Since Alvin’s arrival our garbage rate had soared. We had become a fifteen foot by fifteen foot, four-basket-a-day office. I rescued the envelopes from the garbage.
“Put labels over them. If you can’t think cheap, can you at least think green?”
“Sure.”
Alvin flicked his coal-black ponytail over his shoulder and turned back to the typewriter. I pretended I didn’t hear his next little remark about hormones.
The rest of the morning yielded little. By noon, I was hungry and faced with a pile of paper with Benning doodled on it over and over, surrounded by meaningless squiggles, crosses and puffs of smoke.
On a normal day, I like to eat a sandwich for lunch in the office. But Alvin was there, and I wanted to get away from him. He handed me the pile of Femme Fatale issues as I headed out.
“I can’t take those,” I said. “They are clearly marked Ottawa Public Library.”
Rip. Slap. The covers landed in the overflowing wastepaper basket.
“Happy lunching,” said Alvin.
As I walked away from the door, I heard him answer the phone.
“Sorry,” he said, “I have absolutely no idea if or when she’ll be back.”
* * *
Elgin Street was showing the first signs of spring. Lily white, bare arms were sticking out of short sleeves everywhere as I shlepped along several crowded blocks to the Manx Pub. Time to get out the summer clothes. That shouldn’t be hard, since I hadn’t had time to pack them away over the winter.
I snagged the last table for two in the Manx and wiggled right in, spreading my coverless magazines out on the other side. I ordered the pasta special and began checking out the samples of Mitzi Brochu’s style. Her prime targets were overweight celebrities and royalty (“Porky Princess Should Shun Public Participation”). The Princess was lucky enough to hightail it back to Europe after Mitzi skewered her. The media people were not so fortunate. Mitzi liked to take aim at the fashion foibles of television personalities too. “Dump the Frumps—Ship Media Fashion Losers Back to the Boonies” targeted female news anchors and talk show hosts across the country. One of our local news anchors, Jo Quinlan, got it right between the eyes with the headline “From the Barn to the Big Time”. The caption under her photo shrilled “Beefy country look is out: time for a makeover, Jo-Jo.”
Every now and then, Mitzi scored a double play: “Fat and Frumpy—Dual Deficit Punctures Polyester Politicians”. The rear view shot of local political mover and shaker Deb Goodhouse bending over probably would have cost the photographer his life, if she’d caught him snapping on his wide angle lens.
Two minutes into the first article and I knew one thing: I had no desire to meet Mitzi Brochu.
Femme Fatale was reputed to be outselling Chatelaine and Canadian Living, the former leaders in the field of women’s magazines. I was astonished that people paid to read it.
“Oh God, look at that,” said my waiter as he deposited my plate on the table. “Mitzi Brochu, isn’t she wicked? My favourite one was her TV piece on ‘Ban the Bum’. A lot of people are still blushing over it.”
“Hmmm,” I said, only partly because I had a mouthful. And partly because I was asking myself what kind of person took such obvious pleasure in holding other people up to ridicule.
* * *
Even on the walk to the office, I kept asking myself why Robin Findlay, my oldest and closest friend, the most sensible person in the world, who dreamed about picket fences and children, slept in blue flannelette nighties and doted on her six cats, would want to see Mitzi Brochu.
When I opened the door, Alvin was pointing to his watch. “Robin called in a panic. You just missed her.”
I made room on the desk for the pile of Femme Fatale and dug out my briefcase.
“Better hustle,” he added. “It’s a hike over to the Harmony. And she sounds like she’s going over the edge. Oh, and don’t give another thought to your threads, maybe Mitzi will keep her eyes closed.”
* * *
Alvin was right. It was a hike to the Harmony. I clomped along Elgin Street and snapped left at Laurier West, not giving a glance to the hundred thousand tulips in the park. People jumped out of my way as I plunged along the sidewalk. I’m told I get this look on my face when I’m concentrating. Sort of a short, square Terminator.
What was Robin upset about? Was Mitzi Brochu planning an article on creeping polyesterism in the legal profession? “Lumpy Lawyers on the Loose?” or “Barristers: the View from Behind?” That wouldn’t have bothered Robin. From kindergarten through law school, she never worried about fashion or appearances at all, just went through life being her serene, reliable self. And it would take more than a mean-mouthed pseudo-celebrity to make her panic.
I was running through the fourth or fifth scenario (Robin had a client who wanted to sue the silk underwear off Mitzi the Mouth) when I passed the National Parole Board Office on Laurier West.
“Sorry,” I said, without sincerity, to a man who had misjudged my velocity.
“Camilla MacPhee,” he said, stepping back on to the sidewalk.
I looked at him, trying to remember who he was.
“Ted Beamish, remember me?” he said. “You were a year behind me in law school. I was a pretty good friend of Paul’s.”
“Right,” I said.
“It’s good to see you. I almost didn’t recognize you.”
“It’s the running shoes.”
He blinked. “No, something else.”
I didn’t want to dwell on this theme. Ever since Paul was killed, people keep telling me I look different. It bothers them.
“I can’t quite put my finger on it. Maybe it’s the way you…”
“So, Ted, what have you been doing with yourself since Law School?” Men always like questions like that.
“I’m at the Parole Board now. What are you doing?”
“While you try to make sure they get out, I try to make sure they stay in.”
He flushed. A deep, mottled red clashing with his coppery hair. Then he plunged on. “Everyone deserves a chance.”
“Tell that to the victims.”
“Oh yes,” he said, with the flush up to his cheekbones and rising, “I remember hearing you were heading up an advocacy group. I guess you have your reasons. Well, I have mine, too.”
“Sure,” I said, tapping my foot. Two-thirty was coming fast.
“Listen, you got time for a cup of coffee?”
“Late for a meeting.”
“Some other time then.” The flush flamed past his ears and kept going to the top of his head. And you could see it right through the thinner bits of red hair in front.
* * *
The Harmony had been designed back when people thought the nineties would be a time of tranquillity. Soft aqua shades on walls. Deeper turquoise in the carpets. Mountainous silk flower arrangements backing onto mirrors. The lighting was misty and indistinct, and generic music was oozing out of the walls. I tried to remember the Harmony Hotel slogan. What was it? Oh yes, “Harmony Hotels, where the client never has to worry.”
There was no sign of Robin. I checked the slip with the phone message, but it was hard to read under the coffee stains.
At the registration desk, I asked for Mitzi Brochu’s room.
“I’m sorry, I can’t