“Libby!” Margo’s voice rings out above the din and I brace myself. Margo has never yet missed an opportunity to diminish me in front of Tim. “Thank God you’re here,” she says. “You’ll need to get started on the speech right away.”
What, no insults? It’s almost disappointing. At the moment, however, she’s intent on bringing me up to speed on the highlights of the reworked policy for Contact Culture. She’s informative, polite, and patient. Obviously her guilt over missing the screw-up is overpowering her normal personality. She ushers Joe over to walk me through the regulations, then calls on the Minister to discuss the overall tone for the speech.
Finally, after receiving far more help than I need, I retreat to my office to write. Margo calls me hourly to offer assistance. She brings me coffee, and, incredibly, pastries. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s groveling. The Minister also drops by twice to see how I’m faring. It’s the first time I’ve really felt like a valued member of this team…the first time I’ve felt needed.
Despite their frequent interruptions, I soon become so absorbed in the work that I have little time to wonder what Tim is doing. I barely notice when Laurie stops by to tell me there’s Chinese food on the boardroom table. By the time I finish a draft it’s already dark outside. I’ve been hunched over my computer for seven hours; Tim is probably long gone.
The boardroom is empty when I arrive but the table is still covered in takeout containers. I fill a paper plate with a little of everything until it’s sagging ominously in the middle. Using a second plate as reinforcement, I add a little more chow mein. Then I set my plate on the table and reach for the fortune cookies. I don’t much like the taste, but I love cracking them open and prying out the message—especially since I adopted Lola’s habit of reading them aloud and adding the words in bed to the end of every fortune, as in “Success in life must be earned with earnest efforts…in bed.” I pry one open and read to the empty boardroom: “You will be blessed beyond your wildest dreams…in bed.”
“Lucky you!” Startled, I drop the cookie fragments on the floor. Tim is standing in the doorway with his empty plate.
“The cookies never lie,” I mutter, a flush surging from my feet toward my face like a rogue wave.
“You’ve taken five,” he notes. “Maybe that one was meant for Margo.”
“Well, it’s mine now and I read it out loud, which means it will come true. Lola says so.”
He glances at my overloaded plate. “What does she say about testing the weight limits of disposable dinnerware?” Finally, he’s really smiling and I’m so relieved I forget to take offense at the reference to my gluttony.
“My creativity improves on a full stomach.”
“I’ll tell Clarice there’s a work of genius underway.”
Voices drift down the hall. Suspecting we may not be alone for long, I take the plunge: “Will you have dinner with me?”
“Ah, so that’s why you’ve taken enough for two,” he says.
“Not now, I mean some other time.”
Tim’s smile fades and he considers for a moment. “I don’t know, Libby. What’s changed?”
“I’ve changed.”
“People don’t change much at thirty-three.”
“I’m thirty-four now. I’ve matured.”
He shrugs and says, “Let’s consult with the cookies.” He selects one from the carton and cracks it open. “The time is right for second chances…in bed.”
“Let me see that!”
Tim crushes the slip of paper and puts it in his pocket. “The cookie has spoken—but I’m only committing to dinner.”
Most people leave over the next hour, but the Minister, Margo, Joe and I burn the midnight oil. While Mrs. Cleary rehearses the speech, I draft fact sheets, hypothetical media questions and responses. By the time sunlight begins to stream through the leaded glass windows, we’re ready for one last run-through. The flow of traffic along University Avenue picks up outside and the noise of the rush hour provides a backdrop to our mock media scrum. When the Minister is confident we’ve examined Contact Culture from every possible angle, she calls Bill to drive Laurie, Margo and me home.
Bill walks into her office moments later with the morning papers. On the front page of The Star is a story about Contact Culture. After all this work, our news has been leaked. It must have happened overnight because the facts, hammered out only hours ago, are accurate. Interestingly, the story has the byline not of the paper’s Queen’s Park reporter, but of beauty editor Lynn Seward, who has been a staunch supporter of Mrs. Cleary’s since they ended up in a mud bath together at a Mexican spa a few years back. Today’s article practically qualifies as a puff piece, it’s so positive about the new program.
The Minister seems genuinely shocked about the leak. “It’s the Premier’s doing, I’m sure of it. You sent our materials to him last night, didn’t you Margo?”
Nodding, Margo says, “I suppose he thought it best to get the true story into friendly hands.”
“Well, we can always count on Lynn, but unfortunately, this leak has stolen my thunder. What’s the point of a press conference now? The other papers will run the story on the back page because it’s already old news.” Her disgruntlement eases quickly, however, as she notes the extremely flattering stock photo they’ve used.
I’m too tired by this point to care much about this latest twist, but as we’re heading for the car, I notice that Margo is smiling in a self-satisfied way. I suspect the Premier isn’t to blame for the leak after all. It was a ballsy move on Margo’s part, but she gambled and won. We couldn’t get better press if we paid for it and she’s set the tone for tomorrow.
The press conference is going off without a hitch and enough reporters have shown up to make it legitimate. The Minister has rehearsed enough that the speech sounds natural and sincere and she performs beautifully in the Q-and-A that follows. Lynn Seward is glued to the Minister’s side. I overhear her ask Mrs. Cleary—on the record—about her beauty regimen. Taking the question seriously, the Minister describes, in painstaking detail, her approach to cleansing and toning.
The rest of the reporters focus on the benefits of Contact Culture. No one mentions our connection to Loud Mouth Productions, nor the recent dismissal of a high-profile political consultant. Perhaps these details will follow, but the positive coverage will continue to buoy Contact Culture through any rough waters ahead.
The Premier calls as the news conference ends and we can hear the Minister tittering on the phone in her office. Evidently he, too, is pleased. She emerges shortly to share his congratulations and propose an impromptu celebration at the local pub. I’m the only one to decline, but then, I’m the only one who has a date with Tim. Mrs. Cleary stops by my office on the way out.
“Libby, thank you.” For the second time in a week, she’s addressing me by my given name. “Everyone came through in this crisis, but without your intuition, I doubt we’d have anything to celebrate.”
“That’s nice of you to say, Minister. I’m happy it all worked out.”
“I did well at the press conference, didn’t I?” she says, smiling broadly.
“You did.”
“And…?”
“And you looked fabulous doing it,” I reply, picking up on my cue.
“Oh, stop,” she laughs. “Are you sure you won’t come with us?”
“I’m afraid I have other plans.”
“Well, you’ll be missed.” When she reaches the door she turns and eyes me cagily. “Do give Tim my regards.”
“Cheers,” Tim raises his wineglass to mine, “and congratulations.”
“Congratulations yourself. You share the credit on this one.”
“Yeah, but rumor has it that it was you who saved the day.”
“You know better than to believe in rumors. Anyway, all I did was follow a hunch.”
“Do you get a lot of those?”
“I’ve got a book on developing my intuition.”
“What’s your intuition telling you right now?” He’s leaning toward me and I think he’s flirting, but I don’t want to presume too much too soon.
“I have a very strong hunch…that you’ll order the chicken.” While he’s laughing, I summon my nerve and stampede toward my opening with the subtlety of a hormonally-challenged rhino. “And as for rumors, I heard you’ve been seeing someone.”
“Well, what did you expect?” he asks, his voice chilling as he leans back in his chair. “Did you think I’d sit at home and pine? We only went out a few times, Libby—it was hardly a relationship.”
The conversation has taken a dangerous turn and I scurry back to cover. “I know that, but I like to think it might have been if one of us weren’t an idiot.”
“I hope you’re referring to yourself?” he says, obviously more hurt by my past performance than I’d imagined.
“Don’t hold back, now.”
“I’m only agreeing with you.”
Examining my cutlery with interest, I decide I am an idiot—for thinking he’d really give me a second chance. I’m tempted to bolt, but indulging that instinct is what got me into this bind in the first place. I have to stick it out this time.
“May I take your order?” the waiter asks, interrupting the awkward silence.
“The lady is still deciding,” Tim tells him, “but I’ll definitely have the chicken.”
It isn’t much, but I take it as encouragement. I promptly order the chicken too. Once the waiter disappears, I say, “Relationships have never been my forte, Tim—but a girl can’t be good at everything. I got spooked last time, but I promise to try harder if you’ll give me another chance.”
He sips his wine for a moment and ponders. “You know, Melanie didn’t have a sense of humor.”
“Past tense?”
“Well, she may have one now, but I haven’t seen her in weeks, so I wouldn’t know.”
“She seemed very nice, though,” I offer magnanimously, confident that poor Melanie will find much solace in her excellent journalism career.
“Who needs nice? I like a woman with an edge.”
“Really? Well, in that case, Melanie’s a bag of bones and way too blond.”
“Not that much edge,” he laughs.
I find myself wanting to jump over the table and into his lap, but the chicken hasn’t even arrived. Besides, the chairs look fragile and between us, we’re twelve-and-a-half feet and well over three hundred pounds of burgeoning relationship.
When dinner arrives, Tim tells me about his students and I am full of new fondness for them. I tell him about the progress Lola and I are making with the book. After a moment’s hesitation, I confess that I lied to him at Emma’s wedding by implying I was writing a book many months before I actually was. It’s another mistake I learned from, I say. The guilt actually drove me to agree to work on a book I never wanted to write—and now I’m enjoying it.
“I’m glad you’re over your need to impress me,” Tim jokes, unfazed. Then he adds, “You’re fine just the way you are.”
Both of us are taken aback when the waiter tells us it’s last call. Tim holds my hand as he drives me home and walks me to my door. When I invite him in, however, he asks for a rain check.
“One of the kids from my orchestra is crashing at my place this week. Both of his parents are drunks and the mother just took off. So—”
“—you want to set a good example.” I interrupt. “I understand.” But the doubt must be showing in my face.
“Do not, I repeat, do not read anything into this. I want to stay, Libby, but the kid needs to know he can count on one adult in his life.”
“It’s okay, really, I understand.” And I do, but the fifteen-year-old inside is wondering if this is just an excuse. Sensing she’s resurfaced, Tim leans over and kisses me, a lingering, lusty kiss that blows my doubts into the street with the rustling leaves.
“The kid moves in with his aunt on Saturday.”
“What are you doing Saturday night?”
“Bringing my dog over to your place. If we’re welcome, that is.”
“I’ll lock up my best bras.”
“You won’t be needing them.”
He kisses me again and heads back to his Jeep. “By the way,” he says, stopping halfway down the walk, “What did you say to the girls from my orchestra? Suddenly, they’re big Roberta Bondar fans.”
I’m thrilled at this, but try to look cool. “Oh, you know—girl talk. They think you’re the world’s greatest teacher, but you didn’t hear it from me.” He’s smiling as he opens the car door and I call out, “Listen, can I ask you something?”
“Yeah, but you’re asking the whole neighborhood right now.”
“I was just wondering if you have any Scots ancestry.”
“There might have been an Angus on my mother’s side, why?”
“How do you feel about kilts?”
“Can we talk about this on Saturday?”
“Sure, I’m serving haggis.” He shakes his head and gets into the car.
Far too wired to sleep, I break the news about Stella to Cornelius and sit down to comfort him, remote control in hand. I flip through every channel, but nothing holds my interest. It’s too late to call Roxanne and I’m too full of wine and chicken to go for a run. But a walk, I could manage. It’s well after midnight when I set out. Mom would be horrified, but my neighborhood is still busy. The cafés are full of students. I stride briskly along Bloor Street to Bay, turn south to Queen’s Park and walk back through the university grounds.
My route takes me right past the Sutton Place Hotel where Richard stayed for months at the taxpayers’ expense. I expect he’s left for London already, tail between his legs. It sure looks like his six-foot-six form in the hotel’s entrance as I pass, however. Crossing the street to get a closer look, I confirm it’s Richard. He’s wearing a denim shirt, open nearly to the waist, and sweatpants. He turns toward a petite woman and blocks her from my view. Even in my state of bliss, I can put two and two together: he is seeing someone to the door after a shagging.
Curious, I stop to watch. Could it be the Minister? Whoever she is, she’s bold because she reaches around and squeezes Richard’s ass proprietarily. He leans over and kisses her, and from the incline of his head, I can tell he’s aiming for the cheek. This speaks volumes; the lady is obviously the keener of the two. Finally Richard struts back into the lobby and the woman starts down the short driveway toward me, silhouetted against the hotel lights. She’s about the right size for the Minister, but the hair is definitely longer. And redder. I grab a hydro pole for support: it’s Margo, looking more disheveled than ever, with her shirt buttoned wrong and her suit jacket trailing.
At first I can’t quite take it in. Margo and Richard? How could she sleep with him after all that’s happened? How could he sleep with her, when he apparently liked me? And how could the thought of it be bothering me so much when my crush burned out a month ago? Tim is twice the man Richard is, I have no doubt of that, but my inner 15-year-old is rising again. It seems that the further I get from high school, the more I regress. I don’t want Richard, but I don’t want anyone else to have him either—especially not her.
Margo is barely three yards away when she sees me. Even in my shock, I realize it’s one of those rare golden moments in life. It looks as though she may faint as she weaves unsteadily toward me. By the time she’s standing in front of me, however, the old, calculating look is back on her face: she’s wondering if she can talk me out of believing what I’m seeing.
“What are you doing here?” she asks casually.
“Just getting some air. You?”
“We all went out to celebrate. You were invited…”
“Not to Richard’s room, I wasn’t. Private party?”
“Libby! What are you saying?” But she hasn’t denied it. In fact, the truth is written all over her flushed face.
“I’m saying the ‘optics’ here aren’t good.” I’m remembering her
reproach when I was dating Joe.
“I can explain—”
“No need. The razor burn tells the whole story.” I reach out and pluck one of Richard’s hairs from her shirt. “My question is, what does Richard have to celebrate? He was fired only three days ago for scamming the Ministry. Or have you forgotten that already? At least this explains how he was able to get away with as much as he did.”
“I had no idea about his relationship with Loud Mouth,” she protests.
I believe her, but can’t bear to end the game just yet. Furrowing my brow in mock confusion, I ask, “So you’re punishing his bad behavior by sleeping with him?”
“Look,” she says, “I only learned what he was up to this weekend and by then it was too late.” She claps her hand over her mouth, realizing she’s revealed more than she intended.
“Ah, so you’ve been at it for a while now.”
“It’s only been a few weeks. Not that it’s any of your business,” she adds, defensively.
“You’re sleeping with the enemy, so it is my business. How could you still see him tonight after what’s he’s done?”
She stares down Bay Street in silence, then mutters, “I don’t know.”
“Margo, you’re not in love with him!” I exclaim, light suddenly dawning.
“Of course not,” she says irritably, “how could I be?” But her expression tells a different story. “Libby, you can’t mention this to the Minister.”
“She wasn’t with you?” I ask, just to see her expression.
“Don’t be ridiculous! She went home hours ago!”
“Just checking. She had a thing for Richard herself, you know. Remember the maraschino cherries? My guess is, she’d want to hear all about it.” I’m tempted to prolong the game indefinitely, since revenge is sweeter than I anticipated, but I do the decent thing and hail her a cab. I even help her into it with a little more force than necessary and slam the door.
“Look, Libby—” she says, rolling down the window.
“You should wear a turtleneck tomorrow, Margo,” I interrupt rudely, pointing to the hickey on her neck. “Where’s Buffy when you need her, eh!”
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