Читать книгу Speechless - Sandy/Yvonne Rideout/Collins - Страница 11

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: Roxnrhead@interlog.ca

From: Mclib@hotmail.ca

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:

a) she has a crush on me;

b) she’s worried I’ll be off writing speeches and slipping them into the Minister’s handbag;

c) she suspects Laurie and I will plan a mutiny if we spend our nights together; or

d) two of the above.

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.

Perhaps my decision to dip to a 26-point font was a little ambitious.

At the end of the event, I scurry to the car and sink as low in the front seat as possible.

“Ask her,” the Minister says to Margo in the back seat, in an eerily calm voice.

“What happened to today’s speech, Libby?” Margo’s voice is calm too.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what size is the font?”

“I’m not sure,” I hedge.

“Give us your best guess.”

“Well, it’s pretty big. Maybe 32 points.”

“Did you reduce it deliberately?”

Recognizing that evasion is futile, I confess. “Actually, I did. I couldn’t understand why it’s usually so large. It’s difficult to deliver a speech smoothly with so little text on a page. And besides…”

“Yes?” Margo asks.

“Well, flipping that many pages is very hard on a manicure.”

“Libby, when you’re ready to think for yourself, we’ll let you know. Let’s return to a 40-point font, shall we?”

Much later, the Minister says, “Margo, you don’t suppose anyone thought I was mocking the people from the Institute for the Blind?”

“Of course not, Minister. You could barely tell there was a problem.”

Margo, who is sitting behind me, hoofs the back of my seat.

I’m about to become a glorified roadie. During the Ministerial tour through the eastern townships, I’ll be part of the “advance” team that sets up the show. This could actually be fun, since Bill and Laurie comprise the rest of the advance, but with Margo, nothing comes easily. Bill and Laurie will drive ahead in a Ministry “limo” (a government-issue sedan), while the Minister flies from place to place in the tiny government plane. I really want to travel by car, but Margo apparently considers me “plane-worthy.” I’m certain this has less to do with wanting me on the plane than with not wanting me to have a good time in the car. It’s her “divide and conquer” philosophy.

This means Bill will often have to leave an event site, pick me up from the closest airstrip, and rush back to ensure all is ready for the arrival of the Minister. Meanwhile, Mrs. Cleary and Margo will stall for time in a separate car with a local driver so that they can make a grand entrance. It’s a pain in the ass for all concerned, but Margo has somehow convinced the Minister that it’s a sound strategy. It’s Margo’s special gift: she can dress up any stupid idea in flawed logic and present it as viable to the Minister. Since the Minister does not appear to be a fool, I assume she has her reasons for accepting Margo’s decisions.

We three roadies have prescribed tasks. Laurie will schmooze the event organizers and keep the kids calm. They’re always wound up at these events, even though they don’t have a clue who the Minister is. Bill and I are to make sure the auditorium is set up properly, and the sound system is working. My special job is to ensure that the podium is appropriately situated to display the Minister to good effect. Specifically, it must be low enough so that she’s visible and properly positioned to allow the lights to gleam off her burnished locks.

My biggest challenge is that we require lecterns that accommodate an 8.5 x 14-inch folder, the standard being 8.5 x 11 inches. The Minister has decided, as a result of Project Diminishing Font, I presume, that her speeches will be printed on legal-size paper to get more 40-point text on each page. Besides, this way she’ll barely need to lower her head to read. Looking down is unflattering around the chin line and even having a prominent cosmetic surgeon as a husband cannot completely erase the effects of time.

Not that I’m totally insensitive on this score. My many years of rebound dieting foretell of early wattle. Maybe the Minister will grow to like me and give me a voucher for some cosmetic work in her husband’s luxurious clinic. I plan to age gracefully, but if the nip-and-tuck were a gift, well, it would be rude not to accept it.

To: Mclib@hotmail.ca

From: Roxnrhead@interlog.ca

Subject: Roughing it on the Isle

Hi Libby,

Bridget Wilkinson refused to come out of her trailer and shoot her scenes today. It all started when the local caterers assumed her request for turkey bacon was a joke. You don’t laugh at Bridget! The executive producer stormed over but despite all the yelling, Bridget never appeared on set. I know how much you love the Diva Report, so I hope you’ll still be able to access your e-mails during your trip.

Rox

P.S. I haven’t missed Gavin at all, which doesn’t bode well. I suspect I’ve seen the last of him and his mangy mutt.

I try reverse psychology on Margo with good results. Fearing she will forbid me to bring the laptop on our journey, thereby cutting off my electronic lifeline to Roxanne, I blithely announce my intention of leaving the computer behind.

“You must bring it,” she declares.

“Why?” If she weren’t staring at my shoulder, she’d surely detect the desperation behind the bravado. Rox e-mails often when she’s on location and I’ve been relying on the celebrity gossip more than ever lately to distract me from my woes.

“Because it will be useful, that’s why.”

“But I’ll have to carry it around and it’s heavy. It’s not like I need it to write speeches.”

“You’ll need it to revise the freelancers’ speeches.”

“Well, okay, but I have back trouble, you know.”

“You can get Bill to help you carry it, but I’ve made my decision.”

To: Roxnrhead@interlog.ca

From: Mclib@hotmail.ca

Subject: Victory

Rox,

If they fire Bridget Wilkinson, tell your director I’m ready for my close-up. My superb performance this afternoon convinced Margo that it was her idea to bring a laptop along on our trip. I even managed to look annoyed and resentful when she put her foot down. It wasn’t much of a stretch, since it’s becoming second nature anyway.

Can’t say I’m surprised about Gavin. Country boys were never your type.

Lib

With the trip less than two days away, my worries about rooming with Margo haven’t diminished, particularly as her food issues become more obvious. We’re constantly being offered refreshments at events and on several occasions, I’ve caught her slipping food into her bag for later, presumably because she never goes home. Or maybe she lived through the Irish potato famine in a former life.

Today I catch her removing a plastic cup covered with a napkin secured by an elastic band from her briefcase (i.e., there was planning involved). In the cup are a dozen large shrimp in cocktail sauce. I recognize them from the buffet table at an event we visited hours earlier.

“Margo! You’re not going to eat those are you?” I say. “It’s salmonella waiting to happen!”

“Never mind!” she retorts, slipping them back into her briefcase and stalking out of her own office.

No wonder we have a rat problem. And no wonder her clothes are often a mess, with stains and her shirttail hanging out. The Minister frequently whispers, “Margo, your blouse…”

Still, as much as it pains me to admit it, Margo is actually quite attractive. What’s more, for all her compulsive eating and hoarding, she barely tips the scale at a hundred pounds. Maybe she could get me a similar pact with the devil. I imagine she has some pull.

“Are you drunk, Libby?” my mother asks when I call to tell her we’re shipping out at dawn.

“No, why would you say that?” I counter, scooping the ice cubes out of my glass so that their clinking won’t give me away.

“You seem a little withdrawn, that’s all. And you’re slurring.”

“I am not slurring.”

“You’d drink a lot less if you had Mrs. Bingham living next door, monitoring your recycle bin as she does mine.”

“I don’t drink enough to interest the Mrs. Binghams of the world. Worry about my chocolate consumption if you must worry.”

“You’ve been miserable since you started this job.”

“I’m fine,” I slur soothingly. “How’s Desdemona doing?”

“Desdemona? The Binghams’ poodle? Good Lord, she died in the ’70s!”

“Yeah, but they had her stuffed and standing by the fireplace last time I was there.”

“That was a decade ago. I’m sure they’ve thrown it out by now.”

“Her. Desi was a girl. Maybe they sold her at their garage sale last year.”

“I think I’d have noticed that. I’d have bought her for your father.”

“He could keep her beside his recliner.”

“Don’t suppose your diversionary tactics are working, by the way. They may work on your aunt Mavis, but they’re wasted on me.”

“Not if I’m sober, they aren’t.”

“So you are drinking!”

“Mother, you’d be into the bourbon too, if you were facing the week I am.”

“Never bourbon,” she says. “I’m sure it won’t be as bad as you fear. And when you get back, I’ll make some Nanaimo bars you can take into the office to sweeten Margo up.”

They’ll be just the thing to tempt her into the rattrap.