Hardly Working (22 page)

Penelope, dressed in a very skimpy strapless fire-engine-red dress, looked like somebody else. Certainly not herself. Ian hovered nearby, chic and brooding, not quite hanging upside down like a vampire bat but nearly. Okay, I'm exaggerating. But it did feel as though he were just lurking around waiting for us to put a foot wrong. He still hadn't spoken to me since the visit to my mother's.

Penelope was suffering. She wanted to be with Ian but had to stay with the GWI Moscow people's people, to translate. The word was that the people themselves couldn't make it but had found a competent subcommittee to send in their place. They were a group of three, a stern looking middle-aged woman named Olga with a bad haircut, a tall young blond man named Vassily, and an elderly stout bald red-faced man named Dimitri. Their last names could not be pronounced, except by Penelope.

Mike and Fairy Girl were there, too, which meant that my little moment of extortion had worked. I had managed to turn them into GWI donors against their will. Mike kept trying to catch my eye and send secret signals to me from the other side of the room when Dawn wasn't looking.

I hoped and prayed the PowerPoint and the rest of our technology were going to perform the way they were supposed to. For most of our technical and computer services we were at the mercy of The Vulcan, a gangly, spotty, pale young geek with Spock ears in his pocket ready to be donned at a moment's notice. He donated his time to GWI by fixing our computers and in return, we endured his enthusiasm over the upcoming
Star Trek
conventions and the Kirk/Picard/Who was Hotter Debate.

Tonight, The Vulcan was as wired as the rest of us. I'd been over the routine with him. Jake would speak first, with no soundtrack and on the screen, just Green World International's logo; a hand that looked like a tree, white with a black outline, and five green leaves, one shooting up above each finger. There was also going to be the honor roll of donors read off while photographs from the Hubble Space telescope were projected all around us, the donors' names appearing at the centers of the various galaxies and nebulae. But before that would come Mudpuddle and my surprise presentation.

So when Jake stepped up to the microphone and there
were ten seconds of dead screen and dead silence, I felt my heart stop. But then after a lot of frantic fiddling on the part of The Vulcan, and an electronic squeal, the microphone was working.

Jake loosened his tie and launched into the opening speech. “It's great to see you all here tonight. When we talk about Green World International, we are talking about community, our community, and lately, this community has also extended to include the global community. I want to give a special thanks and a special welcome to our three guests from the Moscow Green World International office. Their presence here announces a new phase in the life of the not-for-profit organization.

“Many people's response to organizations such as ours is ‘Why should I give? What does this have to do with me?'”

Here Jake paused. You could have heard a pin drop.

“If you think hard, you will probably realize that you are all touched by Green World International's programs and the issues it is addressing. Who of us doesn't use water? Okay, my teenage son doesn't count…”

There was a ripple of laughter. “We haven't yet begun to solve the world's problems, but we are addressing them, not ignoring them. So I want to thank you all very much for your donations and would like you to consider increasing the size of your gift as the scope of our programs increases. Think of it as a kind of financial Feng Shui. It's your world. Why would you not want to save it?”

There was scattered applause. In many ways, he was preaching to the converted. But if there was the chance of seducing one new person into helping us with our causes then the speeches were justified.

“Now I'd like to call on Dinah Nichols for our next presentation. Dinah, over to you.”

I stepped up to the lectern. My throat was dryer than the Sahara.

“Our involvement in biomimicry has just begun, but we are confident that with the co-operation of donors with vision, we can start a trend, a ‘business model' that will not exhaust the world's natural capital, but provide a cradle-to-cradle model for handling our resources. What knows better how to convert solar energy than a leaf? Then we must take our lessons from a leaf. What knows better how to convert toxic material in water than wetlands and their complex systems? Then we must learn from these systems to create the Living Machine. Our latest pilot project, the aquatic waste-treatment pond system, also known as Mudpuddle, is our most ambitious to date. It requires huge resources in terms of time and financing, but we are certain that the final product will not disappoint. We are proud to have the support of a first-class donor. A first-class donor, as you all know, is someone who contributed over three hundred thousand dollars. He will be making out a check for just under five hundred thousand dollars, a sum the government has promised to match. The aquatic pond model and explanation are on display in the lobby. But now I would like to pass the word over to our donor himself, Hamish Robertson. He cannot be here in person tonight, but we've managed to get him online from Tokyo.”

I signaled to the Vulcan. He fiddled for a few seconds until a window popped onto the screen and at the centre of it, a peculiar looking man wearing a wide-brimmed black hat and dark glasses. His nose was an odd puttyish creation and his five-o'clock shadow was very pronounced, a little too blue.

In the distant background were a Japanese screen and some wall fans. A figure passed behind the man in the hat and I swore it looked exactly like the Mikado from a recent production in which Joey had been an extra. The man in the hat did quite a bit of middle-aged harrumphing and throat-clearing and then he spoke.

“Good evenun' ta ye all, laddies and lassies aback there in wee Vancooovurrr. I regrut that aye cannae be there meself, but aye'll be writin' oot me wee check as soon as aye'm back in Vancoooovurrr. So enjoy yeselves. I used ta love a wee dram as much as anyone, da ye ken? Dinna fesh yeselves….”

I stopped myself from groaning out loud, but I wished that Joey had left the ham in the fridge.

He “occch-ed” and “aye-ed” and brogued on and on in an incomprehensible stream of Scottish-like gibberish. I caught the Vulcan's eye and surreptitiously ran my finger across my throat. He was on my wavelength that night. There was another electronic squeal and the image on the screen froze, then disappeared.

The Vulcan turned, grinned sheepishly at the audience and stammered, “Lost our connection. Must be too much t-traffic…”

The audience was silent and bewildered.

I smiled at the Vulcan, looked back at Jake and said, “I'll turn the honors back over to Jake Ramsey.” I slunk away from the podium.

Jake said, “Now, our new CEO, Ian Trutch, will say a few words.”

Ian moved up to the podium and adjusted his tie. “First of all, I want to say a special hello to our colleagues from the Soviet Union.”

Jake was beside me. “Did he just say what I think he said?”

The evening was shaping up. “Yeah,” I answered. “There is no Soviet Union. Not anymore.”

Ian made an attempt at welcoming the visitors by name but stumbled and quit when he got to the “skis” in the men's last names. He tried a jovial chuckle. “…I hope this will be the beginning of a long and fruitful collaboration with the Moscow office…” He went on for a bit with some “bureauspeak” and just when I was feeling a big yawn coming on, I heard him say, like a stand-up comedian giving an
aside, “…and I'm sure we all want to know if it's true what they say about Moscow girls…” then winked.

I winced. Jake wiped his brow, then hurried up to the podium and grabbed the mike. He said hastily, “Thank you very much, Ian. And now it's time for the donor awards.” Ian looked a bit confused. Jake gave him a pointed look and finally, he sauntered off the stage.

Jake then read out the honor roll, naming all the donors and the size of their gifts. I maintain that the important thing is always use people's sense of keeping up with the Joneses against them, and get them to outpotlatch each other.

I went off to find Cleo. She was outside in the lobby, sniggering into her wineglass. “That Hamish Robertson act was godawful. No wonder Joey never gets work. He looked like a has-been rock star and he sounded like the Highlanders' arterial sclerotic mother.”

I sighed. “It's a popular look these days. That Mikado costume fitted Simon perfectly…oh well. We tried, is all I can say. Nobody's seen the man. He could be anything.”

“But Ian Trutch…has he been drinking?”

“It sure sounded like it.”

I went up to the Star Deck to make sure everything was flowing.

Lisa was herding the volunteers around and giving them instructions, as well as keeping them away from the helium tanks. Roly was standing in a corner looking unusually trimmed and tidy in a normal dark herringbone jacket, and watching Lisa with an expression that verged on devotion. She came up to me and stared, a strange smile on her face. “I think it's wonderful that you were able to track down Hamish Robertson. He was off in Japan. That's just amazing.” She started to laugh and shake her head, then went over to Roly and put her hand on his shoulder. “Isn't it amazing, Roly?” A new fit of laughter overtook her. The sound was so contagious that he started laughing, too.

A few other people were milling about, having skipped the ceremonies. That was when I spotted Ian. He was standing in a corner near a food and drinks table talking to an uninvited guest, a notorious politically incorrect local politician, the last person I would have put on my guest list. I couldn't believe it. Ian had bypassed me again. As soon as their backs were to me, I dropped to the floor and crawled under the table near them.

Ian's voice was intense and hushed. “…a shoo-in. Once Mudpuddle is functional, we'll have an abundant supply. We can set the price.”

The politically incorrect politician was enthusiastic. “I've been trying to get our water south of the border for years. If we can get past the obstacles, they'll be willing to pay. I've got an old friend on the water board down there who has a friend with a connection who'll give us a hand…”

The Dark Side was revealing his true self.

Thinking they'd left, I crawled out from under the table. Ian stared down at me.

I patted the ground. “Contact lens. Can't find it anywhere.”

“But you don't wear them,” said Ian.

“That just shows you how good they are. Didn't even know I had them,” I replied.

And it got worse. Penelope came in looking for him. I got up off the ground and dusted myself off. Penelope took Ian by the elbow and steered him into a far corner where they started up their own Mucous Exchange Program.

But I was obsessed with water. Water that would be exploited if somebody didn't stop these guys.

I desperately needed to call Thomas. I tried my cell phone but there was no signal. I ran outside to try it again, but stopped myself from calling in the end. I'd started to cry. I couldn't speak. I needed air. It was crazy.

I ran outside and into the shadows, leaning against the wall where nobody could see me exploding with
bronca.

“Dinah?” said a familiar voice.

I stopped and peered.

It was Jonathan Ballam, dressed up in casual black. My Savior. Looking great.

“Dinah?” he asked again. “What are you doing out here? It's freezing. You're not leaving, I hope.”

“Jon. What are you doing here?”

“I'm late. I donate. Hey, that rhymes. Are you…uh…are you okay?”

I tried to put on my best hostess voice. “You good man. I'm very happy to see you.”

He grabbed my hand and twirled me in a boogie spin.

I laughed. “Whoa. So where's Kevin?”

Jonathan frowned. “He's out of town at the moment.”

Again I had to wonder if there was trouble between them.

I linked my arm through his. “Shall we go inside and get a drink?”

Inside, we got glasses and filled up plates at the buffet. The decibel level was getting higher and higher. Jon asked, “Is there somewhere quieter where we can talk?”

“Let's go into the theater. We can talk there.”

I had arranged things so that the theater would be a chill-out zone after the presentations.

We settled into some theater seats and Jon said, “Now what exactly were you doing out there? You looked really pissed off.”

I whispered, “Remember I was seeing that guy, the new CEO? We passed him on the way in. He was the one hanging upside down by his claws and baring his fangs.”

He nodded.

“I'm not seeing him anymore. He's seeing the Office Virgin. The one person in GWI that I really don't get along with. And he's evil. He's planning things for Green World that really stretch its original concept.”

“Dinah…”

“What?”

“You're not jealous, I hope.”

“Not in the least…I don't think…oh, I don't know. Maybe there is a little…residual jealousy.”

“Because it sounded as though…I mean, when you mentioned it before…that you…”

“What?”

“That you weren't really that sure about him. That the two of you were polar opposites, way too different. You said it yourself.”

“Is that what I said?”

“It was what you were saying with the words and between the words.”

“Maybe I did.”

He shook his head a little wearily and smiled. “I know. You make an emotional investment in a person, and then when it's over, you feel like you've lost something no matter what. Even if they were more like a sparring partner than a lover.”

“That's it,” I said. “But listen. If he wasn't history before, he really is now.”