Читать книгу Speechless - Sandy/Yvonne Rideout/Collins - Страница 13

B y some miracle I manage to fall asleep during the forty-minute flight to Ottawa. Maybe Margo slipped a sedative into my Diet Coke, but it’s a welcome reprieve. All good things must come to an end, however, and by the time we pull up to our motel on the outskirts of the city, Margo has clued in to the fact that ostracizing me isn’t having the desired effect and resorts to her old tactics.

“While you were asleep, the Minister mentioned how much she’s looking forward to seeing your scrapbook.”

And I look forward to showing it to her—almost as much as I look forward to sharing a room with Margo. The Minister continues to maintain that her staff cannot squeeze the public purse (though some may be forced to carry it). Rest assured fellow citizens, your tax dollars are not being wasted on me.

Overnight, Mrs. Cleary works herself into a lather about the main event of the road trip—a reception for outstanding youth achievers to be held at Rideau Hall, the Governor General’s residence. Although it doesn’t start until 11:00 a.m., she rings our room at 5:30 to summon Margo, who crashes around long enough to make sure I’m awake. Finally she leaves with the suitcase—the one she keeps locked all the time. I used to think it contained a voodoo doll with big hair just like mine, but when I interrupted the pedicure the other night, I discovered that it’s really a portable spa filled with high-end beauty products. I think she swallows the key each night.

Despite the early awakening, I’m in great spirits when I slide into the vinyl booth of the motel coffee shop across from the Minister and my bunk buddy. My mood fizzles before the coffee arrives. The Minister, dry toast untouched before her, is holding forth about the importance of reaching the impressionable youth of this country.

“Here’s our opportunity to make a difference,” she says, looking expectantly at both of us. Margo is impassively working her way through a large stack of flapjacks, eggs, bacon and hash browns while I study my coffee. “We’re role models for these kids,” the Minister continues, voice rising, “and we must use our influence to set them on the right course while there is still time.” She bangs a fist on the arborite table for emphasis, spilling tea into her saucer.

I can’t tell from Margo’s expression if this is an old rant or a new idea hot off the presses. All I know is that the Minister has spoken to hundreds of kids in the past month alone without any apparent desire to influence them for the good. It’s not till I’m halfway through my waffle that I realize that she’s not worrying about making an impression on young minds, she’s worrying about making an impression on Juliette Moreau, the Governor General. The latter is a lawyer, a generous patron of the arts and a style maven to boot. It seems that the Minister is intimidated.

I try to distract her during the drive by suggesting she rehearse the speech Wiggy prepared weeks ago. “You know, Minister, I have your speech right here in my bag. Would you like to review it?” I turn around in my seat to find her plucking at invisible lint on her dress.

“Can’t you see the Minister has more important things on her mind right now, Libby? Honestly, you have no sense of timing.”

The Minister stares out her window as if our exchange hasn’t registered and by the time we reach Rideau Hall, I’ve become a little nervous myself. It doesn’t help when I see the banner strung across the entranceway: “The Governor General Welcomes Minister Cleary and the Ontario Youth Orchestra.” Fabulous, another opportunity to embarrass myself in front of Tim. On the other hand, I’m wearing a fetching outfit and I’m having a rare good hair day. He could do worse. Maybe this will be the day I turn things around and prove I’ve got it together. Some affirmations will put me in the right frame of mind: I will not be a fool. I will not be a fool. I will not— Wait a minute, affirmations are supposed to be positive. I am a skilled and confident woman. I am poised and centered. I am sexy and articulate….

“Libby, stop daydreaming and get the Minister’s door.”

Scrambling out of the car, I fling open the back door for Her Nervousness. A cloud of powder blue sweeps by and I trot along in her perfumed wake. In the lobby, I scan the crowd for a glimpse of Tim. Fortunately, he stands a little taller than the rest of humanity, so he’s not too hard to locate. Of course, the same applies to me, and when he sees me a second later, he smiles and raises his arm to wave. My heart does a little leap. More affirmations…. I am poised and confident…. I am skilled and centered….

The Governor General is introducing Mrs. Cleary. I should be paying attention, but I’ve just realized that my arm is still in the air, waving at Tim. How long has it been up there? I’m yanking it down when— WHACK!—a bulky Michael Kors shoulder bag hits me square in the chest so hard I stagger backward.

Mrs. Cleary is at the podium now and beginning to speak. I’m trying to focus on what she’s saying but my eyes slide toward Tim to see if he noticed the handbag debacle. Judging from his grin, he saw it all right. I turn back to the stage, muttering aloud, “I am poised and confident. I will not be a fool….”

“Ssshhh,” Margo hisses.

Slow, deep breaths…. Keep eyes averted…. Recovery of dignity is still possible.

The Minister is several minutes into her speech before I can fully concentrate. She’s waxing on about the glacial landforms in the eastern townships. Have I missed a connection to culture? Maybe this is part of her new effort to inspire today’s youth. Oh, there it is—she’s claiming the landscape inspires our artists. That’s original.

“As I traverse the highways and byways of this great province, I am astounded by the beauty of the landscape. Yesterday we passed through Prince Edward County and never in my life have I beheld such a spectacular penis….”

She stops cold, turns the page, freezes. Laughter ripples across the room. Even the teachers are grinning. The Minister, poor thing, is totally nonplussed, nervously shuffling pages of the speech, wondering how to back out of this corner. It seems like hours before she finally speaks.

“That would be peninsula. ‘Never in my life have I beheld such a spectacular peninsula.’ Of course, I’ve never beheld a— But never mind. Excuse me.”

The laughter turns to hysteria and the kids start high-fiving each other with delight. This is an event they will remember for a long, long time. Suddenly, the room erupts with a chant: “Pee-nis, pee-nis, PEE-NIS.” The teachers are working furiously to calm them and just as they’re making headway, a shrill voice rings out over the crowd:

“SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP!”

The audience falls silent. I turn to see Margo standing on a chair, chest heaving in rage. The kids are still laughing, but uncertainly now. The teachers and the Governor General look grim. Finally, the Minister begins speaking again and stumbles through the rest of the speech. At the end, she hurries off the stage, grabs her bag from my arms and makes a beeline to the ladies’ room. I collect the speech from the lectern and scan it anxiously, knowing I could end up wearing this. To my horror, I discover that it is partly my fault. When I formatted the text of Wiggy’s speech two weeks ago into the 40-point font, I split a word between two pages: penin-sula. She read the first half as penis. Shit, shit, shit. She’ll be in dire need of a scapegoat right now and I expect I’ll be the one baaa-ing.

I’m barely through the bathroom door when the refined, elegant little woman turns on me.

“What were you thinking, Lily?” she says, tapping a polished finger against her own frontal lobe. “Did you even read the speech? You’ve humiliated me and I can assure you, speechwriters have lost their jobs for less!”

She’s practically screaming and the reverberation propels a teacher out the door. Yanking her perfume out of her purse, Mrs. Clearly squirts it savagely into the air and steps through it. Then she fiercely dusts her face with powder as I stand by, trying to look contrite. I consider mentioning that this wouldn’t have happened if she’d wear her glasses, but chicken out. At the moment, she’s quite capable of drowning me in a toilet bowl. Finally, she clicks her purse shut and shoves it at me with a parting blow: “Maybe if you weren’t so busy flirting, you could concentrate on what we pay you to do.”

Ouch. She’s gone before my burning face confirms my guilt. Smiling at Tim didn’t cause this screw-up, but I’m ashamed that she knows I was thinking about boys on company time. Besides, I should have paid more attention to the formatting.

When I emerge a few minutes later, the Minister is chatting with Tim and his expression when he sees me confirms I’ve been named the villain of the piece. Maybe he even overheard her tirade. Now she’s clinging to his arm for support, so I slink by to join Laurie and Bill in the audience. The Minister doesn’t have the pleasure of Tim’s company for long, however, because the Governor General soon introduces his orchestra.

Now that my opportunity to impress him has vaporized, I shift my focus to counting the ways he’s all wrong for me, anyway. He’s a teacher, for example. Teachers get no respect and they’re grossly underpaid. What’s more, they’re expected to be role models and their wives probably have to be role models, too. I have enough trouble getting myself through the day without trying to inspire anyone else. Tim is obviously not my prince. My prince is a wealthy man, a man who hangs out with high flyers. A man who is comfortable in Armani. A man who…knows better than to wear athletic socks with a suit. Tim, it appears, does not. His arms are raised to summon the woodwinds when I see the telltale flash of white.

My eyes happen to be in the sock region because they’ve drifted down from his butt. It’s a pretty great butt and it’s too bad I’ll miss out on it, but happily, I’ll also miss out on a lifetime of wardrobe monitoring. The man is in the presence of royalty, or at least a vice regal. Socks matter. As if orchestra conductors don’t have enough strikes against them already! Look at him waving that silly baton around. And what’s with the jutting of his rib cage in the general direction of the horns? The grimace at a squawking bassoon? The blissful radiance over a perfect chord? It’s too much—and it cancels out the great butt, which is a shame, because they aren’t that common.