to weave around his ankles and jump into his lap—figuratively speaking, of course.

  Which isn’t to say I’ve forgotten what he’s really like. Even my subconscious reminds me. Last night, I dreamed Richard and I were having dinner in a nice restaurant. During dessert, his cell phone rang and he informed his caller that he’d be right over. Then he offered me a thin excuse about having to resolve some crisis at work—even though it was past midnight. Enraged, I accused him of running to another woman. He didn’t even have the decency to deny it. “Libby,” the dream Richard told me, “you and I are just good pals. But I promise I’ll bring you a nice sandwich next time I see you.”

  It was just a dream, I tell myself, inspired no doubt by my suspicions about Lola’s beau, Michael. Just the same, it’s left me with a bad feeling all day. I can’t afford to let this crush slip into fifth gear. Fortunately, I know exactly what I need to do to slow down the runaway train.

  To: Roxnrhead@interlog.ca

  From: Mclib@hotmail.ca

  Subject: Brake Lights

  Hey Rox,

  All signs indicate that my crush on Richard must come to a screeching halt. He can’t possibly be the man for me. He has the E.Q. of a 12-year-old, whereas I am at least 15. Although I swear his appeal isn’t linked to his cash flow, I can’t account for where it does lie. Somehow, he’s as irresistible to women as a free makeup bonus.

  Since the night he showed up at my door, he’s been working much harder to impress me. I’ve been receiving helpful tips on everything from handling my computer to investing my considerable wealth. I try to remain aloof, but then he whispers in my ear or touches me, and I crumble. He probably thinks I’m playing games, but I’m really just trying to resist.

  Obviously, the problem is my own weakness, so I must bolster myself with a show of strength on the home front. Today I collected all my crush-related purchases to see what could be returned. I started with one of the sweaters I bought at Banana Republic, which was really too tight anyway. The tags were still on, but since it’s now on sale I was only able to recover half its value. I stopped at Aveda on the way home and got a full refund on two scented candles and a bottle of body oil. I delivered some bath bombs to a delighted Mrs. Murdock upstairs, and called Dad to pick up the box of frozen filet mignon (no wonder he doesn’t believe I’m vegetarian). The bras, underwear and fishnets I can’t return, but that’s okay. They’ve migrated to the back of my underwear drawer, where they will stay until my hormones awaken for some other guy.

  My cleansing efforts did not kill the crush, but they delivered a disabling blow. The downshift into third gear almost threw me to my knees. Still I managed to stagger toward chocolate.

  Lib

  The Minister is in excellent spirits this morning when she drops by my office first thing.

  “Why look, Lily, a guest chair! Things have changed, haven’t they?”

  “They have, Minister,” I smile. “Would you care to use it?”

  “I would,” she replies, perching gracefully on the edge. “You haven’t seemed yourself, lately, Lily, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “I’m a bit tired, Minister—nothing serious. It’s been an intense period of writing, as you know.” It’s also been an intense period of research on the book front, but I’m careful not to let that drop at the office. My Lady would not tolerate divided loyalties.

  “Everyone seems a little down this week,” she continues, which is the closest she’s come to acknowledging that she inconvenienced a lot of people with her drunken escapade. “Do you know what I think we need?”

  “Medication?”

  “Lily!”

  “All right, a vacation?”

  “No, a party! I’ll host it.”

  “A party?” Since when does she care so much about office morale?

  “We’ve been working very hard and we deserve to cut loose.”

  “Cut loose?” I echo, dubiously.

  “Don’t be a spoilsport. I’m having a party and that’s all there is to it. All we need is a theme!”

  “You mean like ‘come as your favorite pop star’?”

  “That’s the spirit! I’ll work out the details and get back to you.”

  I’m a little stunned by this exchange, but Richard isn’t surprised when I tell him.

  “Clarice loves a theme party,” he says. “She has one every year. There are two possibilities: Disco Fever or Talent Night. Last year we performed, so I’d start polishing my platforms if I were you. I’ll have my housekeeper ship my disco gear from London. Incidentally, Clarice has her own disco ball.”

  Sure enough, an hour later Margo anxiously assembles the full staff for a special announcement. Mrs. Cleary is pacing briskly up and down in the boardroom.

  “People,” she begins, “I’m throwing a party next Thursday night at my home to cheer you up.
All refreshments will be provided. The theme is ‘Disco Night’ and you are required to dress accordingly. And by the way…” She stops pacing to glare at us. “Attendance is mandatory.”

  Margo’s stunned expression suggests she hasn’t held on to her tube tops. She watches, frozen in dismay, as the Minister hurries over to me.

  “Thanks so much for the idea, Lily! This is going to be great!”

  She giggles and whirls off, leaving me to shrug sheepishly at Margo and slink back to my office, where I find Richard lying in wait.

  “If you’re a good girl at the party,” he whispers in my ear, “I might just let you ring my bell.”

  I roll my eyes, but when he rests his hand on my shoulder, I find myself regretting the return of the tight sweater. I’m no longer reluctant to see my colleagues (Richard) in a social setting. I’ve been working like a slave and could use a little distraction (Richard) from the grind. My current malaise is nothing a little dancing (with Richard) couldn’t fix. Long live the Hustle.

  Tim Kennedy emerges from the Minister’s office just as I arrive to deliver a draft speech. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen him. He’s grown a beard and it looks great.

  “Thanks for coming in, Tim,” the Minister says, walking him out. “I appreciate your advice on my new program ideas.” She sees me cowering in the next doorway and says, “Lily, you’ve met Tim, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, of course. How are you?”

  “Very well, thanks,” he says, summoning a stiff smile.

  “Oh, I have a marvelous idea!” the Minister exclaims. “Tim, I am having a little party for my staff on Thursday and you must join us.”

  A fleeting expression of panic crosses Tim’s face, but he responds calmly: “Thank you for the invitation, Clarice, but I’m afraid I already have plans.”

  “You must try to reschedule them, Tim. This will be the event of the season. It’s a disco theme.”

  “Disco? Well, that does sound like fun. I wish I could make it, but I’m afraid it’s impossible.”

  “What a shame,” the Minister pouts. “Are you quite sure?”

  “Quite sure, but thanks again.” As he passes me, he permits himself a grin and mutters, “Boogie on down.”

  I hope Tim isn’t passing up an opportunity to make Mrs. Cleary happy simply because he hates me. Let’s face it, the budget for his orchestra depends very much on the Minister’s whim. He could probably finance new uniforms simply by suffering through a short Abba number. Just the same, I’m relieved he declined. With Richard attending, it would only become a Ballroom Blitz.

  Elliot and Günter pull me along Baldwin Street and into their favorite vintage-clothing store. Apparently Günter gets most of his Glam Session costumes here.

  “It’s a ’70s theme, remember,” I say, steering them away from a rack of debutante dresses. “And the point is to look totally fuckable!”

  “Well, it’s your heart, Lib,” Elliot cautions, knowing full well that I have Richard in mind. “If you’re determined to have it crushed, who am I to stop you?”

  Which is rich, coming from the man who has deliberately crushed scores of hearts. But I am not about to pick a fight when I need them to help me get ready for the Minister’s party, so I meekly try on every outfit they toss my way. We’re all partial to the orange off-the-shoulder dress with frills, but it seems unlikely to provide good coverage during a frenzied boogie. Next, there’s a mint green wrap skirt with a rose blouse featuring French cuffs and a detachable tie. Too sedate, we decide. We almost have to dial 911 for the old lady who runs the store when she sees me in the tube top/elephant pant combo. Far too funny to carry me into the fuckable range. Besides, I failed the pencil test a decade ago.

  In the end, we all vote for a red polyester jumpsuit with a wide silver belt. It has the best shock value—particularly because it’s a size (or two) too small. Günter assures me it’s nothing a good sturdy girdle can’t handle; I don’t question how he knows this. Then he offers to lend me his glitter platforms with the real block-of-wood soles. For once, these size 12 pontoons have come in handy!

  “All we need to do is style your hair like the Charlie’s Angel of your choice and you’ll be perfect,” Günter says, pushing me toward the cash register.

  “Yeah, and if that ain’t the way your heartbreaker likes it—uh-huh, uh-huh—you better give it up for lost, Flower Girl.”

  To: Roxnrhead@interlog.ca

  From: Mclib@hotmail.ca

  Subject: Body sculpting

  Dear Roxy,

  What’s in a name? Let me tell you, when they started calling the common girdle a “foundation garment,” they revolutionized the whole notion of support. We curvaceous gals have been crazy to let it all hang loose in the mistaken belief that girdles are for geezers. The Minister was right when she said Lycra is a woman’s best friend!

  I walked into the department store yesterday wearing dark glasses. Heaven forbid I reveal my secret need. You wouldn’t believe the range of options. There are big Lycra tubes, bicycle shorts, miniskirts and some that go almost head to toe. I carried several different items into the change room, and with the help of a good slathering of body butter, slid into each like a greased pig.

  Curious minds want to know, where does the fat go when it’s squeezed into serious Lycra? Does it well up around the neck and down around the calves? It’s gotta go somewhere, right? Well, my little experiment shows that it doesn’t become a spare tire in an unlikely locale. The flab is actually squeezed inward. Damage to internal organs may result from prolonged usage.

  Anyway, I found one that lifts and separates, and packs the rest neatly away. When I got my rubber treasure home, I squished myself into it and slipped the jumpsuit over top. It was like computerized “before and after” magic: I looked as though I shaved off 10 pounds without giving up chocolate! So what if I have tread-marks all over when I take it off?

  By the way, it occurred to me today that my crush may have geared up to fourth again without my noticing. I only figured it out while girdle shopping, when I found myself in the fitting room with a black garter belt in my hand; I don’t recall picking it up. For someone who doesn’t even like wearing panty hose, that’s surely the sign of a crush at its peak. My thoughts are clearly disordered.

  Lib

  P.S. I didn’t actually buy the garter belt.

  26

  The foundation garment is a wondrous invention, but it is not built for comfort. Once I’m into it, I can neither expand my lungs fully, nor bend in the usual places. In fact, I have to throw myself sideways into a cab en route to the Minister’s party. It’s worth the pain, however, because the cabbie’s sidelong glances confirm I look surprisingly fetching. At any rate, my hair looks better than it could have in the seventies, thanks to the excellent products of the new millennium. Günter introduced a perfect Farrah flip to it and blasted it into a helmet. Then he dusted my face with so much glitter that it’s tough to see the wrinkles.

  When I walk through the door of the Minister’s Forest Hill home, my ratings soar.

  “Lily,” the Minister squeals, “you look fantastic!”

  She’s so thrilled she actually embraces me, which is how I discover her turquoise wrap dress is silk; it was designed to look vintage. My stretch polyester jumpsuit, on the other hand, is thirty years old and could go up in flames at any moment.

  Richard lounges across the room in a perfectly tailored white three-piece suit and platform shoes that take him up to about six-nine. He looks oddly at ease in the ensemble.

  “If it isn’t the long-lost Gibb brother,” I say.

  Margo is lurking behind the Minister, in her usual navy suit and white shirt. She looks sullen, despite the “happy face” kerchief tied around her head.

  “What do you think of Margo’s outfit, Lily?” the Minister inquires.

  “Corporate disco at its finest,” I say. “The bandanna works, though.”

  “See?” Mrs. Cleary says to Margo. “Lily, when Margo
arrived without a costume, I went though my closet and found this kerchief.”

  The Minister takes my arm and leads me to the living room, where a disco ball is showering sparkling light over Mark. His orange shirt, open to the navel, showcases several gold medallions.

  “You look amazing, Libby,” Mark says and out of the corner of my eye, I see Richard watching. “Can I get you a cocktail?”

  “I advise you to stay sober,” Margo whispers.

  “Yeah, tell it to the Minister,” I whisper back. But, tempted as I am by the sight of the full bar where two bartenders are serving up colorful concoctions, I tell Mark to get me a club soda.

  I avoid alcohol for a full hour—until the Minister rolls out the karaoke machine, saying that each guest will be required to perform a disco hit of her choosing. At this point I head straight for the bar where I hastily knock the parasol out of a Singapore Sling and chug it down, maraschino cherries and all.

  The Minister delivers a surprisingly raunchy version of “Lady Marmalade.” As a mark of favor, she asks me to perform next and I manage a fair rendition of “I Will Survive.” After this, karaoke hour becomes a lot more fun. Richard then takes to the makeshift stage next and belts out “She’s a Lady,” gyrating with such enthusiasm that the Minister takes off her Hermès scarf and throws it at the stage. Finally, when everyone else has performed, Margo stands and grimly speaks the words to “Born to be Alive,” unintentionally bringing down the house.

  By the time the dancing begins, I’m having a great time, sipping my third cocktail and glorying in the Minister’s newfound fondness for me. Clarice is a fine lady, I decide. How wrong I’ve been about her! She and Richard execute the Hustle and the Bump with precision, while Bill, Laurie, Mark and I dance together. Eventually, Richard grabs Margo’s hand and twirls her into Mark, causing them to crash into the wall. Brushing roughly past Mark, Richard collects Margo just seconds before the pace of the music slows. Peaches and Herb start singing “Reunited” and before he can escape, Margo wraps her arms around his waist. She’s either ignoring her own rule about sobriety or I was right about her interest in Richard.