“Welcome to the Minister’s Office,” says Margo Thompson, the Minister’s executive assistant, looking me over from shoulder to foot. “You’re very tall.”
At barely five feet, Margo clearly isn’t thrilled about my having the height advantage, but at least she isn’t going to be one of those people who looks up at me and says, “I’ve always wanted to be tall. You’re so lucky.” No woman who has been addressed from behind as “sir” is likely to feel lucky about being tall. It’s not as if I’m tall in a supermodel, waiflike sort of way. Rather, I’m tall in a big-boned, size-twelve-feet sort of way. But there is a notable advantage to looming above the crowd: you can tell a lot about people by checking out their roots.
Margo’s do-it-yourself henna is a month past its “best before” date and the wide stripe of gray running down the center of her head worries me. No one who invites comparison to a skunk is likely to become an inspiring boss. I try to keep an open mind, but it’s hard, because Margo refuses to meet my eyes. She leads me to a sleek boardroom, settles into a chair at one end of the gleaming mahogany table and motions me toward the chair at the other end. I’m sure I look smaller from a distance, but she still can’t meet my eyes. Instead, she examines the ends of her long, ruddy hair while delivering a half-hour monologue on the importance of protocol in the Minister’s Office. My questions on program priorities and upcoming events are dismissed with a wave.
“Make no mistake,” she says, “Mrs. Cleary cares a great deal about appearances. She has to.”
“Of course,” I say, conscious that my hair is swelling. There must be a storm front moving in. “When can I meet her?”
“She’s away today at an off-site meeting—a policy seminar—and is attending a gallery opening tonight. You’ll probably get some face time with her tomorrow.”
Face time. Oh my. Margo hands me a binder of speeches and advises me to review them carefully to study the Minister’s style. Laurie will show me to my office, she says, eyes fastened on my left shoulder. Laurie’s roots are in excellent condition and as she also appears to have a sense of humor, I am optimistic.
“I’m so happy you accepted the job,” Laurie says, “I think we’re going to get along great.”
“Me too,” I reply, encouraged, “but Margo doesn’t seem happy I’m here.”
“She’s only been here a few weeks herself and is still getting her bearings. I think she wanted to choose her own speechwriter, but Mrs. Cleary wouldn’t wait.”
“What’s the Minister like?” I ask.
“Wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise. Far better to experience her firsthand.”
“Okay, then what’s the off-site meeting about?”
Laurie sizes me up for a moment before saying, “It’s a pretty heavy agenda: hair; nails; exfoliating; massage.”
“Don’t spas fall under the Ministry of Recreation?”
“There’s more overlap than you might imagine,” Laurie says, stopping beside a cubicle along the inside wall. I must look aghast, because she smiles and asks, “You were expecting oak paneling?”
“Uh, yeah, actually.” I run a finger over the bristling beige carpet on the walls and across the wood-look desk.
Laurie is sympathetic. “Don’t despair. I’ve been working on Margo to give you more space, but in the meantime, I’m afraid this is it.” She leaves me with my binder of speeches and I do the first thing that comes to mind—call Roxanne. Thank God she doesn’t leave for her movie location until later in the week. As camera assistant to the city’s busiest cinematographer, Rox is often away from home for months at a time.
“Rox,” I whisper, “they’ve put me in a cage.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“I never exaggerate. It’s a cubicle, for Christ’s sake. There’s no window and it’s in a high-traffic area. I’m an artist! How the hell am I supposed to create in this environment?”
“Maybe it’s temporary. Besides, it’s the work that counts and this is a great opportunity, Lib. What’s the Minister like?”
“Haven’t met her. She’s either at a policy seminar or a spa. Margo, the Minister’s handler, has already lied to me. If I were still speaking to Elliot, he’d tell me he gets very bad vibes about her.”
“What do you mean, if you were ‘still speaking’ to Elliot? He’s a psychic, not your boyfriend. What could you be feuding about?”
“Last week I made the mistake of asking him if this dry spell in my love life is ever going to end. He had the nerve to say he sees me sitting on a rock in the desert wearing a sign that reads, I’m available. Fuck off.”
“Oooh, that’s a little harsh.”
“Rox, you don’t think he’s right, do you?”
“Not really, Lib, but ever since things didn’t work out for you and Bruce two years ago you’ve been a little…cautious…with men.”
“No kidding. That’s what happens when your boyfriend of two years suddenly admits he never loved you. And what about that guy I met at Emma’s wedding? I let him charm the garter right off me before he mentioned his girlfriend. Men are scum, Rox. You’d better hang on to Gavin.”
“You can have him if you think he’s such a catch, but remember, Daisy comes with the package.”
Daisy is Gavin’s dog and Rox always feels like “the other woman” in the relationship. They met five months ago while bidding on the same antique armoire at an auction. He got the armoire, but she got the guy when he invited her over to see how great it looked in the century home he’s renovating in St. Thomas. Gavin has an unfortunate habit of expressing his feelings through Daisy, whose supposed prejudice against downtown living is wearing out the tires on Rox’s new Jeep.
“Being away for three months on the shoot will tell you a lot about your future with Gavin. Are you packed and ready to go?”
“I sent the camera gear off this morning, but I haven’t started on my clothes yet. The weather changes hourly on the Isle of Man, which means I need to take everything in my closet yet leave room for treasures. Want me to look for something special for you?”
“Yeah, a nice Manx guy.”
“Forget it. I’m keeping the nice Manx guys for me. How about a nice linen—”
My gasp cuts her off midsentence. Two round hazel eyes have appeared above the cubicle, looking above me, around me: Margo. She mumbles something into the beige wall.
“Sorry, I’ve gotta go.” I’m chagrined to be caught in a personal call on my first day. “Yes, Margo?” I say, smiling brightly as I put the phone down.
“The Minister’s seminar is starting later than expected so she can see you briefly.”
I trail after her, a battle cruiser following a tug, into the Minister’s corner office. Ah, so here’s the oak paneling I crave. The desk, massive and oak again, would bring a tear to my eye with its beauty if the Minister didn’t look so funny behind it. Like Margo, she is tiny. When she comes around the desk to shake my hand, her height only allows her to reach my armpit, which is probably as disconcerting for her as it is for me. Obviously I’ve been hired for contrast.
“I’m Clarice Cleary,” she announces regally,