I take a good look around and see that Emma is right. “That’s weird. It must be a new trend.”
“It’s Cougar Night, ladies, what did you expect?” the bartender asks with a smile.
“Cougar Night!” we exclaim in unison.
“I’m too young to be a cougar!” I say, deliberately suppressing the memory of Danny and the pickup truck.
“And I’m married!” Emma adds.
“Surely you have to be over thirty-five to be considered a cougar?” I say to Emma. “I have never been more insulted in my life. They didn’t even ‘card’ us to see if we’re old enough.”
“Care to Merengue?” Brendan asks.
“Sorry, I don’t know how.”
“I’ll teach you,” he says, practically drooling as he watches Josh and Lola grind away on the dance floor. “Besides, it’s the last dance.”
“Oh my stars, is it that late already? Why Miss Emma, it’s closing time. I need my beauty sleep. I’m up so early to feed my ten cats!”
Brendan departs in a hurry and Lola soon returns trailing Josh.
“Send the boy back to the playground,” Emma tells her. “It’s time to go.”
“Oh, please, can’t I keep him?” she wails, trying to pinch Josh’s ass when his back is turned. “He’s much more fun than boring old Michael.”
“Easy, grandma,” Emma says, reaching out to intercept the play. “We’ve had a lot to drink tonight and you’ll regret it tomorrow if you take him home. And then you’ll call me and ask why I didn’t stop you.”
“I won’t, I promise!”
“You will—you always do. So this time, I’m stopping you.”
We can only convince her to leave Josh by agreeing to accompany her to an after-hours club down on College Street. I’d rather crawl home to bed, but stumble gamely into the cab. Soon we’re weaving our way into another crowded club. My head is starting to ache and I’m grateful that booze is not an option here. Emma orders a round of Cokes, while Lola disappears into the washroom; she returns with a mickey of rum in her purse.
Daylight is pushing its way around the blind in my bedroom window by the time I get home. And today was the day I promised myself I’d do some research on wedding traditions. Before I throw myself into bed, I set my alarm for noon. Plenty of time to hit the library then—if I’m mobile.
I’m standing near the bar in the after-hours club trying to order another round of Cokes to mix with my rum. There’s a couple in my way and they’re making out, completely oblivious to everyone around them.
“Don’t worry, babe, I’ll take care of this,” a male voice says. I turn to see a teenage boy beside me, with bad skin and limp orange hair. He gives my ass a reassuring squeeze before deliberately banging into the amorous couple. When they come up for air, I’m horrified to see that it’s Tim and Melanie.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Tim says to me. “Could you ask your son to be a little more careful? He just spilled my wife’s drink.”
“Your wife?!”
“Do I know you?” he asks.
“It’s Libby McIssac.”
“Oh, yes! Didn’t we go out once? Sorry I didn’t recognize you, but you look…older. Besides, I thought you moved to England with that rich, horny guy.”
“She did,” pipes the kid, “but she found out he’d been having an affair with another client all along. Lucky for me, eh pal, because I’m not her son, I’m her boyfriend.” The Cokes arrive and he turns to me. “Can ya lend me ten bucks, babe? I’ll pay you back when I get my allowance!”
Tim turns to leave and I hear Melanie ask, “Who’s the cougar?” The boy snorts and pulls out his Game Boy. Beep, beep, beep. The noise makes me crazy.
“Do you have to play with that thing now?”
“It’s the last gift my mother bought me before her accident with Minister Cleary’s curling iron. She said, ‘Libby will love this.’ She was thinking of you right up to the end.”
Beep, beep, beep.
I reach out and cuff the alarm clock to the floor, but there’s no danger of my sliding back into sleep. I can’t risk returning to that dream. Instead, I lie there, head pounding, trying not to read too much into it. Dreams have no meaning. This one does not hold the key to my troubled psyche. And Margo, sadly, is very much alive.
29
I have to get to the donuts before Margo does. Bill brings in a box every Monday morning, but timing is critical. I can’t even slow down to say hello to Richard, who has just returned from London, although I do notice that he’s wearing a suit. I haven’t seen him in “uniform” in ages.
“Slow down, it’s too late,” Bill says, stepping into my path.
“Damn, damn, damn.”
“I know, I’m sorry. She got in early today. I promise I’ll bring some tomorrow and keep them in my office.” Then he nods in the direction of Richard’s office and whispers, “I hear the Brit dried out enough in London to finalize his new strategy for the Minister.”
“Oh yeah? Margo’s lecture after the party must have lit a fire under his ass. This is going to be great: every line in the report will be crafted to cause Margo pain.”
After a few minutes of gleeful speculation, I head down the hall toward my office. Margo’s door is open and she hails me with a loud, but muffled grunt.
“Good morning,” I venture uncertainly.
“You mean good afternoon,” she says, swallowing. “Obviously, we aren’t keeping you busy enough if you can afford to show up this late. Mind you, I walked past the reference shelf this morning and noticed it’s in worse shape than ever. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve never reorganized it.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Margo,” I say, trying to look righteous.
“I mean that you’ve been taking liberties around here lately and it’s time I cracked down on you.” Margo must sense that Richard is about to destroy her and wants to remind me of her power while she still has it. “When you’re finished with the reference shelf, I want you to start a new scrapbook celebrating Tomorrow’s Talent.”
Margo’s blouse is covered in crumbs. Craning, I see a large open box of donuts on her desk.
“Hey, are those Bill’s?” I ask.
“What?”
“The donuts—aren’t they the ones Bill brings in for everyone?”
“I brought these for my own personal consumption, if you must know.” She pops a part of one in her mouth and chews defiantly. “Look, you’ve got a lot on your agenda so you’d better get going.” At least I assume that’s what she’s saying: all I hear is oinking.
I stalk back to my office and find Richard’s butt in my guest chair and his tasseled party pumps on my desk.
“Make yourself at home,” I say.
“Just here to warn you that I’ve given Clarice a lot to think about and I’m going to lay low for a couple of days while she mulls things over.”
“Can you give me any hints?”
“Well, for starters, I told her to fire Margo and that sap, Mark.”
“Mark isn’t a sap.” I can’t help but defend him, even though I agree that his presence isn’t really necessary.
“Whatever. He needs to go.”
“Do you think she’ll turf Margo?”
“Don’t hold your breath. What other assistant has Margo’s unique skill set? How are you with a blow-dryer?”
“Get real.” I indicate my unkempt mane. “So, what else are you recommending?”
“A couple of political changes to generate some positive attention from the public and media. I shouldn’t say anything until Clarice considers them. But I can tell you that I advised her to call off the midget and let you focus on what you were hired to do. She can get a skilled Public Relations consultant on retainer to handle the other work Margo assigns you.”
“Or a trained monkey—but I thank you.”
“No need, it just makes sense. Clarice knows you’re good at your job, but she didn’t realize how much time you waste on grunt work.�
��
“It sounds like you’re wrapping things up here. I guess it’s time to launch your new career in politics?”
“What are you on about?” he asks, giving me a puzzled look. I guess his earlier boasts on my doorstep were all hot air and bubbles. He was probably too drunk to remember mentioning it.
“Oh, nothing.” No point rehashing that drunken night again. I didn’t come off so well in that story either.
He stands and comes around the desk to rub my shoulder. “Feel free to pine for me while I’m away,” he says, before turning to leave.
After he’s gone, I feel out of sorts. Something isn’t as it should be, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. Then it hits me: he squeezed my shoulder and I barely noticed. The hairs on my arm did not prickle. My pulse did not quicken. The crush is finally, indisputably dead.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Requiem for a Crush
Obituary:
Libby’s Crush on Richard
July 24/02—Oct. 15/02
The Crush lived a short and unfulfilled life and its timely demise was a mercy to all. It is survived by its owner, Libby McIssac. It will not be missed.
Funeral services will be held this evening at Ms. McIssac’s apartment, presided over by Ms. McIssac herself, who will dispose of The Crush’s remains as she sees fit. Her devoted cat, Cornelius, will be in attendance.
The wake follows. Maker’s Mark and chocolate will be served.
In lieu of flowers, please send donations to the Toronto Chapter of the Society of Bitter Spinsters.
I expect the Minister to be gone by the time I deliver the first draft for the Canada Stage speech. It’s nearly seven and she has a dinner engagement with the Premier. As I approach her door, however, I hear something that sounds like a jet preparing for takeoff but is more likely a salon-quality blow-dryer at full rev. I rap sharply on the door.
“Come!” the Minister’s voice commands above the din.
Margo is round-brushing the crown of the Minister’s hair for maximum height.
“Close the door behind you, Lily. One has a reputation to maintain, you know.” She’s smiling, though. There’s nothing she enjoys more than a private audience with the most powerful man in the province.
Margo switches to styling the Minister’s bangs while I cross the room, jerking on the dryer as she repositions it. I nearly trip over the cord, which is no doubt her intent. Looking down, I see a rat’s nest of cables, all coming from the same extension cord. It appears that hot rollers, curling tongs, a paraffin wax heater and a foot massager are all being powered by the same source.
“That’s a bit of a fire hazard, Margo. The building’s wiring is ancient.”
“It’s fine,” she barks over the noise of the blow-dryer. “I do it all the time.”
I drop the subject and Margo, showing off, takes the curling iron in her right hand and slides it over the Minister’s bangs while continuing to use the dryer with her left.
“Wow, ambidextrous,” I say.
“Don’t provoke Margo while she’s styling,” the Minister intervenes. “I need to look my best tonight. Lily, you really ought to let her have a go—”
The Minister’s voice is cut off by a thunderous crack, followed by a scream and a thud as the office plunges into darkness.
“Is everyone all right?” I ask. I stumble to the door to let in light from the hallway, but it too is in darkness.
“Oh, Lily,” the Minister’s voice quavers, “I’m afraid something has happened to Margo. I felt a breeze beside me and the curling iron was yanked out of my hair.”
“Were you burned?”
“No, but please see to Margo. I’m afraid to get up in case I tread on her.”
I shuffle toward the sound of the Minister’s voice. As my eyes adjust, the light from the street lamps on University Avenue is sufficient to make out Margo’s prone form on the floor. I lean over her and place a finger beneath her nose.
“She’s breathing, Mrs. Cleary. Probably got a shock. I’ll call for an ambulance.”
I try to sound calm despite noticing the similarity the situation bears to my recent dream about Margo’s death by electrocution. Groping for the Minister’s phone, I call 911.
A flashlight’s beam cuts across the room and Laurie’s voice says, “Minister? Are you all right? I was just leaving when the lights went out.”
“We’re fine, but Margo’s out cold,” she responds. “There must have been a power surge when she was styling my hair.”
Laurie shines her flashlight on Margo and spies the tangle of electrical cable beside her. “No wonder there was a surge! We’re lucky it didn’t cause a fire!” She kneels and shakes Margo by the shoulder until she groans and stirs. “Libby, we’d better unplug all of this stuff before the backup generator kicks in.”
A few minutes later, a security guard leads the paramedics into Mrs. Cleary’s office just as the lights come on. All eyes are on Margo as the paramedics revive her with a shot of oxygen and a few judicious slaps. By the time they wheel her out on the stretcher, she’s answering their questions in a dazed way. When they ask what she does here at Queen’s Park, she says “hair, makeup, waxing.”
After they’re gone, I notice the Minister’s hair. When Margo collapsed, she took the Minister’s bangs with her. All that remains is a jagged fringe and the smell of burned hair hangs in the air. Laurie obviously isn’t inclined to deliver the bad news either, but she does suggest canceling dinner with the Premier.
“I’ll call him myself on the way to the hospital,” the Minister says. “I want to check on Margo.”
“I’m afraid Bill has left, Minister,” Laurie says. “I’ll have to call you a cab.”
“Nonsense, I’ll drive myself. I coped very well before I had a fleet of staff, you know.”
“Yes, of course, Minister. It’s just that Bill took the Ministry car because the Premier’s driver was to pick you up and drop you at home.”
“Oh. Well, fine, call a cab then.”
Fortunately she’ll be surrounded by medical professionals when she discovers what’s happened to her hair.
Laurie steps into the boardroom for the impromptu staff meeting carrying two large mochaccinos. “I’m out of the office tomorrow so this is in honor of your birthday.”
“How did you know?”
“You forget I have access to the HR files.”
“Well, thanks, but don’t tell anyone else,” I caution her as Richard walks in.
Twenty minutes later, the Minister finally arrives and she’s wearing a wig. It’s quite a good one and no doubt very expensive, but it doesn’t fool Laurie and me. Obviously, there was no salvaging the bangs.
After assuring us that Margo has made a full recovery and will be back in a few days, the Minister explains that Richard has submitted a report recommending a reform of the way we do business. She reels off a list of minor changes, working up to the major policy news.
“I’m very excited to announce that we will soon introduce a new policy initiative that will become a key priority for the Ministry. It’s called ‘Contact Culture’ and it will be better than anything we’ve offered to students in this province before. Young people from every social and economic background will soon have equal access to the arts, thanks to Contact Culture. A slick marketing campaign will make sure that both students and their parents hear all about it. In fact, we’re turning to an outside agency to ensure we’re talking to kids in their own language. Naturally, our programs are no good to anyone if people don’t hear about them and use them.”
This sounds very much like a speech and the fact that she’s actually rehearsed something means the Minister is taking this new initiative very seriously.
“Pardon my ignorance, Minister,” Mark says, “but doesn’t the current After the Bell program do more or less the same thing? And wasn’t the Premier behind its creation?”
The Minister shoots Mark a disa
pproving look. After the Bell predates all of us, including Mrs. Cleary and it doesn’t get much attention anymore. Designed to expose students of middle- and low-income brackets to the arts, the program’s mandate is to provide subsidized access to local arts organizations. Funding is distributed according to the average family income in each community, thereby ensuring that financially underprivileged students have the same opportunities as their peers.
Richard takes control by responding to Mark in his most patronizing manner.
“If you understood this Ministry better, you’d know that the Minister is committed to meeting the Premier’s agenda. After the Bell won’t be canceled. In fact, we’ll dust it off and polish it up. Contact Culture will offer even more to the young people of this province. The Premier is excited about the new program too—at least, he said so during dinner last night.”
Margo will be steaming figuratively as well as literally when she learns her accident allowed Richard a one-on-one with the Premier!
The Minister hastily adjourns the meeting before anyone else can ask questions.
“What’s the deal?” I ask Laurie.
“After the Bell runs smoothly but it’s been around so long that only the people who use it know about it. I guess they figure we can offer it up to the public in shiny new packaging and receive the accolades.”
“But we’re relaunching a program that already exists. Why would the Minister agree to that?”
“Because it’s good publicity. And I’m sure she believes it’s a good opportunity to improve services to kids in need. That’s politics, Libby.”
We finish our mochas, commiserating over the fact that the Minister can hardly fire Margo now. No one else would be so willing to die for the cause.
30
I’m a year older and I feel it. Just hours ago I was thirty-three—a fun number with curvy good looks that’s easy to say, and cool to write. At thirty-three, I was young enough to look good, yet old enough to have some cash to blow on life’s finer things. Thirty-four sounds dreary and looks dull; it has an air of responsibility about it. Thirty-three spends its last dime on a skirt to wear to a new restaurant that’s so expensive, the meal has to be paid off over several months. Thirty-four wears last year’s skirt (still perfectly good) to the reliable and affordable bistro around the corner. Thirty-three rushes to the liquor store to buy a case of Beaujolais Nouveau. Thirty-four knows it’s overpriced, overrated, underripe grape juice and bottles her own. Thirty-three seduces bartenders during a business trip. Thirty-four waits for someone safe to come along. Thirty-four is sensible. Thirty-four is mature. Thirty-four thinks long-term.
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