Speechless

“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)