“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.
3
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