Speechless (6 page)

Tonight, however, Dad only jokes about the Minister and Margo. And Mom gets out the Baileys Irish Cream to serve
with the brownies, as if it’s a special occasion. When I climb into my beat-up Cavalier and drive home, I am stuffed, but somehow feel ten pounds lighter.

L
aurie is pacing up and down, wringing her hands. The Minister is hosting a dinner for a Spanish ambassador tonight and as in-house events manager, it’s Laurie’s job to ensure that the elaborate dinner is perfect. Mrs. Cleary has decreed that each table will feature a centerpiece of magenta tulips, her favorite flower. The buds are to be three-quarters open when the guests arrive—no more, no less. About really important matters, the Minister is always quite precise. The florist, however, is more freewheeling, having delivered twenty gilded pots of pale pink, tightly-closed tulip buds.

“Those flowers are all wrong,” Margo announces, inspecting the pots Laurie has arranged on the boardroom table.

“Tell me about it,” Laurie says. “The Minister’s going to flip and there’s no time to get more. The event starts in an hour.”

“The success of an evening is in the details, Laurie,” Margo intones.

Laurie turns on her. “What would you have me do?”

“Actually, I’ve got an idea,” she says, turning to me. “All these need is a little heat to bloom. Since Laurie is busy, Libby, why
don’t you fetch the Minister’s blow-dryer and heat up the flowers?” I feel my eyes rolling skyward of their own accord. Noting this, Margo adds, “I hope you’ll be more agreeable during our trip.”

“What trip?”

“The road show to the eastern townships to promote Kreative Kids.”

It’s the first I’ve heard of any road show for Kreative Kids, the new arts program sponsored by both the Ministries of Education and Culture. With the teachers’ unrest in Toronto, the Premier’s Office has obviously decided our Ministry should do the promotion. The teachers are already on record as saying that the government’s funding cuts killed school arts programs three years ago.

“How long is the trip?”

“Maybe ten days. You’ll need to get someone to take care of your cat.”

How does she know I have a cat? Is she having my house watched? Worse, do I just look like someone who’d have cats?

“Will I be writing speeches?”

“Of course not. A tour is no time to begin writing. Besides, I’ll need you to support me with the logistics and coordinate the freelance writers.”

In other words, I’ll be a makeshift event planner, and planning isn’t my strong suit. My sour look must have reappeared, because Margo smiles and waves me away. “Go get the blow-dryer. I’ll give you a hand moving the tulips to your office.”

“You mean my cubicle.”

“Whatever. You’ll have to take care of them there, because the Minister is meeting some of the guests in the boardroom before dinner.”

At least she hasn’t asked me to spray-paint them magenta, I think, directing hot air at the first pot. The blooms quickly over-heat to the point of collapse; my efforts to revive them at the water cooler are unsuccessful. The second pot works beautifully, however, and I am at work on the third when a man’s voice
shouts “hello” over the screaming blow-dryer. Startled, I drop the dryer and knock the pot to the floor. Tim Kennedy is standing behind me.

“So, Clarice has found another way to use your skill with flowers,” he says, with a delighted grin.

“I’d take the time to laugh if I didn’t have a deadline to meet,” I reply sarcastically, stooping to collect the flowers and stuff them back in the pot. “The least you could is help.”

“And get my hands dirty before dinner? I don’t think so.” But he kneels to collect the blow-dryer from under my desk. “My God, what’s
that?
”

“A rattrap.”

He’s silent for a moment. “What did you say your job is?”

“I didn’t.” I’m disgruntled enough to be rude.

“Oh, come on, Libby, lighten up.”

“Fine,” I say, sighing as I start on a new pot. “What brings you to my humble cubicle this evening?”

“I’m meeting with Clarice before dinner. I manage the Ontario Youth Orchestra, which your Ministry generously supports. Now, tell me what you do here.”

“I’m the Minister’s speechwriter and flower wrangler. My mission today is to ensure that these tulips are precisely three-quarters open by the time you pick up your salad fork.”

“Did you write tonight’s speech?”

“No, but I
coordinated
it.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I collected it from the freelancer and blew up the point size so that the Minister can read it without her glasses.”

Tim snorts. “Here, let me give this a try.” He takes the blow-dryer from my hand.

“Careful, now. Three-quarters, no more, no less.”

“So, how’s the book coming along?”

Still with the book. Ah well, it’s way too late to explain now. “Fine, I guess. It’s hard to make a lot of progress while working full-time….”

I’m lying with newfound ease because Tim has flipped the dryer to high and can’t hear me anyway. He is leaning in for a closer look at the tulips when Margo’s head suddenly pops over the side of the cubicle. Tim fumbles the dryer, knocking the pot to the floor again. He drops to one knee to pick up the battered buds.

“Don’t, Tim, Libby will get them,” Margo says. “The Minister is waiting for you.”

He grabs his briefcase and squeezes my arm. “Sorry, Libby.”

Margo tows him away, looking back over her shoulder at me, one Vulcan eyebrow raised. The rattrap is probably big enough to take her down if I can find the right bait.

I’m taking matters into my own hands. If Margo won’t assign me a speech, I’ll create my own opportunity. With this in mind, I review the Minister’s calendar to find an event for which no speech is required. I plan to craft brief but compelling remarks and ask her to review them. At best, she’ll decide to deliver the speech; at worst, she’ll offer advice on improving. It’s a desperate move, I suppose, but at least she’ll see me as eager.

The most promising event is the upcoming visit to a junior school where the Minister is to judge a poetry contest. Recalling that the Spanish ambassador who visited yesterday is a well-known poet in his country, I decide to propose that Mrs. Cleary tell the kids about his visit, read a poem and comment on how poetry can transcend borders and unite us as human beings. Wonderful sentiment! How could she fail to recognize my genius?

Laurie sneaks the Spanish ambassador’s books out of the Minister’s office for me and I select a poem that seems appropriate for children. By midafternoon, I have a draft, but I’m stumped about my next move. If I give the speech to Margo, she’ll refuse to share it with the Minister, but how can I slip it directly to the Minister when Margo never leaves her side? Then it hits me: I’m joining the dynamic duo at the unveiling
of a portrait of a former Premier in the Queen’s Park lobby this afternoon. It’s a short event, but chances are good that the Minister will need to freshen up. When I escort her handbag to the washroom, I’ll seize my opening.

Sure enough, the velvet curtain is barely drawn when the Minister turns and snaps her fingers at me. I follow her down the corridor to the public washroom and take my position beside her stall, heart pounding.

“Minister?”

“What?” (Ever gracious, my lady.)

“You’re judging a poetry-writing contest at Earl Gray Public School on Friday and I thought it might be a nice opportunity to mention the poetry of the Spanish ambassador who visited yesterday.” Silence. Voice shaking, I continue. “I drafted a few lines of introduction—about how the arts draw people together—and selected a poem that the children can understand. Would you like to review my draft?”

“I suppose so,” she says, and flushes the toilet.

“Shall I slip it into your handbag?” I shout over the running water.

Taking the lack of response as permission, I click open her purse and tuck the speech between her glasses and the massive cosmetic bag. The Minister swings open the stall door and snatches her purse from me with a disgusted look. She continues to cast hostile glances at me while touching up her makeup, before finally saying,

“I’ll look at your speech because it’s my job to spread the word about culture, Lily, but please don’t corner me in the washroom again. This is private time.”

My delight over my coup outweighs my embarrassment at the reprimand. Later, however, I overhear Mrs. Cleary talking to Margo when I’m passing her office.

“Her remarks were quite good for a first attempt, Margo, but the poem is utter drivel. It makes no sense at all. Maybe it lost something in the translation? I’m so glad I didn’t read any of
his poetry before we honored him at dinner. I couldn’t have kept a straight face….”

Disappointed, I take comfort from the fact she saw some promise in my remarks. Margo soon arrives to admonish me: “Nice try, Libby.”

“What do you mean?” (innocently)

“All material for the Minister must be vetted by me so that I can ensure everything has the proper tone and content. Your draft, incidentally, did not.”

“Really? It must have lost something in the translation,” I say.

Margo flushes blotchy puce. “Don’t do it again.”

I’ve just logged on to my computer to send Roxanne an e-mail when Margo pops her head around my partition to tell me the good news. I’ll be rooming with her on the trip. My shrill protests do nothing to dissuade her.

“Elizabeth, this job is all about optics. We can’t be seen to squander taxpayers’ dollars. The Minister will have her own room, of course, and the rest of us will double up.”

I manage to extract from her that the “away team” is comprised of only the Minister, Margo, Laurie, Bill and me. Obviously Bill and Laurie aren’t doubling up.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: My sad life

Rox,

Glad to hear you’ve arrived safely in Douglas, although the constant rain sounds depressing. If it’s any consolation, the micro-climate here at Queen’s Park is equally miserable. Remember that trip we’re taking? Margo is making me share a room with her. Since no one else is doubling up, I have several theories about her motivation:

I have every reason to think that Margo hates me as much as I do her, so it’s likely choice (d).

Well, she’s a brave woman. I will have nine opportunities to smother her while she sleeps. Try to make it home in time for the trial, will you?

Libby

I’ve been freakishly hungry since I started this job. My stomach always seems to be growling, despite the fact that my waistband is constantly cutting off my circulation. The day of the pre–road show speech-planning meeting, the internal grumbling escalates to a howl. Although I’ve dealt with the freelance speechwriters for weeks, it’s the first time I’ve met them in person. I’ve already developed a burning resentment of them, simply because they get to write while I “coordinate.” One of the writers is forgettable—or would be if only she’d stop talking about communing with her “muse” (she needs a new muse—her writing isn’t that good). The other, Christine, is considered the “intellectual,” which is reason enough to hate her. She also has a frightening wiglike growth on her head. I promptly christen Christine “Wiggy.”

Mrs. Cleary is surprisingly engaged in the meeting and Wiggy and Forgettable are vying for her favor. I’m pleased to note that Forgettable is frequently on the receiving end of the blank Ministerial stare— I presumed such moments were my exclusive domain. Mind you, I am totally excluded from the discussion and sit in silence until my stomach speaks on my behalf, gradually increasing in volume until Margo turns to me and says, “Libby, can you keep it down?”

After the meeting, I realize that what I am experiencing is not hunger, but low-grade indigestion brought on by common
jealousy. I never used to be a competitive person, but frustrated ambition has possessed me like a demon, which explains why I’ve been eating for two.

Fortunately, I have a little project underway that will simultaneously improve my profile while improving the Minister’s speaking style. I’ve attended enough events by now to know the latter also needs work. The problem is two-pronged. First, the Minister only occasionally reviews her speeches prior to delivering them. Second, she won’t wear her glasses. Instead, she demands that her remarks be formatted not in the standard speech font of 14 points, but in a 40-point font that wouldn’t be out of place on a street sign. At this size, very few paragraphs fit on a page; even a brief greeting can run to twenty pages, while a keynote address rivals the phonebook in bulk. This does not faze the Minister. She simply heaves her portfolio onto the lectern and stumbles through the speech as fast as her long nails allow, grabbing a breath wherever there’s an opportunity.

“This is ridiculous,” I whisper to Margo one day during a lengthy page-flipper in a high-school auditorium. “She
has
to wear her glasses. Her delivery is so disjointed people are tuning out.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“A teacher in the second row is
snoring.
”

“You’ll need a lot more experience under your belt before taking this on,” she advises.

So I launch Project Diminishing Font. One day, I reduce the font to 38 points, with no discernible impact on the Minister’s delivery. Then I try 36, after which I ease it down half a point at a time until I have the Minister reading a 28-point font with apparent comfort. Even this has made a big difference to the amount of text I can cram onto the page. Obviously, she never needed 40 points in the first place.

The Minister slips a streamlined folder onto the lectern and starts into her speech. We’re at a conference for teachers of
children with disabilities sponsored by the Hearing Society and the National Institute for the Blind and she’s tearing through the first page quite smoothly, considering she didn’t read it in advance (as evidenced by the lack of yellow highlighting). By the second page, where the text is denser, she starts laboring. By the fifth, she is getting some of the words wrong and by the eighth, she keeps pausing to guess. After leaning in so close to the lectern that all we can see is the top of her head, she finally lifts the speech and holds it inches from her face, muttering into the page. Meanwhile, a teacher standing behind her struggles to simultaneously translate her remarks into sign language.