Authors: Yvonne Collins
“Were you in the glee club too, Miss McIssac?”
“The tallest member in glee club history!”
“That’s probably where she learned to play the recorder!”
More laughter. I haven’t had a chance to get a word in edgewise.
“It was the Fun Squad, not the glee club,” I finally squawk and before I can think of a witty follow-up, the Minister rushes past with Margo on her heels.
“The Minister needs to freshen up, Libby. Stop your chatting and bring her purse.”
My humiliation is now complete.
The girls call after me.
“Hurry up with that purse, Miss McIssac!”
“You’re
bad,
Miss McIssac, the Minister needs to freshen up
now.
”
“Write a speech about that, why dontcha?”
I want to die, I want to die, I want to die.
The Minister is still on a high when we return to Queen’s Park.
“Well, Lily, I really reached those kids today, didn’t I? I told you my speech wouldn’t bore them. I hope you see how effective a personal touch can be.”
What can I say? If I tell her that they think she’s totally out of touch, she’ll never ask my opinion again. On the other hand, it’s my job to make her look good and it wouldn’t be fair to let her continue delivering speeches like this when I know she’s falling well short of the mark. Speak truth to power is thy motto, Libby. She’ll thank you for it later.
“Yes, Minister, they ate it up.”
I’ll call the hospital tomorrow to schedule another spine transplant.
I visit Indigo on my way home to do some preliminary research for the book project. Lola’s publisher contact has suggested we pull together an outline. Feeling like a fraud, I take up residence in the wedding-book aisle and am flipping through
A Tiffany Wedding
when a deep voice asks, “Are you getting married?”
Startled, I drop the book and look up to find Richard smiling flirtatiously at me. “No,” I reply with more force than necessary. “It’s an engagement gift for a friend.”
He says he’s staying down the street at the Sutton Place Hotel and comes here when he’s bored at night. He takes one of the books from the stack under his arm and holds it out: “Look at this one:
Timepieces.
I have a thing for watches.”
I take it and flip through it: “So many gorgeous watches… Let’s see yours.”
He holds out his wrist and I examine his watch: a Cartier. It appears to be solid gold.
“Now you show me yours,” he says, with the merest trace of a leer.
“Not in public,” I reply playfully, putting my hand behind me. He takes my wrist and looks at my Seiko. I didn’t even know it was a Cartier knockoff until I saw his.
“Clarice isn’t paying you enough for the real thing?” he jokes, still holding on to my wrist.
“There’s no Cartier in my future—not on a bureaucrat’s salary.”
“Well, you never know—depends on who you’re marrying,” he says, pointing to
A Tiffany Wedding,
which lies where I dropped it. “So, how do you like working for Clarice?”
“She’s quite easy to write for,” I offer tactfully, recovering my hand.
It’s more or less true, but thank God Richard didn’t hear the school speech today. He wouldn’t be impressed by my talents—and I do want to impress him. I search my memory for tips from
Flirt Now, Marry Later
and come up with, “always be the first to leave.” Well, that I can do.
“My faux Cartier tells me it’s time to be going,” I say.
He insists on walking me to the cash, which means I feel obliged to buy the damned
A Tiffany Wedding.
An early birthday gift for Lola.
There’s a spring in my step as I walk home. Something about Richard makes me want to lay down my arms and collapse into his. I’m unsettled by his overt sexuality, but thrilled by it at the same time. It must be the appeal of the dangerous man that Lola talks about. Compared to Richard, Tim seems very tame. Sure, he’s funny, and nice and cute, but he’s a little…
vanilla:
pleasant and homey, but boring. It’s a Ben & Jerry’s world out there and I’m eager to sink my teeth into an exotic flavor like Richard Nealeapolitan.
This feels like the beginning of a serious crush. I christen it with a stop at a bookstore closer to home, where I pick up a helpful tome called,
Why Men Don’t Listen and Women Can’t Read Maps.
Learning more about how Richard’s mind works might allow me to court him more effectively. While I’m there, I also buy an exercise video to help me tone and a yoga tape to keep me calm.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Hot Stuff
Hi Rox,
Thanks for the pep talk the other day, but I don’t think Tim is my type. It would seem that my type is dangerous after all—or at least big, British and brazen. Richard Neale is the new consultant I mentioned and let me tell you, this guy is the business. Last night, I bumped into him at Indigo, and sparks were flying all over the place. They ignited a major crush.
He was supposed to be in the office today but didn’t show up. Which is annoying because I actually went to the trouble of washing my hair on an “off” day simply for the sake of looking desirable. I resented having the effort go to waste. Just the same, I think I’ll give myself a hot oil conditioning treatment tonight. It’s an investment of only $3—no grand statement.
I know what you’re thinking, Rox—that for me, no crush is official until the spending spree begins. You’ve seen it all before and you know I’m gearing up for a full-on beauty assault. It starts with a trifling $3 investment. Next, I’m throwing good money after bad in a frenzied effort to look young and attractive. But I’ve grown, Rox, I’ve learned from past mistakes and I promise I’ll take it easy. I’ve got a drawer full of sexy lingerie I’ve never worn to remind me if I falter.
Just the same, I’ve booked an appointment for expensive dental veneers. You know I’ve wanted to fix my ugly front teeth for a decade and what’s a couple of grand when you’re talking about a smile that will dazzle for a lifetime? I’m not quite sure what’s involved, but there’ll soon be a toothy beauty strolling the halls of Queen’s Park.
Lib
“I’m just going to rough up the surface of your teeth a bit so that the veneers will adhere,” Dr. Hollywell says as I jump into his chair.
He puts on protective eyewear, freezes my mouth and fits me with a rubber dental dam, before I can protest.
“It’s a two-step process, as you know,” he says, firing up his drill. When my eyes bulge, he asks, “You didn’t read the brochure? Well, today I’ll remove the enamel from your teeth. When that’s done, I’ll cover them all temporarily—they’ll be sensitive without enamel, of course—and send you off to a special clinic to have your teeth custom matched. When the veneers are done in two weeks, I’ll glue them on and you’ll have a beautiful smile.”
My brain is vibrating from the drilling, but it dawns on me
that removing the enamel is pretty permanent. Which means I am compromising perfectly good teeth for the sake of vanity.
“I’ve outdone myself,” he announces proudly, handing me a mirror.
I smile to inspect the temporary plastic covering—basically a hockey mouth guard: a yellowy, shapeless mould tucked around my upper front teeth. I burst into tears and Dr. Hollywell flees the room. The word gets out through the clinic: “A sister is down! Close ranks.” Soon every woman on staff has gathered by my side.
“It doesn’t look bad at all,” they reassure me. “No one will even notice.”
It’s not as if I can retreat to my bedroom for two weeks; I serve at the pleasure of the Minister. So I return to the office after my appointment and discover the sisters were lying.
“Lily,” says the Minister during our afternoon meeting, “what happened to your teeth?” This from a woman who barely registers a life-form reading when I am in the room.
“It’s a mouth guard,” I reply. “I’ve been grinding my teeth because of stress. I need to wear it 24 hours a day for two weeks.”
I’ve been getting pretty good at spinning the yarn lately, but who knew I could do it with such speed and ease?
From: [email protected]
Subject: Facial Renovations
Rox,
As I’m sure Bridget Wilkinson can tell you, personal enhancement is not for the faint-hearted—nor the tight-fisted (does she really have butt implants?). I’m going to have to factor the cost of personal therapy into the dental work. No wonder the dentist squeezed me in right away. I wouldn’t have gone through with it if I’d had time to read the brochure.
There’s a plastic hockey mouth guard temporarily covering my
front teeth. I’m still getting over the shock, but I suppose it’s good to get a taste, as it were, for the great Canadian pastime. Remember your toothless NHL player of 1990? Now that his career’s on ice, I hope he’s looked into implants.
There’s no sign of Richard around the office, which is just as well, considering the state of my smile. Nonetheless, my crush slipped into first gear sometime around noon today. That’s when I walked to Holts in the rain to buy a new pair of hoop earrings.
Lib
T
im leaves his last message on Friday. I can tell it’s his last message from the finality in his tone. There’s a hint of wounded pride in it, too, but what he says is perfectly civil.
BEEP—“Hi, Libby, it’s Tim. You’re obviously too busy to meet right now, but I just want to say I really enjoyed last weekend and I hope we’ll be able to catch up sometime—at least at Emma and Bob’s. Take care.”
It would only make me feel more inadequate to get involved with someone who has that much class, I conclude, curling up on the couch with a Black Russian, my comfort drink. I’m surprisingly morose for someone who has engineered her own fate. After all, there’s nothing to stop me from picking up the phone, calling Tim and telling him I’ve been a goof. It’s only been a week and the situation could certainly be salvaged. But I can’t call.
Instead, I fetch a square of cooking chocolate from the cupboard and risk breaking my mouth guard on it. I don’t have anything finer—and I don’t deserve it.
The next day, I officially begin penance by visiting my par
ents in Scarborough. The drive past the factories and strip malls is enough to drag me into the valley of despair.
“What’s wrong?” my mother asks as I walk up the front stairs.
“Nothing, why?” I say, brightly.
“Something’s bothering you, I can tell.”
“My stomach is upset, that’s all.”
“Ah, so you’re stressed.”
“No, I ate a lot of cooking chocolate last night, that’s all.”
“If you’re settling for cooking chocolate, you must feel guilty about something.”
“What is it with you and Rox? You think you can read my mind.”
“A mother has a sense about these things.”
She gives up and takes the passive approach, darting glances my way and hovering too close, as if trying to absorb the cause of my angst from the air. I back into her as I’m closing the cookie cupboard.
“Mom, for God’s sake! Are you trying to get a look at my aura?”
“Your color is off, dear,” she says. Then she tests a new theory. “So, what’s happening with Lola and the book?”
“We’re expecting an offer this week.”
“Wonderful! And how about work… Are things going a little better?”
“Look, everything is fine. Turn off the radar.”
I flounce down the hall to my bedroom and slam the door. No, wait, that was 1984. Today, I don’t flounce and I don’t slam because I recall just in time that I am thirty-three years old. My room, however, hasn’t aged a bit. Marjory has maintained it as a shrine. I’d blast some Springsteen if I could remember how to use my old turntable. I settle for flopping dramatically onto the twin bed and staring at the ceiling.
I’m not confessing to her about Tim. I won’t yield no matter what she bakes. The woman does not need another reason to look at me in pained disappointment. When I was a teen,
she wouldn’t even lie to guys for me the way other mothers did. Not Marjory, the nicest woman in the world. I wonder if she has any idea how much pressure she puts on me. Fortunately, there are constructive ways to deal with it. I emerge from my room and pull out the vacuum cleaner. Then I clean the bathroom tub and sink. Dad arrives just in time to save me from starting on the litter box.
Mom is in the kitchen baking but I fear she is losing her touch. Does she really think I’ll cough up details for a
coffee cake
—especially one as dry as this? Not a chance. There’s a hint of a smile on her face as I choke on cake dust; she doesn’t offer me a beverage to wash it down. She’s on to me.
Richard is back in the office. Recognizing the impossibility of being coquettish with a mouth full of plastic, I quietly absorb his pheromones from the safety of my own cubicle. I manage to avoid him all day, but as I’m gathering my things to leave, he appears.
“So, Ms. McIssac, when’s that wedding?”
“Get a date, then set the date, I always say.”
I’m nervous that Margo might come by and rain protocol lectures down on my head. Richard clearly isn’t bothered by the specter of Margo—nor by my mouthpiece for that matter. He’s so busy telling me about himself that it hasn’t even registered something has changed. Normally, I’d find this self-absorption infuriating. Have I lowered my standards simply because he’s a rich and powerful man? That’s never been my MO before. Still, I contemplate investing in a quality watch.
Margo is out of the office for two glorious days scouting a potential excursion to northern Ontario. I pray each night that this trip will not come to pass. I pray that Richard will use his power over the Minister to convince her it’s a bad idea. I pray that if the trip does happen, that Richard and I will be left behind at Queen’s Park to do something about the pheromones.
From: [email protected]
Subject: The Crush Continues
Rox,
I thought you’d like to know that I am fanning the flames of my office crush. In fact, the “season” of Richard opened today with a trip to Banana Republic. I tried on over 20 outfits and wore out two perky young sales clerks. Though familiar with the common crush, they’re used to helping younger girls through it—girls who look good in everything. At my age, it takes work. I finally settled on two silk sweaters, one of which I’ll likely return once I’ve seen it in my own mirror. As you’ve discovered yourself, the mirrors in Banana Republic are enchanted.
I’ve decided that certain protocols must govern my spending during a crush. In first gear, I will stick to tame purchases, including clothing, hair care products and earrings. While it’s justifiable to buy almost anything in the name of infatuation, timing is the issue. Remember when I bought the Pink Floyd boxed set after two dates with that pothead, Dave Weir? Where is he now?
Richard is likely to be an expensive and embarrassing diversion. He’s the kind of guy that drives a girl to buy something ridiculous, like a pricey watch—or a Jet Ski. The problem is that, despite his boorish habits, I somehow feel he’s out of my league. The more outclassed I feel, the more I’ll spend to even up the odds. He’s older, he’s worldly, he’s bright, he’s rich and he’s connected. And he’s incredibly sexy. So what if he’s a bit of a pig? He still outranks me. You know what I mean, Rox. Tim was too good for me, but he was still in the realm of possibility. With Richard, I am at a loss as to what I would bring to the match.
Lib
With Margo blighting the northern wastelands, I’m making good progress on several speeches. In fact, I’m focusing so intently that when Mrs. Cleary’s perfectly groomed head peeks around my cubicle wall I jump.
“So this is where you hide, Lily,” she says, as I scramble to my feet. “I just stopped by to see how you’re doing with the speeches for the Culture Vulture Festival.”
The festival is two weeks away and I haven’t even gathered material yet. “I’m sorry, Minister, I’m not working that far ahead. I have five other speeches to write first.”
“That’s fine, Lily, but I’d like to share my ideas while they’re fresh, if I may.”
“Shall I come to your office?”
“No, no, I’ll sit down here,” she says, looking around. “Don’t you have a chair?”
“I’m afraid not. Margo took it.”
“
Really.
Well, I’ll just get one from another office.”
She sets off to do just that—with her own two hands—hands that never carry so much as a handbag!
“No, let me get it,” I say, bustling after her. She’s already heading into an office several doors down.
“Whose office is this?” she asks.
“No one’s used it since I arrived.”
“Then why aren’t you using it?”
“Pardon me?”
“Why aren’t you using this office instead of that dreadful
box
you sit in?” It’s a Linda Blair moment: I expect her head to start spinning on her shoulders. “I don’t know how you concentrate. You’re practically sitting in the hallway.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“
I
wouldn’t be able to work in that environment.” More importantly, she wouldn’t have the desk space for her toiletries.
“It is hard to focus.”
“Well, why don’t you just move in here right now? We can talk about the speeches tomorrow.”
“Uh—okay.” I stand, frozen, waiting for the other glass slipper to drop. “I guess I’ll start packing.”
“Off you go, then!” she says gaily. “Don’t break a nail!”
It crosses my mind to grab a chair and bash her over the head until the spirit possessing her flies out, but I want the office too badly to stall over this service to humanity. Instead, I run back to my office and start grabbing files before she can change her mind. An hour later, I pin Cornelius’s photo on my new bulletin board and sit down to enjoy my office while I can.
I might find myself stuffed into the supply cupboard tomorrow.
The posters at the entry to Crews clear up the mystery of why Elliot asked to meet here instead of his beloved Manhole. It’s the Wednesday Night Drag Show. I silently curse Elliot because I’ve come straight from the office and I’m actually wearing a skirt. On the bright side, Cher is working the door and waves me in without collecting the cover charge.
Elliot is at the bar flirting with the handsome bartender.
“Where’s Günter, the love of your life?” I ask, pulling up a stool. The bartender gives Elliot a disgusted glance before beating a hasty retreat.
“On tour, as I told you,” Elliot replies, unfazed. “Besides, he never comes along when I’m working.”
“Is that what you call it?”
Elliot cranes after the bartender and smiles. “Just because I like to window shop doesn’t mean I’ll pull out my…wallet.”
“Speaking of wallets,” I say, hauling out my own, “what’s it gonna cost me tonight?”
“A double espresso and a shot of the best cognac the place has to offer. If I’m reading the signs correctly, you’ll soon be able to buy me the entire bottle.”
“Cash on delivery,” I tease, withholding the cognac when it arrives.
“I’m not going to miss you,” Elliot says, reaching for the glass.
“Am I going somewhere, or just finding a new psychic?”
“Hope you’re still laughing when I tell you about the upcoming road trip.” I groan. “Pack up your glue stick, doll, there’s another scrapbook in your future.”
Depressed, I scoop a handful of peanuts from the bowl on the bar and dump them into my mouth.
“My God, don’t eat those, Libby!” Elliot says, horrified.
“Whph?”
“Haven’t you read the studies about bar nuts?” Siphoning nut bits from the edges of my mouth guard, I raise a quizzical eyebrow. “They’re crawling with bacteria, because of people who don’t wash their hands after going to the washroom.”
“Thank you, Dr. Hygiene.” I take a swig of bourbon and slosh it around my mouth to kill the germs. “Can we get back to how my life in the civil service is going to finance premium booze?”
“I didn’t say it has anything to do with the civil service. On the contrary, I sense you are currently quite
powerless
on that front. What I see is a lucrative creative project on the horizon. It’s strange, though. I see you working on it, but you’re hidden behind a veil.”
“Have you been talking to Lola?” I ask, suspiciously.
“No, I’ve been avoiding her because I’m sick of hearing about Michael when we could be talking about Günter. Why?”
Elliot is surprised to hear Lola and I are collaborating on a book—even more so when he hears the topic. “Not a
serious
book on weddings?” he asks.
“I know it’s awful, but it’s not our idea. Lola knows this publisher and he wants us to explore how women are struggling to modernize their weddings despite pressure to stick to the traditional ‘script.’ We met the guy for lunch on Monday and tried to talk him into something funnier, but he didn’t buy it. We’re desperate enough to sign the contract anyway.”
“Congratulations— I think. Hey, if it’s unique stories you’re after, you should come to my sister’s wedding. She and her idiot boyfriend are druids and they’re getting married in a forest near Cobourg. Thank God my father stipulated he’d only pay for the reception if it were held at his golf club. Being broke, the druids saw reason.”
“If your sister wouldn’t mind, I’d love to come. Maybe I’ll meet the druid of my dreams.”
“I doubt it,” he says, narrowing his eyes. Uh-oh.
“I’m in no mood for the rock-and-sign crap, Elliot. And for your information, I’m practically irresistible to men these days.”
As if on cue, the bartender slides another Maker’s Mark toward me. “Compliments of Mimi,” he says, gesturing toward Cher at the door.
“I see what you mean,” Elliot says, smirking.
“Oh, shut up.” I smile at Mimi and raise my glass in thanks. Elliot watches, amazed. “Look,” I explain, “if a guy who looks like a girl wants to buy a drink for another girl who apparently looks like a guy trying to look like a girl, then, as I see it, it would be rude and hurtful for the real girl to decline.”
Elliot laughs, but he says, “You’re misleading him. And please forgive me for saying so, but Mimi isn’t the only one you’ve misled. You always send conflicting signals, Lib.” I glower at him silently. “Fine, I’ll say no more about the two men I see. Retract your claws.”
“Okay, tell me,” I say hastily. The guy can read me like a cheap dimestore novel. “What do you see?”
“I see a thirsty psychic.” Rolling my eyes, I order him another round. He closes his eyes and continues. “I see two men, both smart, both funny, both utterly charming, if I may say. But one is a true diamond, while the other is a lump of coal.”
“And?”
“And nothing—that’s all I’ve got. You don’t need me to tell you what you should do.”
“That wasn’t worth the price of another double Remy, you scammer.”
“You buys yer rounds, you takes yer chances.”
Next morning, I ponder my session with Elliot as I climb the stairs of the Pink Palace. I don’t need him to tell me that Tim is a diamond and Richard is coal. Besides, I don’t put any stock in this psychic stuff. Like anyone else, I’ll see the sparkle where I want to. Richard might be arrogant, but he isn’t that bad.