Speechless (3 page)

“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
C
s 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.

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.”