Speechless

“Really? Tell me about it. I promise I’ll still buy the book.”

“Well, okay,” he says, taking my hand and gazing into my eyes. “Two years ago, his best friend bought an Afghan hound and my dad fell in love—with the dog, that is. He gave up terriers to train Afghans exclusively.”

“Ah, the blond bombshell of the dog world…” Our faces are inches apart and I am grinning like a fool.

“Careful, Libby,” a woman’s voice cuts through the fog of love chemicals “—you can see right down your dress.” Lola has appeared from nowhere to ruin my good time. But she’s right: if Tim chose to look (and I certainly hope he did), he could see my navel. I clap my hand to my chest and glare at Lola. Tim smiles innocently and shrugs.

The dreaded disc jockey steps up to the mike: “Time for the last dance, everyone. Emma and Bob want Tim and Libby—we see you hiding in the corner, you two!—to join them on the dance floor.”

“Hold on a sec, Libby,” says Tim, reaching for a cocktail napkin. The ice pack has trickled water into my eye and he gently wipes mascara away. It drains the clever banter from my mouth.

“Mop up the drool while you’re at it,” suggests Lola.

“Lola!”

“Forget it, it’s our big moment,” Tim says, leading me to the dance floor. Soon I am swaying in Tim’s arms, coasting effortlessly across the floor on a sea of pheromones. He quickly breaks the spell by asking, “So, how much truth is there in this garter tradition?”

“Given my experience with bouquets, I think you need to reach a critical mass before the tradition kicks in. At a single garter, you’re probably pretty safe.”

“That’ll be a relief for my girlfriend. She’s just accepted a job in Vancouver and it will be hard enough to keep our relationship going long-distance without planning a wedding, too.”

I’ve just wilted faster than a nosegay on a hot day, but somehow I manage a brave smile. “Try hanging the garter from your rearview mirror. It might work its magic long-distance.”

Mercifully, Tim and I are soon swept up by the crowd of guests swarming the dance floor to hug Emma and Bob. Emma asks me to help her change into her going-away outfit and the night ends in a blur of duty and booze.

I’m at home and in bed when I remember the wedding cake. “You’re hopeless,” I tell myself, but I get up and dig the piece of cake out of my purse and slip it under my pillow. Maybe I’ll dream of Tim. Maybe his girlfriend will dump him for some west-coast hippie in a VW van covered in flower decals. He deserves it. And as for Lola, I’m never speaking to her again.

2

I t’s almost noon when I roll over to behold the bouquet on my dresser. Drooping already. So much for superior quality. The squashed wedding cake falls to the floor as I get out of bed, reminding me of a hazy dream about John Lennon. Figures, twenty years in the grave. I’d never last a round with Yoko, anyway.

I shuffle to my tiny kitchen and put the kettle on. While the water heats up, I gulp chocolate milk out of the carton and rub my forehead where the garter struck me. The only thing I’d like more than a cup of strong coffee right now is to call Lola to discuss the wedding, but of course, I can’t, having written her off. Better to call Roxanne, although she missed the wedding and therefore won’t be fully able to share my lament over Tim. I’ll call her later, I decide, when the sour taste in my mouth has disappeared. I eat a blueberry Pop-Tart to speed the process along—my standard hangover therapy.

Cornelius, my gray tabby, is weaving around my feet. I lean over to pick him up, careful to lift with my legs. He’s so stout that Lola once asked, “Is that a cat or a coffee table?” Corny’s wondrous purr isn’t enough to prevent the Curse of the Bouquets from washing over me. It happens every time. Sometimes I can’t shake the blues for weeks after a wedding, and that’s without the cute guy in the picture. How could I fall for that dog-whisperer schtick? Thirteen bouquets and I am still the biggest sucker in the world. But this time will be different. I am done with guys, I mean it. I will not waste a single second moping. In fact, I will prove it by going out and raking the backyard as if nothing happened. I’ll plant some flowers. Better yet, I’ll start a medicinal herb garden. I’m already reaching for my jacket when I remember I don’t own a rake. Besides, I’m just a tenant; there’s a reason I don’t do yard work.

I go to the office instead. I may be a boring civil servant, but I take pride in being a hardworking one. There’s a pile under my office door because I was off work Friday to prepare for the wedding. I sort through it, wishing I hadn’t told Tim I’m writing a memoir. I doubt he took me seriously, but still, I shouldn’t even pretend my life is that interesting. I’m not a real writer, I’m a “communications” person, which means I write briefing notes, fact sheets and news releases about education policy. I have 45 e-mails for one day’s absence, though, so I must be important. Clicking through them, one catches my eye: a job ad for a speechwriter to the Minister of Culture. Hmmm… Not qualified. Keep clicking, government hack, then go write that fact sheet on private-school funding.

Half an hour later, I retrieve the job ad in my electronic wastebasket and open it again. A speechwriter? Now, that could be fun. It’s a political job and I’m a bureaucrat, but it’s Culture—how tough could it be? Nah! The impact from the garter has addled my brain. I have no interest in politics and I’ve only written five speeches, two of which were never delivered. Better to hold out for my dream career. I’m bound to intuit what that is any year now, especially at the rate I’m reading those woo-woo discover-yourself books. Nothing wrong with being a late bloomer.

In the end, I collect some writing samples and submit them with my résumé. Today, for some reason, I am able to tune out the inner shrew whose mission is to ensure that my reach never exceeds my grasp. After all, no one needs to know I applied.

By the time I get home, I have eight bouquet-related voice-mail messages. Good news travels fast. The first is merely a long, loud guffaw, which sounds suspiciously like my brother Brian. Emma’s mother must have called my mother, who sent out a family bulletin. Message two confirms it: my mother telling me, in her most soothing voice, that she’s heard about the bouquet and there’s nothing to worry about, even though it is “Unlucky thirteen.” (So she is counting!) The third and fourth are hang-ups; I know it’s Lola because there’s a distinctive pack-a-day wheeze. The fifth is Roxanne: she’s heard from Lola, she says, voice oozing sympathy. I am not to take it seriously, although it is hugely fluky and she can understand how I’d be freaked out—it’s just a tradition. Number six: Rox, again, asking if I want her to come over; she’s made chocolate chip cookies and we could debrief on the wedding. Number seven is Lola hanging up after a prolonged whistling sigh. Probably smoked an extra pack today. Rox again for number eight: “Libby, do not— I repeat do not—do anything desperate with that bouquet. I’m on my way over to pick it up. I’ll make a big batch of potpourri out of it for Lola. Her place always reeks of smoke.”

Lola snorts when I tell her I’m scheduled for an interview at the Ministry of Culture. Although she’s an underchallenged copy editor at Toronto Lives magazine, she’s always giving me a hard time about my restlessness, or, as she calls it, “repressed ambition.”

“Why would you want a job like that?” she says. “You’ll get your fifteen minutes of fame when I convince the magazine to profile you and your bouquet collection.”

I should have stuck with my plan to write her off, but as usual, she got around me. And also as usual, she relents and helps me prepare for the interview. Her sleuthing at the magazine turns up an in-depth article on Clarice Cleary, Minister of Culture. It won’t be published until next month, but if I take a vow of silence, she’ll get me a copy. This article, with its current research and interviews, gives me an edge, but it still takes me a whole weekend to write my “take-home” speech assignment.

The interview goes far better than I expect. The Minister is called away unexpectedly and advises the human resources rep to proceed without her. Laurie O’Brien, the office manager and events planner, attends in the Minister’s place.

“This is very good,” Laurie pronounces after reading my sample speech, “but how do you know about our plans to increase funding for after-school arts programs? We haven’t announced this publicly.”

“A reporter never reveals her sources,” I say, smiling. (Not if she wants to keep her friends, she doesn’t.)

In any case, they’re convinced I have my finger on the pulse of government: three weeks and a police check later, the job is mine.

Visions of oak paneling dance in my head as I walk toward Queen’s Park, the pink sandstone fortress that houses Ontario’s Legislative Assembly. It’s my first day and I’m more nervous than I ought to be, considering I’ve had a shiatsu treatment and two intensive yoga sessions over the weekend. Maybe I should have gone the chemical route instead. Still, I’m optimistic. It’s an elegant building and there probably isn’t a bad office in the place. I just hope it’s quiet, because I expect I’ll be in seclusion writing speeches most of the time once I’m up to speed. During the interview, Laurie warned that I’d need to attend dozens of events in the first few weeks to get a sense of the business and how Mrs. Cleary likes to work. Cool. Free food and entertainment. Culture-loving guys, maybe. What could be wrong with that?

I don’t notice the dead rat until I’m standing on its tail. I’m practically on the doorstep of the Pink Palace, so I stifle my scream and step away from the rat. “This is not a bad omen,” I tell myself. “There are no bad omens.” No, this job is going to be great. Straightening up, I brush cat fur from my black jacket and skirt (you can’t even tell they’re from the Gap), fluff my hair, and stride through the imposing front door with renewed confidence.

“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.”