Speechless (30 page)

By the time we reach the North York Civic Centre, I’m poached and open the door to gasp for fresh air.

“Lily, close that door! People need to know who we’re representing today. Put your helmet on.”

“Minister, this suit is very warm and the helmet makes me claustrophobic.”

“We all make sacrifices for the job, Lily,” she says. “Look at how ridiculous Margo and Richard look, but you don’t hear them complaining.”

Sighing, I scrunch down in the seat and slip the round orb over my head. It bangs against the roof as I get out of the car and the clear plastic visor steams up immediately, but I dutifully follow the others toward the main doors.

“What is this about? Richard? Margo?” The Minister’s voice is muffled by the helmet, but she sounds upset.

“I had no idea this was happening, Minister,” Margo apologizes, while Richard argues unintelligibly with another man.

Through the mist on my visor, I make out a crowd of people around the front door of the civic center. The Minister is sufficiently distracted that I risk pulling off my helmet and see she’s standing beside Tim Kennedy. Behind him is a crowd of teachers, parents and students, all waving placards reading STUDENTS NEED ACCESS TO ARTS. Among them is the posse of girls who locked me in the Porta Potti.

“Richard,” the Minister steps forward, “stop shouting and let Tim speak.”

“Thank you,” Tim says. “We’re here today to protest your Ministry’s proposed changes to arts funding.”

Margo takes a step back and whispers, “What have you told him?”

“I haven’t spoken to Tim since the last time he visited the Minister.”

Tim, meanwhile, calmly explains to the Minister. “I brought my students here today because they need to learn that they have a voice. Your Ministry’s changes may deny them access to the arts and they need to speak up about that.”

“My Ministry is committed to ensuring all students have access to the arts. The new program won’t change that. No one knows better than I how important it is to expose young people to the arts early, Tim.”

“But Minister, you usually consult with stakeholders when developing new programs and we’re concerned about your silence regarding After the Bell. How else will we understand your plans?”

“You’re absolutely right, Tim but this isn’t the time to discuss it. I’m hardly dressed for formal consultation!” She laughs disarmingly and everyone smiles. “I’ll have Margo set up a meeting where I can get your input.” Tim lowers his placard. “Since you’re already here,” Shania says, tossing her shiny mane, “why don’t you all come on inside? I’d love to tell you more about my new mentoring program, Tomorrow’s Talent.” She flashes an engaging smile at the teachers and parents. “I know a group of role models when I see it. We could really use your support.”

Occasionally I catch a glimpse of why Mrs. Cleary has succeeded in politics. With a few well-chosen words, she’s defused an ugly situation and pitched another project. Mark is right, the woman has charm.

“Helmet, Lily,” she says, her smile contracting slightly. Then she takes Tim’s arm to proceed into the Civic Centre.

“Hi, Rocket Girl,” Tim greets me as I replace my headgear.

Any smart reply I could devise would be swallowed by my visor, so I save my strength. Besides, I’m more inclined to grovel at the moment. I’m more ashamed than ever of the way I treated him. To underscore the point, Richard passes me and plucks his briefs from his ass.

Little Goliath is standing against my boots, yipping. Realizing the helmet is scaring him, I take it off again and pick him
up. He’s licking my face when Margo swings back through the double doors.

“There you are, you little beast.” She snatches the dog from my arms. “If he didn’t belong to the Minister’s sister, I’d dump him in the trash.”

Goliath bares his teeth and growls at her as she carries him off.

“I think she’s gotten meaner since the electric shock,” Laurie says, helping me put the helmet on and guiding me into the rotunda.

During the reception following the speech, I judge it safe to remove the helmet, the crowd having had ample opportunity to appreciate the full ensemble. Gulping two bottles of water in quick succession, I help Laurie hand out printed material about Tomorrow’s Talent. I’m planning my descent on Tim when two gentlemen from the banking industry approach me for information about participating in the program. By the time I escape their clutches, Tim is talking to the Minister.

Heading to the ladies’ room, I find it’s been commandeered by Brianne, the Alpha Teen, and her demonic sisterhood. They’re applying lip gloss at the mirror. Before I can back out the door, Shelley sees my reflection and says, “Look, Brianne, it’s Mr. Kennedy’s friend. Haven’t seen you in a while, Miss McIssac. Have you been
lost in space
all this time?”

Their sniggering demolishes what’s left of my patience. “Look, ladies,” I say, slamming my helmet on the counter so hard the contents of Brianne’s makeup bag rattle, “let’s just cut the crap, shall we? If you have something constructive to say, say it fast, because I have a challenge ahead of me to get out of this suit. If you don’t, I’ll thank you to excuse me.”

The girls stare back at me in stunned silence so I push past them and squeeze into a cubicle. At least I’ll be able to crawl under the door if they lock me in again.

Over the noise of a steady stream of water hitting the bowl, I hear the girls whispering. I’m sure they’re planning a counterattack or they’d have left by now. Struggling back into uni
form, I exit the cubicle and head for the sink, where they’re standing in a half circle eyeing me warily. They’re trying to psyche me out, I figure, so I make a show of lathering up my hands and washing them slowly. I’m reaching for the paper towels when the bathroom door opens and Margo appears.

“There you are, Libby. Where’s that wretched Pomeranian?”

“Check the last cubicle. I think I heard barking.”

“I don’t appreciate flippancy, Elizabeth. You’ve obviously spent too much time with these teens.”

“Don’t give them credit for my attitude.”

“Well, get out here and help me find the dog.”

“In a minute. You’ve interrupted a mentoring moment.”

She snorts in disgust and leaves.

“What a bitch!” Brianne exclaims.

“Just the tip of the iceberg,” I say, shaking my head. “My job isn’t all funny costumes, you know.”

“How can you stand it?”

“When things get rough, I just put on the helmet—it’s virtually soundproof. But it’s hell on my hair.”

There’s a moment’s pause and then they all laugh—
with
me, and not
at
me, for a change. They look at each other, then Shelley pushes Brianne forward.

“Listen, Miss McIssac, we’re sorry for giving you such a hard time,” Brianne blurts out.

“Is this a trick? Have you stuck something to the back of my spacesuit?”

“No, really, we’re sorry,” she insists. “We were just having some fun because Mr. Kennedy is our favorite teacher.” She lowers her head and mutters at the floor, “Some of us kind of have a crush on him.”

A chorus of denials follows.

“Speak for yourself!”

“I already have a boyfriend!”

“Gross—he’s old.”

“Relax!” I say. “Believe it or not, I understand. So, you really like Mr. Kennedy?”

“Oh yeah!”

“He’s really cool!”

“The best teacher we’ve ever had!”

“What’s so great about him?”

“He doesn’t make us feel stupid like some teachers have and he makes music fun. Everyone wants to be in his class.”

I nod my head, remembering what Tim said about their difficult backgrounds. “He told me you’re a talented bunch.”

“I want to be a teacher just like him one day,” Shelley offers shyly.

“Not an astronaut?” I ask. “I’m hurt.”

“Hey,” says Brianne, “who’s the guy with the big bulge? You know, in the
Star Trek
suit?”

I feel my face start to burn. “Uh, that’s Richard, otherwise known as Captain James T. Kirk. He’s a consultant who works with the Minister.”

“Did you go out with him?” Shelley asks.

“No,” I turn to the mirror to fluff my helmet head.

“I bet she did,” Shelley says to the others. “Is he nicer than Mr. Kennedy?”

“No one is nicer than Mr. Kennedy—am I right?”

“Right!” they all chime.

“But I bet Mr. Kennedy doesn’t look like
that
in a space suit,” Brianne offers.

“I doubt we’ll have a chance to find out,” I say.

“So is it real?”

“What?”

“The bulge.”

“Brianne!”

“What? He’s
your
friend.”

“Trust me, we’re not that close.”

“Anyway,” Brianne concludes, “we didn’t mean to break you two up.”

“Who?” I ask, honestly baffled at this point.

“You and Mr. Kennedy.”

“You aren’t responsible for that.”

“You could give him another chance,” she says, offering me her lip gloss. “Try this, it would look good on you.”

It’s not the time to worry about hygiene, so I take it and put some on. “Will it show through my visor?”

“Libby!” Margo is back at the door. “What do I have to do to get some help out here?”

I hand the lip gloss back to Brianne. “Listen, girls, let’s fan out and locate the Pomeranian.”

Shelley soon entices Goliath out from under a display case with a cocktail wiener from the snack table. Tim watches from across the room as they gather around me and the dog. He doesn’t come over. Finally, the girls say goodbye and by the time I’ve taken another trip to the washroom to collect my helmet, the whole group has disappeared.

“Roxanne’s help line.”

“How did you know it was me?” I ask.

“I recognize your ring. Besides, you’re the only one who forgets about the time difference.” I look at my watch and make a quick calculation.

“Shit. Sorry, Rox, did I wake you up?”

“Nah, I’m still at work—on lunch actually.”

“But isn’t it 2:00 a.m. there?”

“Yup.”

“Hey, is Miguel with you?”

“Yup.”

“Is he still sexy?”

“Yup.”

“Are you still sneaking to his room every night?” I can’t resist teasing Roxanne when she’s at work and can’t divulge any personal information.

“Yup.”

“Is he beginning to suspect that you’re talking about him?”

“Yup. So when are you going to tell me what’s up? Are you having regrets about the Brit?”

“Oh yes, but only that I ever gave him a passing thought. The man is willing to do whatever it takes to get what he wants. Thank God I never cracked. He’d be tossing me aside by now without a second thought about my reputation. I was an idiot!”

“You’re hardly the first girl to sacrifice logic to lust.”

“Rox, I think I used him as an excuse to avoid getting involved with Tim.”

“If you’re still having regrets about that, why don’t you just call him?”

“He won’t even talk to me when he sees me. Besides, he’s seeing someone else.”

“Is it serious?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, it ain’t over till the fat lady says ‘I do’.”

“She’s blond, five-two and skeletal.”

“Yeah, but can she write like you?”

“Actually, she writes for
Maclean’s.
”

“Jesus. Well, what’s the worst that can happen?”

“He could tell me to fuck off.”

“And if he does, it’ll ruin your life? Look, you’ve gotta move before he gets serious with the bone rack. You must save him from a life of misery with the wrong woman.”

“So, by stealing him back, I’ll be doing them both a favor.”

“Now you’ve got it.”

By the time I put down the phone, Rox has me pumped, so before I can talk myself out of it, I dial Tim’s number. His machine clicks on after one ring and I’m paralyzed by the thought that he’s on the phone with Melanie this very moment. She’s probably filling him in on the big news story she’s breaking. I hang up.

“W
hen the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, it’s your birthday,”
my father croons as we wait in line at the new Wood Oven Pizza Bistro.

After my parents’ reaction to the new fusion cuisine a few months back, I’m taking no chances: pizza is paternally sanctioned. Besides, this place is ideally located midway between my apartment and Queen’s Park and I want to check it out.

“Dad, my birthday was last week.”

He grins at me before launching back in:
“When the world seems to shine, like you’ve had too much wine, it’s your birthday.”

“Can you make him stop?” I ask my mother. She shakes her head helplessly.

“Bells will ring, ting-a-ling-a-ling, ting-a-ling-a-ling, veeta bella…”

Fortunately, the hostess arrives in time to spare me the big finish and leads us to a corner table. After this, dinner progresses quietly enough until a waiter arrives carrying a piece of tiramisu with a sparkler jutting out of it and begins singing “Happy Birthday.” My father and half the diners join in enthusiastically. My humiliation is cut short by a commotion at the front of the restaurant.

“What do you mean it’s not bloody ready?” a man’s voice is
demanding. “It’s bad enough that you don’t deliver. Now I’ve left my hotel and traipsed over here and you have the gall to tell me my order isn’t ready. This is unacceptable!”

I know that voice. The imperious British accent is a dead giveaway. A glance over my shoulder reveals Richard leaning over the bar in an attempt to intimidate the manager. There’s a nearly inaudible response from the manager and then, “No, I don’t want a bloody drink while I wait! I want the meal I ordered, thank you very much. I have work to do this evening. Oh never mind. Forget it. Just give me whatever is quickest.” After another calm response from the manager, Richard barks, “You’re damned right I’m not paying for it. I’ve never experienced such poor service in my life!”

I can’t believe how rude he is. If I’d seen this side of him three months ago, I’d have kept my hormones to myself, like a proper lady.

“Get a load of the limey,” my father snorts. “The accent’s given him delusions of royalty. He’s damn lucky
I’m
not the manager here. I’d shove a pizza up his crumpet-eating ass—teach him some manners.” I sink down in my chair.

“Reg!”
My mother is scandalized. “Keep your voice down!”

“I’ve never met a Brit I liked and I don’t care who knows it.” Dad’s arm shoots into the air to summon the waiter.

“There are plenty of fine Englishmen around, Dad.”

“Nah, they’re all pale and uptight. The dampness rots their brains.” He’s baiting me now. “And look at the crap they eat. If it isn’t fish and chips, it’s steak-and-kidney pie.”

“You love fish and chips,” my mother says.

“You’re missing the point, Marjory, which is that I am Scottish: I’m supposed to hate the British.”

“
Grampa
was Scottish, Dad. You’ve never left this continent.”

“The blood of the Highlanders still courses through these veins, lassie.”

“Italian wine is coursing through your veins, Rob Roy,” Mom says.

I glance again toward the door in time to see Richard striding out with his meal. Dad watches him go, then turns back to
pay our bill: “All I can say is, thank God you and Brian never dragged home a Brit.”

“Well, I’m not promising a man in a kilt,” I tell him as we get our coats.

I am sitting with the Minister while she reviews a draft speech when I hear it: a high-pitched giggle. It sounds like Margo’s voice, but it can’t be. She’s incapable of giggling. I hear Richard’s voice murmuring something just outside the door and there it is again. It’s definitely Margo, and Richard is inducing that freakish sound. I almost seize the pencil from the Minister’s hand and drive it into my ear.

“Do you think that’s meant to impress me?” the Minister asks, nodding toward the door.

“I believe that’s the point, yes. Is it working?”

“The performances aren’t very convincing.” She looks at me over her glasses and smiles.

“You’re supposed to suspend your disbelief,” I advise.

“Better to suspend the staff, perhaps?”

I silently marvel over the fact that I’ve actually come to like Mrs. Cleary—at least most of the time. Despite the pleasant exchange, however, I leave her office feeling uneasy. For some reason, I’m still worried about the upcoming policy changes. Richard and Margo are far too caught up with their personal agendas to pay attention to the details and when it comes to government, I’ve learned that the devil is always in the details. I’d like to stay on the sidelines and let the chips fall where they may. It’s not my job to prevent Richard and Margo from embarrassing the Ministry. Unfortunately, the Minister will take the bullet if something goes wrong and I don’t really want to see that happen. She may be naive, vain and annoying, but she doesn’t deserve to be dragged down by scheming opportunists.

I suppose it wouldn’t kill me to do a little digging and see if there’s any basis to my suspicions. Marjory would say it’s the right thing to do.

“I don’t see why we can’t meet somewhere nice for once,” I grumble, as Elliot and I slide onto a bench at the Queen’s Head beside eight strangers. Normally it’s not this busy on a Wednesday, but it happens to be fetish night.

“I do my best work in these places, you know that. Things just flow better…” His voice trails off as a man in a wet suit passes. The rear of the suit has been cut away to expose the guy’s waxed butt.

“Elliot? Hello? A little focus would be nice.”

“Sorry, what were you saying?”

“How does Günter put up with you?” I sigh.

“He doesn’t appreciate the humor of it all as you do,” Elliot concedes.

A buxom woman in a black leather bikini, thigh-high boots and an executioner-style face mask tickles the back of my neck with the tip of her whip. “You shopping, honey?” she asks, in a surprisingly feminine voice.

“Just looking, thanks.” I wave the whip away, while Elliot laughs. “That’s the real reason you bring me to these places—to mock me.”

“It’s been good for you—you’re only half as uptight as you used to be.”

“I’m not uptight.”

“Trust me, your bolts still need loosening. I’ve never met such a worrywart.”

“I am not!”

“Self-knowledge is a wonderful thing, Lib.” Elliot signals the waiter to bring another martini. “But let’s not ruin the evening by arguing. Tell me what’s happening in Flower Girl’s love life?”

“Before you corner me on that, could we talk about work? I sense something is going wrong with a new Ministry initiative, but I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Thought you didn’t worry,” he says, smiling.

“Fine, I worry—and in some cases it’s justified.”

“Well, I’m seeing the image of a chessboard. I sense someone is being played.”

“I knew it!” I say, remembering Richard’s recent behavior with Margo. Maybe he’s trying to put her off the trail of a secret plot. “What else do you see?” I ask eagerly.

“Well, it doesn’t seem to make much sense in this context, but I see a crucifix.”

“Really? Maybe someone is going to be crucified at work. I hope it isn’t me.”

Elliot’s interest evaporates as a police officer walks toward us. I’m convinced it’s a real cop until I notice the velvet thong he’s wearing over his uniform pants. Only after the cop makes a mock arrest of the woman with the whip can Elliot concentrate long enough to confirm there’s still hope with Tim—but only if I’m willing to make the first move.

As we walk to the subway, Elliot invites me to attend a wedding with Lola as research for our book. One of the guys in Günter’s band is formalizing his union with his longtime boyfriend. I suspect this might raise a few eyebrows with our publisher, but agree anyway. Knowing the two grooms, this is likely to be the event of the season.

Joe Connolly is sitting at his desk as I stroll down the hall of the policy branch. I’ve barely seen him since the Gay Pride parade, and each time we’ve passed in the hall, we’ve looked carefully in opposite directions. Today he catches me watching him and waves me over.

“So, how have you been?” I ask, leaning against the door frame and surveying his office. Its sparseness reminds me of his condo: no certificates on the wall, no calendars, no personal photographs—nothing but the essentials of work. Still living the monastic lifestyle.

“Great, you?” The man is surprisingly gracious, considering the terms of our parting.

I’m about to ramble on casually when I notice the crucifix hanging over his computer monitor. My throat dries out as I recall Elliot’s vision. It must be a sign. Since being on staff, Joe has gained the reputation of being one of the best policy analysts in the Ministry. “Listen, Joe, I wonder if you could give me some advice about our new policy initiative.”

“Contact Culture? Actually, I’m not really in the loop. I’m working on other initiatives.”

“I just want to know if you get the sense everything is under control.”

“You’re worried?”

“I can’t help thinking that Margo might be missing an important detail. She’s still reasonably new to policy work and you know how complicated it is.”

“But Richard Neale is working closely with one of my policy colleagues on the changes. You don’t think he’s withholding information from Margo?”

I shrug. “All I’m saying is that I have a hunch something is being overlooked.”

“Look, I’ve got a meeting right now, but let me do some digging. Why don’t you swing by my office tomorrow?”

I nod gratefully and head back to my office. Joe is known to be very thorough and he’s certainly a man of honor. If there is any dirt clinging to this launch, he’ll find it.

The door to Joe’s office is closed and I wonder if I’ve left it too late to visit. After all, it’s almost five on Friday afternoon.

“Hi, Libby,” I turn to see him walking toward me. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“Just got here.”

“I’ve just come from the comptroller’s office and it looks like your instincts were right on the money.”

I sigh. I didn’t want to be right about this. After all, I spent three months fantasizing about Richard. Do I need more evidence of my poor judgment?

Joe invites me into his office and I see that a framed eight-by-ten glamour shot of a woman has arrived on his desk since yesterday. Joe positions his guest chair to offer me optimal viewing.

“How bad is it?” I ask, ignoring the blue-eyed beauty in her cheap pine frame.

Joe explains that Richard appears to be paying a company called Loud Mouth Publicity far above the amount he originally quoted to the Minister. The additional funds have been siphoned out of the After the Bell budget, since Contact Cul
ture’s budget is already much smaller than that of its predecessor. The restricted funding will obviously have an impact on the support currently offered to students. Worse, Joe says the scheduled changes are likely to impact the students from lower income families the most.

He has more to say, but I’ve heard enough. The Minister should hear this directly from Joe and fortunately, she’s still in the office. I sneak him up the emergency staircase to the Minister’s office. Margo and Richard are working together in the boardroom and I don’t want to raise any suspicions on their part by walking past them with Joe.

Mrs. Cleary beckons us in and I explain that Joe has identified some potential problems with Contact Culture. She listens impassively as Joe speaks until he reaches the part about the reduction in student access to the arts.

“I don’t understand,” she interrupts. “Richard and Margo both know that guaranteeing the poorest kids access to the arts is extremely important to both me and the Premier. How could this happen?”

I offer no explanation.

“I’m afraid there’s more,” Joe says. “Minister, I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of researching Loud Mouth Publicity and discovered something interesting.” He pauses and waits for her assent to continue. When she nods, he says, “It’s a new company, owned by a twenty-seven-year-old named Maxwell Peel—the son of the wealthy London financier James Peel, who has strong ties to the Labor party. Max apparently had trouble holding down a job and when his idleness started causing trouble in the U.K., Daddy shipped him off to the colonies and set him up in business here.”

“So Margo was right in saying the company had no track record,” the Minister says. “I’ve been so wrapped up in Tomorrow’s Talent that I obviously haven’t paid enough attention to this project. But why is Richard so anxious to give this Maxwell our business?”

“I have it on good authority that Richard plans to run as a member of British parliament when a senior MP retires this year. James Peel has a lot of political clout and he’s promised to
back Richard if he keeps up his end and helps Junior Peel get his business off the ground. A government contract would go a long way to help.”

“Julian and I had no idea!” Mrs. Cleary is dumbfounded. “How did you learn all this?” she asks Joe.

“As Libby knows, Minister, I have friends in high places.” He looks at me and raises his eyes skyward in a joking reference to his previous career.

“Does Margo know?” the Minister asks. In need of comfort, perhaps, she opens her drawer and runs her index finger along a row of gleaming gold lipstick tubes.

“I doubt it, and I doubt she understands the impact Richard’s scheming is having on either Contact Culture or After the Bell. It was hard enough for me to uncover these details and I had to call in a lot of favors. Plus, I was tipped off that there might be a problem.” Joe gives a pointed nod in my direction.

The Minister pauses in her lipstick application and lowers her compact to look at me. “Libby, how did you know something was going on?” It’s the first time she’s ever used my correct name.

“I didn’t. It was just a hunch, which is why I went to Joe first.”

“Well, I’m grateful that you raised your concerns,” she says. “And now, if you two will excuse me, I have some investigating of my own to do.” She reaches into her drawer, pulls out her curling iron and hands it to me. “Plug this in before you go, would you?” I hesitate for a moment and she adds, “Don’t worry, the office has been rewired.” I notice that her hand is trembling.