Authors: Yvonne Collins
A
bright light is piercing my aching eyelids and my head feels heavier than a sack of wet cement. Bang…bang…bang… KA-BOOM!!! For a second the racket seems to be coming from inside my head. Then I feel bits of plaster raining down on my face and remember the road crew blasting in front of the motel. My synapses are beginning to connect. I drank way too much last night. Fancy drinks with funny names—one had a brain-like blob of Baileys in it, dripping with grenadine “blood.” My stomach doesn’t feel so good. I had a good time, though, that much I remember. There were lots of men around and…a truck. A red pickup truck and—
Oh my God!
My eyelids snap open and I’m momentarily blinded by the sunlight streaming in the window. More plaster sprinkles from the ceiling and into my eyes and I squint at the shadow above me. As it comes into focus, I realize it isn’t plaster hitting my face at all, but bits of scone. Margo is standing over me, chewing.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
She crams the remaining chunk into her mouth and chews. “Iztimtogetuph.”
“Excuse me?” I close my eyes briefly while she chews the wad enough to answer.
“I said—
urp!
—it’s time to get up.”
“Why? This is a down day for us. There’s nothing scheduled.”
In fact, we were originally scheduled to fly home today but with all the mishaps we’ve had on this tour, Margo recommended we pick up a couple extra engagements to recoup from the bad press.
“We may not have anything booked, Libby, but there’s still plenty of work to be done. We don’t pay you to lie around in bed all day.”
Sounds as if I’m still on the payroll, although that could change quickly if they find out where else I’ve been lying around. I must have a death wish. What if another local newspaper editor was at the pub last night? A quick firing would be the best I could hope for if the story gets out that the Minister’s Handmaid mocked her in a public setting, then had it off with a boy toy in a pickup truck. Panic is creeping through me, but at least it’s overpowering the worst of the hangover. I ease myself out of bed and walk carefully around Margo and into the bathroom. As I close the door, she calls, “You could finish that scrapbook today. The Minister is impatient to see it.”
Again with the scrapbook! I sense she knows I’m in considerable pain and wants to turn the knife but I don’t have the strength to protest. I’ll finish the damn scrapbook but first, I need extra-strength Tylenol.
After a long, healing shower I head to the newspaper rack in the Tranquility Inn’s lobby. Finding it empty, I set off across the parking lot to the nearest convenience store. Halfway across the lot, I freeze at the sight of the road crew. They’ve noticed me too and have stopped working to wave—just as Margo and Mrs. Cleary emerge from the front door. They’ll be upon us in moments. Forget about the newspapers: it all ends here, in the parking lot of a tired old roadside lodge.
“Good morning, Minister!” I call out in an overly cheery
voice, hoping I might deter the guys from shouting anything embarrassing.
“Hello, Lily.” Her tone is icy, but at least she’s speaking to me. “Margo tells me you had a little trouble getting up this morning. Not coming down with something, I hope?”
I’ve got too much on my mind to worry about Margo. When I look over my shoulder, however, I find that the guys are all hard at work, seemingly oblivious to our presence. Did I imagine that they recognized me? Then one allows himself a wink in my direction and I realize my secrets are safe with them.
Mouthing “thanks” to the guys, I hurry across the street and into Nick’s Convenience, where I half expect the kid behind the counter to announce, “So
you’re
the older woman who seduced Danny!” I grab a newspaper from the stand and the tension drains from my body when I find no mention of last night’s debauchery. So far, the town has been silent on my bad behavior. With the immediate disaster averted, I cruise the aisles to find my hangover cure: Pop-Tarts and chocolate milk.
The room is empty when I return. I jack up the volume on MuchMusic, spread my collectibles on the bed and dive in. The work is surprisingly therapeutic and I’m in no hurry to finish. Soon though, the scrapbook is complete—and it looks damn good, if I do say so myself. I’ll never admit it to Margo, but this morning was a nice reprieve. Besides, it’s not as if I could risk wandering around town. I have no major regrets about last night’s close encounter of the meaningless kind, but if I run into Danny, I’ll probably say something stupid and ruin the memory. No, the only discussion I want to have about it is with my friends. And with that in mind, I call my voice mail at home to see if any of them miss me.
BEEP—“Hi, dear, it’s Mom. Haven’t heard from you in a while. Hope everything went well on your business trip. I have my doubts, since we saw that picture of Mrs. Cleary in the Toronto papers. It was a lovely robe, though. Give us a call when you get a chance. It’s your father’s birthday next Sunday, and we
should take him out for a nice dinner.” As she hangs up, I hear my father in the background, “Tell her to bring the priest along— I’ve got something to confess.” He’s not the only one!
BEEP—“Hey, government hack, it’s Lola! How goes life on the road? You’re not missing much here. All’s quiet on the social front, although Emma and Bob are hosting a cocktail party Saturday night. You’d better be there. Don’t leave me at the mercy of couples comparing mortgage rates. By the way, anything coming through on the guy front? Elliot is convinced you’re
getting some.
”
BEEP—“Flower Girl, it’s me! Something is going on, I can feel it! Last night I had a dream that you were hitchhiking along a dreary little stretch of country road and some guy in a pickup stopped for you. Listen, be careful. I’m not saying don’t do him— I certainly would—just take all necessary precautions. But enough about you, it’s my quarter. I can’t
wait
to tell you about this new guy I met. Zachary is history. He’s just too young for me. Well, the new guy is even younger, but you know what I mean, he’s more mature. He has that whole Jason Priestley thing going on—but don’t get any ideas, because—” BEEP!
BEEP—“Christ, who makes the rules with this technology?! I’d like to meet the gay man who can keep a message to three minutes! Anyway, as I was saying, on my first date, I tried this great new restaurant called Storm. Let’s go when you get back so you can tell me how my predictions are panning out. If I’m as right as I sense I am, you’re buying! But I’ll see you at Emma and Bob’s party first. Love ya!”
BEEP—“Hi, Libby, it’s Emma. Bob and I are having a cocktail party Saturday night. You have to come because we’re showing the wedding video and you, my friend, are a star! Wait till you see it. God, I laughed so hard I need Botox. Mind you, I noticed that Lola was
smoking
and it didn’t look like you were trying to stop her. We’ll discuss it at the party. Starts at eight. Don’t worry about your look, there won’t be any single men. Tim can’t make it, either. But it will be fun, honestly! See you Saturday.”
I hang up and try Lola’s work number.
“Lola Romano.”
“Hey, it’s Lib.”
“Hi, there! You home?”
“Nah— Margo’s prolonging the agony. We’re not home until Saturday morning.”
“You’re coming to Emma’s party, right?”
“Are you kidding? Wouldn’t miss the wedding video! Fair warning, though, she’s on to you about the smokes.”
“Shit! I’m in for it. But can I help it if I’m a pathetic addict? So, how about Elliot’s prediction?”
“Actually, last night I had a fight with Margo and went to this pub down the highway, where I got pretty wasted and seduced the 24-year-old bartender.”
“Congratulations, you’re officially a cougar!”
“Great.”
“Nothing to be ashamed of—it just means you’re mature enough to be able to enjoy sex for sex’s sake without getting all caught up in the relationship bullshit.”
“Really? So why don’t I feel mature? I kinda used the guy. I’ve been so down lately, Lola. It’s not working out with this job. Margo bullies me and now the Minister thinks I’m totally incompetent.”
“You’re way too hard on yourself, Lib. From what you’ve told me about Margo, she isn’t very bright, and she’s obviously threatened. You know you can outsmart her.”
Occasionally Lola surprises me. “Do you think I can take her?”
“We couldn’t be friends if you weren’t a fighter. You’re
sneaky,
too—and I mean that in a good way!”
“I’ll take it as a compliment. And I shouldn’t feel guilty about jumping a guy in his pickup?” Oops.
“A
pickup truck?
You slag!” Lola squeals.
But her laughter is infectious and I find myself giggling too. By the time I hang up, I’m feeling much better. I have family and friends who care about me and even think I’m an intelli
gent, competent (if sneaky) woman. What’s more, I can still attract young bootie. Well, fuck it, if I’m a cougar, I might as well show some teeth. I’ll deliver this scrapbook to the Minister’s room and throw in a piece of my mind as a bonus. Time to show the hags that Libby McIssac has a spine.
Quietly chanting affirmations, I march toward the Minister’s room: “I am a cougar. It is a good thing to be a cougar. Cougars are strong and invincible. Cougars leap upon bullies and savage them….”
Margo is chattering away inside the room when I reach the door and I’m conscious of uncougarlike terror. When no one answers my knock, I call and the chattering finally stops.
“It’s Libby, Margo. I’m delivering the scrapbook.”
I hear the Minister say, “What scrapbook?” and Margo replies in so low a tone that I can’t make it out. Finally the door swings open. I look over Margo’s head to see the Minister, hair in Velcro rollers, lounging on the bed. She’s flipping through a glossy brochure and sipping a glass of wine. There’s a tug on my hand as Margo pulls the scrapbook from me. She tosses it casually on the coffee table.
“Well, thanks, Libby. You can go, we’re in the middle of something right now.”
Yeah, an expensive bottle of Chardonnay. I’m about to launch into my
Give Libby a Chance
speech when a wistful sigh escapes the Minister’s collagen-plumped lips and she tosses the brochure on top of my scrapbook. It’s promotional material for the Ottawa School for the Arts. We’re flying back there tomorrow for one of Margo’s bonus engagements.
“Kids today have so many advantages,” the Minister says. “Look at what this school offers!”
Given what I know of Mrs. Cleary’s privileged background, I’m puzzled. “Didn’t you go to a private school, Minister?”
“Well, yes, Lily, I did. But it wasn’t like
this
school. They offer harp lessons. I always wanted to play the harp, but my school couldn’t afford one so I had to learn the bassoon instead. Play
ing the harp would give me such comfort now. The bassoon is not a soothing instrument.” Another heavy sigh as she recalls her deprived childhood.
Margo is quick to sympathize (read: kiss some ass): “The problem with kids today, Minister, is that they don’t know how lucky they are. They have it too easy. And worse, they have
no respect
for their elders.”
“I have to agree with you. In my day, students would never display the boorish behavior we have witnessed on this trip. I can’t say I’ve ever regretted pressuring Julian to get a vasectomy.”
A voice surprisingly like mine says, “The problem isn’t the kids, Minister—it’s your approach.” And it must be mine, because they’re both staring at me. The voice speaks again. “You take these things too seriously. Far better to laugh it off.”
Margo recovers enough to say, “You are in no position to tell the Minister what she needs to do. I said I’d let you know when you’re ready to think for yourself.”
But I’m in no mood to be squelched: “You’ve been coming across as
humorless,
Minister. Look what happened when you joked about the bathrobe photo. People loved it. Why don’t you set up a couple of visits to women’s groups the Ministry funds and talk about being a woman in politics? You can describe how it feels to have people focus on your appearance instead of on the real issues. We might get a couple of great stories to finish up our road show.”
The Minister is staring into her Chardonnay and Margo’s face has taken on the hue of her freshly hennaed hair. I decide to flee before she finds her tongue.
Bill is having a late lunch when I enter the motel restaurant.
“Well, Bill, it’s been nice knowing you.”
“What’s Margo done now?”
“Actually, this time it was me and my big fat gob. I practically gave the Minister a lecture.”
“They can’t fire you for sharing your ideas, Libby. Remember, you’re a government employee. Relax…and try the tuna melt.”
Bill’s cell phone rings as my sandwich arrives. After a short, agitated discussion, he hangs up, saying, “Sorry, I’ve got to go.”
“What’s up?”
“Margo wants me to set up a meet-and-greet for tomorrow at the Ottawa YWCA and something similar for Friday. I’ll be on the phone for the rest of the bloody day.”
I manage to be sympathetic but grin to myself when he leaves. I got through to the Minister! She’s actually taking Lily’s advice. There’s further evidence of my success when I return to our room to find Margo on the phone with Wiggy, asking her to draft remarks for the next two events.
“Tell her they have to be casual,” I say.
“Quiet,” Margo snaps.
“It should sound off-the-cuff,” I continue. “And they have to be
funny!
”
These should be mine to write, but one must not ask for too much at once. I just hope the event goes well. My future may depend on it.
I know I’m stressed when a passing plate of homemade brownies piled high with icing has no effect on me. It’s 3:00 p.m. and I’ve been a nervous wreck since Wiggy’s remarks arrived on the motel fax machine this morning. They were serviceable, but by no means sparkling, and I need this event to sparkle. I took the liberty of writing my own ideas and comments in the margins before giving copies to the Minister and Margo. And a minute ago, as she made her way to the front of the room, I slipped the photo taken during our hasty departure from the Have-a-Nap into the Minister’s hand.