Speechless

“Uh, yes,” Tim says, confused. “We met recently at a wedding.”

“Isn’t that lovely. So tell me, Tim, how is your work going?”

The Minister releases my wrist and steps directly in front of me. This would be a more effective blocking strategy if she were a foot-and-a-half taller, but I take the hint and escape into the crowd.

“Oh, Lily! Lily!” It’s Tim calling me in a singsong voice.

“Shut up.”

“Now, Lily, is that any way to greet an old friend?”

“You’re not funny, old friend.”

“You’re just grouchy because you’ve caught yourself another bouquet.”

“Make that three.”

He’s grinning and I can’t help smiling myself. “So, what’s the deal?” he says. “I asked Clarice whether you are working with her and she said, ‘I believe so.’”

“Well, it’s only been a month, she’ll figure it out.”

“I thought you were writing a book?”

“Uh—yeah.” So he did take me seriously. Well, now is not the time to enlighten him. “That’s right, but I couldn’t turn down this excellent opportunity to—”

“—carry the Minister’s flowers.”

“And her purse. The job isn’t as easy as it looks.”

“Knowing Clarice, it wouldn’t be.”

“Actually, I’m supposed to be writing sp—”

“Libby!”

“Oh, hi, Margo. This is Tim Kennedy.”

“We’ve met. So sorry to interrupt, Tim, but the Minister needs Libby urgently.”

I sigh, excuse myself and head to the washroom.

Margo actually offers me cab fare home, but only because she wants me to stop at a retirement home and donate the three bouquets. It’s almost 1:00 a.m. and I suspect the seniors won’t welcome my arrival. Besides, now I really need to pee. So, in my first act of outright defiance, I flout Margo’s orders and take all three bouquets home with me. She’s got me so spooked, however, that I examine them for tracking devices. If she asks where I left them, I’ll tell her I couldn’t read the sign on the senior’s home in the dark.

I load the flowers into juice pitchers and I distribute them around my tiny apartment. The funereal quality suits my mood.

I already have a “sneak” voice mail from Rox when I get up. She was at the airport before dawn and was the first to see the photo of the Minister and me on the front page of the Toronto Star.

“My dress looks great on you,” she says, “but lose the flowers, okay? You’ve got enough trouble with wedding bouquets.”

On my way to work, I stop at my local café to find Jeff, the owner, has pasted the photo above his espresso machine. The Minister is smiling broadly and looks stunning in her beautiful blue gown. I am standing beside her, arms full of flowers and handbags. Thank God one of the bouquets strategically blocks the tightest part of the dress. But wait—there’s a man’s face in profile in the upper right corner of the photo. It’s Tim and he’s smirking. At least it looks like a smirk to me.

I field calls from fans all day. Emma gets through first: “What was Tim doing there?”

“You tell me.”

“Well, he’s a music teacher at the Toronto School for the Performing Arts, but he’s also involved in all kinds of youth causes. This must have been one of his things.”

“Well, he’s annoying and I hope I’ve seen the last of him. Is he still with his girlfriend?”

“Yeah, and last I heard she got some hotshot job with the Vancouver school board. She’s a child psychologist.”

“Not that I care.”

“Of course not.”

“It’s just that I looked like a fool carrying those flowers and the Minister’s purse.”

“He probably thought the designer purse was yours.”

That I doubt, but I feel cheered just the same.

4

I n the realm of romance, I peaked at age nineteen. That’s when Scott, the perfect boyfriend, moved to Halifax to attend Dalhousie University. We’d been together for two years, nine months, five days and seven hours. Scott was a ringer for Jason Priestley from Beverly Hills 90210. He was also very kind. His pals teased him about my height constantly, and he never let on it bothered him. I only figured it out when I overheard him claiming he was five-nine, when he was really five-six. As a gesture of support, I began claiming that I was five-eleven, although I hit six-two in Grade 10. Despite this agreeable fiction, however, Scott had to stand on the bottom stair of my parents’ front porch to kiss me good-night.

We vowed to stay together while half a country apart. He called every Sunday without fail, but at Christmas he went to Hawaii with his parents and on reading week he went to Fort Lauderdale with his pals. I didn’t realize I’d been dumped until he passed through Toronto en route to the west coast for a summer of tree planting. Roxanne and I bumped into him at a local bar, where he was hovering over his new girlfriend, Kelly, who like her 90210 counterpart, was blond, beautiful and petite. While Rox distracted Kelly, I asked Scott, “Did it occur to you to mention we broke up?”

“Lib, we haven’t seen each other in almost a year (eight months, 18 days). I thought you knew.”

So the bastard wasn’t perfect. Kelly, poor thing, didn’t survive the summer, having been supplanted by the even smaller Marta, a Granola Girl who stunk of patchouli oil and didn’t shave her legs. After that came a succession of girlfriends that diminished in size to the point where the guests at his wedding needed a microscope to find the bride.

Elliot says I “lost courage” after Scott, but I think I was damned brave to go out with the number of men I dated during my twenties. Finally, I met Bruce and it seemed as though I may have found it—it being, in Elliot’s view, Scott all over again, but without the good looks. Not that Elliot is really in any position to criticize: his longest relationship lasted six months. Coincidentally, it, too, was with someone who strongly resembled Jason Priestley. Or so he tells me.

When I arrive at the Manhole, Elliot’s favorite bar, he’s holding court at his usual table, which happens to afford an excellent view of both the bar and the door to the men’s room. A waiter is sitting across from him. At first it looks like they’re holding hands, but then I realize Elliot is reading the guy’s palm. Not that I’d have been surprised: Elliot’s charm is legendary and he’s particularly dashing this evening.

“The positive energy is rolling off you in waves!” Elliot greets me with a delighted squeal, sending the waiter scurrying off to get me a beer. “And you look hot, too,” he adds, leaning over to kiss my cheek. “Scorching! Too bad it’s totally wasted in my domain.”

“Not at all,” I say, smiling. “I’ve been hit on here before.”

“That’s nothing to brag about, doll,” he says, but he’s laughing, because he enjoys it more than anyone when I’m mistaken for a drag queen.

“Buy me a martini?” Elliot asks. It’s his way of telling me he’s picking up psychic signals about me and is willing to share them—for a price.

“Do I want to know?” Elliot is not the type of psychic to spare one bad news.

“I’d say so, Flower Girl, but enter at your own risk.”

Elliot’s presence in my life is entirely Lola’s fault. I would never have consulted a psychic myself, but she took to him during a fact-checking phone call five years ago. They clicked over their mutual interest in great food, exotic smokes, and getting laid (not by each other, clearly). Elliot has ranked first in Toronto Lives “best of” edition as the psychic to see for the past four years—the one “most likely to make you feel great about yourself.”