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Yet the crowd loves her and she seems sincerely proud of the program. She even volunteers to stay for a silkscreen demonstration by the Grade Ones, despite Margo’s pressure to leave. As we finally head to the car, one of the kids runs up to the Minister and hugs her around the waist. I suspect Margo of deliberately arranging a cute photo op for the local papers, but realize it’s impromptu when I see the handprint in blue paint on Mrs. Cleary’s butt.
I see no reason to break the silence between us with the bad news.
I hate flying—especially in planes with motors no bigger than a blow-dryer’s—but I will not give the evil duo the satisfaction of seeing how nervous I am as we embark on a couple of meet-and-greets in small-town Ontario.
Minister Cleary sweeps onto the plane in an elegant wrap and takes her seat. Since Margo is offering flight advice to the pilot, I clamber aboard and sit next to the Minister. Eventually Margo gets on, takes the seat opposite, and glares at me: she must normally ride shotgun. In revenge, perhaps, she says, “Why don’t you let Libby read your speech aloud, Minister, so that you can see how it sounds?”
The Minister turns to me as if she’s never laid eyes on me. “Yes, certainly. Did you write this one, Lily?”
Before I can reply, Margo jumps in. “Oh no, Minister, one of the freelancers wrote it. Libby needs to study you in action for a while before writing speeches herself.”
“Yes, of course,” agrees the Minister, losing interest immediately and turning to stare out the window.
Once we’re in the air, I reluctantly pull out the speech. “Minister…?”
“Yes, yes, go ahead,” she says, without turning.
I read a couple of paragraphs, my voice quavering. Damn it! They’ll think I’m afraid of them when I’m just afraid of being airborne in this tin can with wings. I force myself to read on, but the Minister suddenly reaches over and grabs the speech out of my hand, seemingly appalled by my dreadful delivery. She reads it aloud herself to illustrate how it should be done, emphasizing all the wrong words. When she finishes, Margo applauds and exclaims,
“Well, done, Minister! That was excellent!”
“Excellent,” I echo weakly, nursing my paper cuts.
The Minister pulls out her highlighter and begins coloring over her favorite words.
Another day, another small town, another terrifying plane ride. I spend the flight comparing my expectations about this job with the reality. So far, I’ve only been right about the free food. Mind you, I am acquiring something I never expected from this job: a regal bearing. Putting in the time walking behind the Minister and carrying the royal handbag is paying off. When I return to my home Ministry, my special talent will propel me up the ranks. “Who cares if she never wrote a single speech,” the Education Minister will say, “anyone with that polish must be good!”
Roxanne keeps telling me to calm down, it’s early days yet, but I feel as though I’ve stumbled onto one of her film sets: the Minister is the star who is perpetually in hair and makeup. Today I sneeze seven times during her prelanding touch-up and she has the nerve to look at me with distaste. I’m tempted to wipe my nose on my sleeve. She’d notice. While she may not acknowledge I exist, I’ve caught her casting covert glances at my clothes, my shoes, my teeth, my nails and she doesn’t look impressed.
I have a single moment of pleasure today. As we hurry from the plane to the waiting car, a damp breeze wipes all life from both the Minister’s and Margo’s hair. Mine expands at the same pace theirs droops. I see them checking it out and exchanging disgusted looks. The Minister actually rolls her eyes. Once in the car, with my back to the ladies, I give it a good fluffing. Take that, you limp-locked hags.
I try not to look too excited by the brownies on the refreshment table, but there are so few rewards in this job, so far. I set the purse on a chair and reach for a plate.
“Libby!” I withdraw my hand guiltily. Margo is wedging a sandwich into her mouth and has several more on her plate. “Do not— I repeat— DO NOT leave the Minister’s purse unattended even for a moment.” At least, I think that’s what she says, her mouth being full. It’s definitely a rebuke.
The good news is I discover I can hold a briefcase, two purses and a notepad and still get a brownie into my mouth. Someday those two will realize how much talent I pack into this pear-shaped body.
I’m on the subway en route to my first glamour event, wearing Roxanne’s lucky dress—as in “get lucky.” She insists I borrow it while she’s away because she won’t have much use for it on the Isle of Man.
The dress is sexy despite offering enough coverage to be appropriate at a quasi-work function. The secret is in the flow of the fabric, although there’s less flow now than there was when I tried it on last month. Blame it on the brownies. In fact, the dress is pulling slightly across the thighs, but I wear it anyway, because I only have one other formal dress and I vowed never to wear it again after getting dumped in it after a wedding a year ago (tenth bouquet). Until Margo coughs up a clothing allowance, there will be no new frocks. I hate dressing up anyway and I’m not very good at it, judging by the fact that I snagged two pairs of fifteen-dollar stockings and put on my tights in the end. The dress is floor-length on Rox, mid-shin on me, but it still hangs several inches below the coat I’ve borrowed from Lola. This wouldn’t bother me so much if I had a ride to the event, but no, it’s public transit for me, while the Minister and Margo ride in the car sent by the sponsors of the event. No room for Libby now that she’s put on a few, I suppose.
I arrive at eight sharp, by order of Margo; she and the Minister are late. I explain I am on the Minister’s staff and make small talk with the organizers while I wait. They chat me up, imagining I have some influence. At last the Minister arrives, brushing by me without acknowledgment. Wait, she’s coming back my way, and…yes, she passes the handbag. Margo beckons and I heel like a well-trained poodle. We follow in the Minister’s wake, a few discreet paces behind. I am at leisure to look around, however, and another dream implodes: no handsome eligibles in this crowd. Just as well. They’d hardly be impressed with my role as lady-in-waiting.
I’m speaking to a woman I know from the gym when the crowd parts for Margo.
“Libby. Please go to the washroom.”
“Actually, I just went, Margo, but thanks.” My friend looks at Margo as if she’s nuts.
Margo is not amused. “The Minister needs you.”
Meaning she needs her handbag. I excuse myself and locate the Minister by checking for her size fives under the bathroom stalls. I knock on the door. No response.
“Your purse, Minister.”
She sticks her hand out under the stall and I slip the DKNY clutch into her waving fingers. When she emerges, I lean against the counter pretending not to watch as she reapplies a full range of cosmetics and sprays perfume around her head in a cloud. The other women in the washroom are also watching, as she goes through the ritual. I try to look serious and powerful, as if I might be a police officer overseeing my VIP. Then the Minister hands over her purse and back into the crowd we go. She signals that I am to stick with her by snapping her fingers quietly at her side, yet she does not introduce me once as she works the room. When she takes the stage to speak, I pause by the stairs with the royal bag. Despite her lackluster delivery of a mediocre speech, the host gushes and presents the Minister with an enormous bouquet, which she subsequently shoves into my arms.
Suddenly I realize that all my years of training at weddings haven’t been wasted. I’m just getting paid for my efforts now. Next time I’ll wear the peach satin bridesmaid dress and see how that grabs the Minister.
I am disappointed about Rox’s (get) lucky dress and when the procession passes a pay phone, I call her to tell her so.
“Your lucky dress isn’t.”
“I’ve never known it to fail.”
“That’s when you’re wearing it. I’m cursed, remember? Toronto’s eligible men don’t seem to attend charity events.”
“Wait a second, Lib, are you on the pill?”
“I went off it last year to see if my ovaries work. You never know, I could still need them.”
“Didn’t I tell you that the dress only works when taken in combination with the pill? Taking the pill sends a message to the universe that you’re available.”
“Yeah, yeah.” But it’s true that Rox has never really had a dry spell.
“Don’t ‘yeah’ me. Get your prescription filled, my friend. Take it and they will come.”
“All right, I will. So when’s your flight?”
“Seven a.m. I’ve already said goodbye to Gavin and—”
“Libby, I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” Margo strikes again. “The Minister needs her handbag.”
“She just freshened!”
“There are photographers everywhere. You’re here to work, remember.”
“Listen, Rox—”
“Never mind, go. And don’t talk back to Margo!”
I emerge from the ladies’ room in the Minister’s wake, reeking of her perfume and in some discomfort because I couldn’t use the toilet myself. There was nowhere I could safely put the Minister’s purse and the flowers—plural now, since two additional bouquets have arrived. The Minister, holding me by the wrist to ensure I don’t disappear, approaches a tall, attractive man and trills, “Why, Tim, how nice to see you!”
“Minister Cleary, the pleasure is all mine!”
I am about to gag when I realize it’s Tim Kennedy, the garter-catcher from Emma’s wedding. He recognizes me immediately and says, “Well, hi there! How’s the forehead?”
The Minister looks momentarily displeased, then slaps on a wide smile for a passing photographer. The smile disappears as quickly as the photographer, and the Minister turns her attention back to Tim. “Oh, so you already know…” she struggles for my name “… Lily?”
“Uh, yes,” Tim says, confused. “We met recently at a wedding.”
“Isn’t that lovely. So tell me, Tim, how is your work going?”
The Minister releases my wrist and steps directly in front of me. This would be a more effective blocking strategy if she were a foot-and-a-half taller, but I take the hint and escape into the crowd.
“Oh, Lily! Lily!” It’s Tim calling me in a singsong voice.
“Shut up.”
“Now, Lily, is that any way to greet an old friend?”
“You’re not funny, old friend.”
“You’re just grouchy because you’ve caught yourself another bouquet.”
“Make that three.”
He’s grinning and I can’t help smiling myself. “So, what’s the deal?” he says. “I asked Clarice whether you are working with her and she said, ‘I believe so.’”
“Well, it’s only been a month, she’ll figure it out.”
“I thought you were writing a book?”
“Uh—yeah.” So he did take me seriously. Well, now is not the time to enlighten him. “That’s right, but I couldn’t turn down this excellent opportunity to—”
“—carry the Minister’s flowers.”
“And her purse. The job isn’t as easy as it looks.”
“Knowing Clarice, it wouldn’t be.”
“Actually, I’m supposed to be writing sp—”
“Libby!”
“Oh, hi, Margo. This is Tim Kennedy.”
“We’ve met. So sorry to interrupt, Tim, but the Minister needs Libby urgently.”
I sigh, excuse myself and head to the washroom.
Margo actually offers me cab fare home, but only because she wants me to stop at a retirement home and donate the three bouquets. It’s almost 1:00 a.m. and I suspect the seniors won’t welcome my arrival. Besides, now I really need to pee. So, in my first act of outright defiance, I flout Margo’s orders and take all three bouquets home with me. She’s got me so spooked, however, that I examine them for tracking devices. If she asks where I left them, I’ll tell her I couldn’t read the sign on the senior’s home in the dark.
I load the flowers into juice pitchers and I distribute them around my tiny apartment. The funereal quality suits my mood.
I already have a “sneak” voice mail from Rox when I get up. She was at the airport before dawn and was the first to see the photo of the Minister and me on the front page of the Toronto Star.
“My dress looks great on you,” she says, “but lose the flowers, okay? You’ve got enough trouble with wedding bouquets.”
On my way to work, I stop at my local café to find Jeff, the owner, has pasted the photo above his espresso machine. The Minister is smiling broadly and looks stunning in her beautiful blue gown. I am standing beside her, arms full of flowers and handbags. Thank God one of the bouquets strategically blocks the tightest part of the dress. But wait—there’s a man’s face in profile in the upper right corner of the photo. It’s Tim and he’s smirking. At least it looks like a smirk to me.
I field calls from fans all day. Emma gets through first: “What was Tim doing there?”
“You tell me.”
“Well, he’s a music teacher at the Toronto School for the Performing Arts, but he’s also involved in all kinds of youth causes. This must have been one of his things.”
“Well, he’s annoying and I hope I’ve seen the last of him. Is he still with his girlfriend?”
“Yeah, and last I heard she got some hotshot job with the Vancouver school board. She’s a child psychologist.”
“Not that I care.”
“Of course not.”
“It’s just that I looked like a fool carrying those flowers and the Minister’s purse.”
“He probably thought the designer purse was yours.”
That I doubt, but I feel cheered just the same.
4
I n the realm of romance, I peaked at age nineteen. That’s when Scott, the perfect boyfriend, moved to Halifax to attend Dalhousie University. We’d been together for two years, nine months, five days and seven hours. Scott was a ringer for Jason Priestley from Beverly Hills 90210. He was also very kind. His pals teased him about my height constantly, and he never let on it bothered him. I only figured it out when I overheard him claiming he was five-nine, when he was really five-six. As a gesture of support, I began claiming that I was five-eleven, although I hit six-two in Grade 10. Despite this agreeable fiction, however, Scott had to stand on the bottom stair of my parents’ front porch to kiss me good-night.
We vowed to stay together while half a country apart. He called every Sunday without fail, but at Christmas he went to Hawaii with his parents and on reading week he went to Fort Lauderdale with his pals. I didn’t realize I’d been dumped until he passed through Toronto en route to the west coast for a summer of tree planting. Roxanne and I bumped into him at a local bar, where he was hovering over his new girlfriend, Kelly, who like her 90210 counterpart, was blond, beautiful and petite. While Rox distracted Kelly, I asked Scott, “Did it occur to you to mention we broke up?”
“Lib, we haven’t seen each other in almost a year (eight months, 18 days). I thought you knew.”
So the bastard wasn’t perfect. Kelly, poor thing, didn’t survive the summer, having been supplanted by the even smaller Marta, a Granola Girl who stunk of patchouli oil and didn’t shave her legs. After that came a succession of girlfriends that diminished in size to the point where the guests at his wedding needed a microscope to find the bride.
Elliot says I “lost courage” after Scott, but I think I was damned brave to go out with the number of men I dated during my twenties. Finally, I met Bruce and it seemed as though I may have found it—it being, in Elliot’s view, Scott all over again, but without the good looks. Not that Elliot is really in any position to criticize: his longest relationship lasted six months. Coincidentally, it, too, was with someone who strongly resembled Jason Priestley. Or so he tells me.
When I arrive at the Manhole, Elliot’s favorite bar, he’s holding court at his usual table, which happens to afford an excellent view of both the bar and the door to the men’s room. A waiter is sitting across from him. At first it looks like they’re holding hands, but then I realize Elliot is reading the guy’s palm. Not that I’d have been surprised: Elliot’s charm is legendary and he’s particularly dashing this evening.
“The positive energy is rolling off you in waves!” Elliot greets me with a delighted squeal, sending the waiter scurrying off to get me a beer. “And you look hot, too,” he adds, leaning over to kiss my cheek. “Scorching! Too bad it’s totally wasted in my domain.”
“Not at all,” I say, smiling. “I’ve been hit on here before.”
“That’s nothing to brag about, doll,” he says, but he’s laughing, because he enjoys it more than anyone when I’m mistaken for a drag queen.
“Buy me a martini?” Elliot asks. It’s his way of telling me he’s picking up psychic signals about me and is willing to share them—for a price.
“Do I want to know?” Elliot is not the type of psychic to spare one bad news.
“I’d say so, Flower Girl, but enter at your own risk.”
Elliot’s presence in my life is entirely Lola’s fault. I would never have consulted a psychic myself, but she took to him during a fact-checking phone call five years ago. They clicked over their mutual interest in great food, exotic smokes, and getting laid (not by each other, clearly). Elliot has ranked first in Toronto Lives “best of” edition as the psychic to see for the past four years—the one “most likely to make you feel great about yourself.”
