Speechless

“Welcome to the Minister’s Office,” says Margo Thompson, the Minister’s executive assistant, looking me over from shoulder to foot. “You’re very tall.”

At barely five feet, Margo clearly isn’t thrilled about my having the height advantage, but at least she isn’t going to be one of those people who looks up at me and says, “I’ve always wanted to be tall. You’re so lucky.” No woman who has been addressed from behind as “sir” is likely to feel lucky about being tall. It’s not as if I’m tall in a supermodel, waiflike sort of way. Rather, I’m tall in a big-boned, size-twelve-feet sort of way. But there is a notable advantage to looming above the crowd: you can tell a lot about people by checking out their roots.

Margo’s do-it-yourself henna is a month past its “best before” date and the wide stripe of gray running down the center of her head worries me. No one who invites comparison to a skunk is likely to become an inspiring boss. I try to keep an open mind, but it’s hard, because Margo refuses to meet my eyes. She leads me to a sleek boardroom, settles into a chair at one end of the gleaming mahogany table and motions me toward the chair at the other end. I’m sure I look smaller from a distance, but she still can’t meet my eyes. Instead, she examines the ends of her long, ruddy hair while delivering a half-hour monologue on the importance of protocol in the Minister’s Office. My questions on program priorities and upcoming events are dismissed with a wave.

“Make no mistake,” she says, “Mrs. Cleary cares a great deal about appearances. She has to.”

“Of course,” I say, conscious that my hair is swelling. There must be a storm front moving in. “When can I meet her?”

“She’s away today at an off-site meeting—a policy seminar—and is attending a gallery opening tonight. You’ll probably get some face time with her tomorrow.”

Face time. Oh my. Margo hands me a binder of speeches and advises me to review them carefully to study the Minister’s style. Laurie will show me to my office, she says, eyes fastened on my left shoulder. Laurie’s roots are in excellent condition and as she also appears to have a sense of humor, I am optimistic.

“I’m so happy you accepted the job,” Laurie says, “I think we’re going to get along great.”

“Me too,” I reply, encouraged, “but Margo doesn’t seem happy I’m here.”

“She’s only been here a few weeks herself and is still getting her bearings. I think she wanted to choose her own speechwriter, but Mrs. Cleary wouldn’t wait.”

“What’s the Minister like?” I ask.

“Wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise. Far better to experience her firsthand.”

“Okay, then what’s the off-site meeting about?”

Laurie sizes me up for a moment before saying, “It’s a pretty heavy agenda: hair; nails; exfoliating; massage.”

“Don’t spas fall under the Ministry of Recreation?”

“There’s more overlap than you might imagine,” Laurie says, stopping beside a cubicle along the inside wall. I must look aghast, because she smiles and asks, “You were expecting oak paneling?”

“Uh, yeah, actually.” I run a finger over the bristling beige carpet on the walls and across the wood-look desk.

Laurie is sympathetic. “Don’t despair. I’ve been working on Margo to give you more space, but in the meantime, I’m afraid this is it.” She leaves me with my binder of speeches and I do the first thing that comes to mind—call Roxanne. Thank God she doesn’t leave for her movie location until later in the week. As camera assistant to the city’s busiest cinematographer, Rox is often away from home for months at a time.

“Rox,” I whisper, “they’ve put me in a cage.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I never exaggerate. It’s a cubicle, for Christ’s sake. There’s no window and it’s in a high-traffic area. I’m an artist! How the hell am I supposed to create in this environment?”

“Maybe it’s temporary. Besides, it’s the work that counts and this is a great opportunity, Lib. What’s the Minister like?”

“Haven’t met her. She’s either at a policy seminar or a spa. Margo, the Minister’s handler, has already lied to me. If I were still speaking to Elliot, he’d tell me he gets very bad vibes about her.”

“What do you mean, if you were ‘still speaking’ to Elliot? He’s a psychic, not your boyfriend. What could you be feuding about?”

“Last week I made the mistake of asking him if this dry spell in my love life is ever going to end. He had the nerve to say he sees me sitting on a rock in the desert wearing a sign that reads, I’m available. Fuck off.”

“Oooh, that’s a little harsh.”

“Rox, you don’t think he’s right, do you?”

“Not really, Lib, but ever since things didn’t work out for you and Bruce two years ago you’ve been a little…cautious…with men.”

“No kidding. That’s what happens when your boyfriend of two years suddenly admits he never loved you. And what about that guy I met at Emma’s wedding? I let him charm the garter right off me before he mentioned his girlfriend. Men are scum, Rox. You’d better hang on to Gavin.”

“You can have him if you think he’s such a catch, but remember, Daisy comes with the package.”

Daisy is Gavin’s dog and Rox always feels like “the other woman” in the relationship. They met five months ago while bidding on the same antique armoire at an auction. He got the armoire, but she got the guy when he invited her over to see how great it looked in the century home he’s renovating in St. Thomas. Gavin has an unfortunate habit of expressing his feelings through Daisy, whose supposed prejudice against downtown living is wearing out the tires on Rox’s new Jeep.

“Being away for three months on the shoot will tell you a lot about your future with Gavin. Are you packed and ready to go?”

“I sent the camera gear off this morning, but I haven’t started on my clothes yet. The weather changes hourly on the Isle of Man, which means I need to take everything in my closet yet leave room for treasures. Want me to look for something special for you?”

“Yeah, a nice Manx guy.”

“Forget it. I’m keeping the nice Manx guys for me. How about a nice linen—”

My gasp cuts her off midsentence. Two round hazel eyes have appeared above the cubicle, looking above me, around me: Margo. She mumbles something into the beige wall.

“Sorry, I’ve gotta go.” I’m chagrined to be caught in a personal call on my first day. “Yes, Margo?” I say, smiling brightly as I put the phone down.

“The Minister’s seminar is starting later than expected so she can see you briefly.”

I trail after her, a battle cruiser following a tug, into the Minister’s corner office. Ah, so here’s the oak paneling I crave. The desk, massive and oak again, would bring a tear to my eye with its beauty if the Minister didn’t look so funny behind it. Like Margo, she is tiny. When she comes around the desk to shake my hand, her height only allows her to reach my armpit, which is probably as disconcerting for her as it is for me. Obviously I’ve been hired for contrast.

“I’m Clarice Cleary,” she announces regally, gesturing to a leather club chair in front of the desk. “Please call me Minister.”

She’s wearing the most beautiful suit I’ve ever seen, with two Cs on the buttons—Coco Chanel or a Clarice Cleary original?

“Libby has been reviewing your portfolio of speeches, Minister,” Margo offers.

“Yes, lovely, Margo.” Looking me directly in the eye, she asks, “So tell me, Lily, what can you do for me?”

I am too intimidated to correct her. I can live with “Lily.” Besides, I’m busy berating myself for not reviewing the lines I prepared for the interview. Finally, after a long pause, I say I’ve noticed inconsistencies in the tone and style of her speeches, due to the fact that she’s been using several freelance speechwriters. I can ensure she develops “one strong voice.” I’m rather pleased with this observation, but she looks unimpressed, so I add that I want to see her speeches reflect her obvious love for the arts—a love that I, incidentally, share. (No need to mention that I’m more Bon Jovi than Beethoven. I’m a quick study.) The Minister and Margo sit watching me in silence, so I ramble for a bit about how excited I am to have this excellent opportunity.

Pushing her chair back, the Minister opens her top drawer. It’s filled to the brim with beauty aids. I continue to speak while she flips up the lid of a gold compact and dusts her face with powder. She selects a tube of lipstick from a tray of at least two dozen and applies it, blots and checks her teeth. When she pulls out a mirror and starts back-combing her short chestnut bob, I finally rumble to a stop, overcome by the realization that I am so boring people forget I’m in the room even while I am speaking.

The Minister eventually looks over her mirror at me and says, “I must make a call if you don’t mind…. Thank you, Lily.”

Thus dismissed, I retreat to my cubicle. I’ve always known that my downtown polish is only skin deep. It’s no surprise that the Minister saw right through me to the shack in the suburbs where I started out.

3

I ’m still studying the sample speeches Margo gave me because I don’t have much else to do. I can barely concentrate anyway, knowing that there’s a baited rattrap under my desk. It’s well out of pedicure range, but if that baby ever snaps, I will too.

Laurie says the rodents have been running amok since the building’s refurbishment project kicked off three months ago. The construction has rousted them from their usual lairs and despite the best efforts of a pest-control company, every employee in the building must have a rattrap in his or her office. According to the running tally on the staff-room chalkboard, five rats have already met their end in the trap lines. Laurie has the Rat Guy on speed dial. No matter how bad my job may become, his is definitely worse.

I check my trap every morning, less worried about finding a dead rat than about finding a half-dead one. Elliot once awoke to a strange noise in the night and found a bloody, mangled rat dragging a trap across the hardwood floor of his hip downtown loft. It was as big as a dachshund, he claims, and its heartrending squeals drove him to seize the only weapon at hand—a plunger—and put it out of his misery. I keep a sturdy umbrella in my cubicle for just such an occasion. A speechwriter must be prepared for anything.

To date, Margo has assigned only stupid, make-work tasks. I suspect it’s part of her plan to beat the “attitude” out of me before it surfaces. She already senses it’s there, because I can’t even feign enthusiasm for my list of chores. Mind you, I’ve done worse in my time than pick up dry cleaning and book appointments. It’s just that I’m anxious to start writing speeches—surprisingly so, given that all this came about so recently. The Ministry of Education would only give me an eight-month leave, so I don’t have long to get something out of this job. When I hesitantly raise the issue with Margo, she says, “Oh, I can’t see your writing speeches for months, Libby,” she says. “There’s so much you need to learn first.”

She tells me to dust the collection of “art” given to the Minister by students in her travels around Ontario. A learning opportunity, to be sure. My attitude must be showing, because Margo lifts her thin upper lip and bares a row of tiny, perfect teeth.

“We don’t stand on ceremony around here, Libby,” she says. “Even the Minister pitches in.”

I doubt the Minister has ever turned her hand to dusting this papier-mâché beaver family, or the clay moose for that matter. Whenever I see her, she’s checking her makeup or patting her stomach to make sure it’s still flat. Not that I dare talk back to Margo. I may be twice her size, but she scares the hell out of me. Her smile is eerily reminiscent of the doll in the Chucky movies, especially now that she has a fresh, carroty henna. I’m relieved when I hear that my field training is to commence. At least it gets me out of my cubicle.

I’ve been trapped for three hours in a car with two women who refuse to acknowledge I exist. It’s not as if they could miss me: I’m in the front seat with Bill, the Minister’s driver, while they cosy up in the rear. A retired army officer and a widower, Bill has a heart of gold under his gruff exterior, which I notice he is careful to conceal from Margo and the Minister. In fact, they both seem a little intimidated by him, lucky man. Today he’s taking us to Sarnia to launch a new YMCA after-school arts program, which the Ministry is funding.

Under cover of a sneeze, I ease the window down half an inch and crane upward for a breath of fresh air. The Minister’s habit of liberally spritzing herself with perfume is wreaking havoc on my allergies.

“Margo, close that window,” the Minister snaps. “My hair is blowing around and there will be photographers.”

“Libby, close that window!” Margo snaps in turn, but I already have my finger on the button.

The Minister goes back to reviewing her speech, occasionally breaking the silence with the squeak of a yellow highlighter as she colors over certain words for emphasis. I sneak a glance over my shoulder. Margo bulges her round eyes at me and I look away quickly, but not before seeing that most of the top page is yellow.

The Minister emerges from the car, switching on a high-beam smile. The YMCA staff, volunteers and kids cheer. Margo and I walk ahead to open the door and as the Minister passes us, she thrusts her purse into my hands without even turning her head. Margo and I then fall into step behind her and proceed in this way through the halls to the auditorium. We stand by the stage as she reads her speech, then fall behind again as she reaches the bottom of the stairs and begins to work the crowd.

I’ve become a lady-in-waiting.

Later, when I break from the procession briefly to speak to a student about his painting, I hear the Minister say to Margo, “Where is the girl with my handbag?”

I slouch behind an easel, determined not to spring forward to press the Gucci into her hands, but Margo tracks me down. “The Minister is in the staff washroom and needs her purse to freshen up,” she says before rushing off to deal with a reporter. I locate the washroom myself and knock tentatively.

“Who is it?” comes the Minister’s muffled voice.

“It’s Libby, Minister.”

“Who?”

“Libby. Your speechwriter.” Silence. “With your purse, Minister.”

She cracks open the door, sticks out her hand and pulls the bag in without so much as a thank-you.

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!”