Authors: Yvonne Collins
T
he Minister and Margo are chatting in the hall outside the boardroom when I arrive. Richard strides toward them, a smile stretching across his face.
“Hello, Richard.” Margo is surprisingly civil, considering he’s behind some bad press.
Ignoring Margo, he presses his lips to Mrs. Cleary’s cheek. “How are you feeling, Clarice?”
“Much better,” she replies. “Thank you so much for the flowers, Richard. You have some explaining to do with Julian though,” she adds playfully.
“And the wrist?”
“Healing beautifully, I’m told.”
At that, they both burst out laughing. Clearly, there’s a story behind the broken wrist, but they’re not sharing it.
The smile leaves Richard’s face when he notices me. As if
he
has any reason to be annoyed! Well, as long as I can keep the image in my mind of his arriving drunk at my apartment door, I should have no trouble killing off this crush.
I’m trying to find my yogurt in the staff refrigerator when Mark appears, carrying two gourmet sandwiches.
“Goat cheese with roasted peppers,” he says, offering them up for inspection. “Would you like one?”
“I can’t take your lunch, Mark. Besides, my tasty fat-free yogurt is in here somewhere.”
“I can guarantee it won’t be as good as one of Vessuvio’s sandwiches. Really, take one.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, ripping the foil off and sinking my teeth into the sandwich before he can change his mind.
We’re savoring the last bites when Richard arrives and goes through the motions of making tea. Since he always buys it from the shop downstairs, I sense there’s more than tea brewing.
“Thanks again for the sandwich, Mark,” I say, making a quick exit before Richard can insult either of us.
Moments later, Richard appears at my office door—without tea. The spirit of competition must be easing him over his snit.
“So, you’re falling for the old sandwich ploy,” he says.
“So, you’re passing through puberty in reverse.”
“I’m just trying to protect you. Mark seems to be playing some kind of game.”
“I’m all for a game that involves food.”
“He’s been wracking up a lot of billable hours with you. Is he fascinated by the speechwriting process, or is there something less cerebral at play?”
“Proceed directly to the apology, then go bill the Ministry for
your
time.”
“Apology for what?”
“For being a jerk. For coming to my house in the middle of the night, drunk. For insulting me. Take your pick.”
“I believe it is
Dick
who is owed an apology.”
“I was provoked.”
“Maybe I was upset that you rejected me,” he says, changing
tactics. “Maybe I’m hurt that you prefer what’s-his-name’s company to mine.”
“Mark and I are pals.”
“Well, I guarantee you he’s hoping for more.”
“He’s a nice guy, we’re pals, end of story. If you gave him half a chance, you might like him.”
“I have enough
pals
already, thanks.”
“Your loss. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a speech to write.”
He sulks in his office for the rest of the afternoon but returns around 8:00 p.m., offering to show me how to find “classic” speeches on the web. I find myself accepting and the pheromones heal our rift in no time. In fact, we’re soaking in them when Mark comes by to see if I am leaving. Richard eyes him sullenly as I hastily reply that I have hours of work ahead. Turning to leave, Mark crashes into Margo, who’s materialized behind him.
Sounding more flustered than the situation warrants, Margo smoothes her suit and says, “Richard, I suggest you leave Libby to her speech. The Minister has already asked for a draft.”
Richard makes a show of taking his sweet time before leaving. Margo follows him, but returns a short time later.
“Libby, do you think you’re spending too much time with Richard? We’ve noticed you’re falling behind with your speeches.”
“If I’m slowing down it’s because I’m exhausted, Margo. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been churning out a lot of speeches lately—including two for last Friday that were never used.”
“Are you interested in him?”
“Margo, we’ve been over this before. I’m not involved with Richard—not that it’s anyone’s business but mine.”
“Well, that’s a relief. I expect the Minister would consider it a ‘career limiting move.’ You know,” she adds, lowering her
voice conspiratorially, “I don’t know how anyone could find that man attractive.”
“I’ve got to get back to work, Margo,” I reply wearily.
Like I’d ever fall for her faux gal-pal routine! Besides, were I not so convinced she’s immune to normal human desires, I’d say Margo is attracted to Richard herself. She’s been acting weirder than usual around him lately. This morning, I caught her staring at him during a planning meeting. Maybe she’s heard about his political aspirations and it turns her on. At any rate, few seem able to resist his raw sexuality. He has a habit of standing too close and whispering, as if the most mundane statement is a secret you’re sharing. Margo seems as enthralled as the rest of us.
I’d recover from my obsession with Richard much sooner if he’d just stop
touching
me. He’s always coming up behind me and putting his hand on my shoulder and yesterday, he actually put his arm around me. For one short, blissful moment I gave myself up to it and leaned on him. Then I remembered I must be aloof, like a cat, and moved away. It was all I could do not to weave around his ankles and jump into his lap—figuratively speaking, of course.
Which isn’t to say I’ve forgotten what he’s really like. Even my subconscious reminds me. Last night, I dreamed Richard and I were having dinner in a nice restaurant. During dessert, his cell phone rang and he informed his caller that he’d be right over. Then he offered me a thin excuse about having to resolve some crisis at work—even though it was past midnight. Enraged, I accused him of running to another woman. He didn’t even have the decency to deny it. “Libby,” the dream Richard told me, “you and I are just good pals. But I promise I’ll bring you a nice sandwich next time I see you.”
It was just a dream, I tell myself, inspired no doubt by my
suspicions about Lola’s beau, Michael. Just the same, it’s left me with a bad feeling all day. I can’t afford to let this crush slip into fifth gear. Fortunately, I know exactly what I need to do to slow down the runaway train.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Brake Lights
Hey Rox,
All signs indicate that my crush on Richard must come to a screeching halt. He can’t possibly be the man for me. He has the E.Q. of a 12-year-old, whereas I am at least 15. Although I swear his appeal isn’t linked to his cash flow, I can’t account for where it does lie. Somehow, he’s as irresistible to women as a free makeup bonus.
Since the night he showed up at my door, he’s been working much harder to impress me. I’ve been receiving helpful tips on everything from handling my computer to investing my considerable wealth. I try to remain aloof, but then he whispers in my ear or touches me, and I crumble. He probably thinks I’m playing games, but I’m really just trying to resist.
Obviously, the problem is my own weakness, so I must bolster myself with a show of strength on the home front. Today I collected all my crush-related purchases to see what could be returned. I started with one of the sweaters I bought at Banana Republic, which was really too tight anyway. The tags were still on, but since it’s now on sale I was only able to recover half its value. I stopped at Aveda on the way home and got a full refund on two scented candles and a bottle of body oil. I delivered some bath bombs to a delighted Mrs. Murdock upstairs, and called Dad to pick up the box of frozen filet mignon (no wonder he doesn’t believe I’m vegetarian). The bras, underwear and fishnets I can’t return, but that’s okay. They’ve migrated to the back of my underwear drawer, where they will stay until my hormones awaken for some other guy.
My cleansing efforts did not kill the crush, but they delivered a disabling blow. The downshift into third gear almost threw me to my knees. Still I managed to stagger toward chocolate.
Lib
The Minister is in excellent spirits this morning when she drops by my office first thing.
“Why look, Lily, a guest chair! Things have changed, haven’t they?”
“They have, Minister,” I smile. “Would you care to use it?”
“I would,” she replies, perching gracefully on the edge. “You haven’t seemed yourself, lately, Lily, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“I’m a bit tired, Minister—nothing serious. It’s been an intense period of writing, as you know.” It’s also been an intense period of research on the book front, but I’m careful not to let
that
drop at the office. My Lady would not tolerate divided loyalties.
“Everyone seems a little down this week,” she continues, which is the closest she’s come to acknowledging that she inconvenienced a lot of people with her drunken escapade. “Do you know what I think we need?”
“Medication?”
“Lily!”
“All right, a vacation?”
“No, a party! I’ll host it.”
“A party?” Since when does she care so much about office morale?
“We’ve been working very hard and we deserve to cut loose.”
“Cut loose?” I echo, dubiously.
“Don’t be a spoilsport. I’m having a party and that’s all there is to it. All we need is a theme!”
“You mean like ‘come as your favorite pop star’?”
“That’s the spirit! I’ll work out the details and get back to you.”
I’m a little stunned by this exchange, but Richard isn’t surprised when I tell him.
“Clarice loves a theme party,” he says. “She has one every year. There are two possibilities: Disco Fever or Talent Night. Last year we performed, so I’d start polishing my platforms if I were you. I’ll have my housekeeper ship my disco gear from London. Incidentally, Clarice has her own disco ball.”
Sure enough, an hour later Margo anxiously assembles the full staff for a special announcement. Mrs. Cleary is pacing briskly up and down in the boardroom.
“People,” she begins, “I’m throwing a party next Thursday night at my home to cheer you up. All refreshments will be provided. The theme is ‘Disco Night’ and you are required to dress accordingly. And by the way…” She stops pacing to glare at us. “Attendance is mandatory.”
Margo’s stunned expression suggests she hasn’t held on to her tube tops. She watches, frozen in dismay, as the Minister hurries over to me.
“Thanks so much for the idea, Lily! This is going to be
great!
”
She giggles and whirls off, leaving me to shrug sheepishly at Margo and slink back to my office, where I find Richard lying in wait.
“If you’re a good girl at the party,” he whispers in my ear, “I might just let you
ring my bell.
”
I roll my eyes, but when he rests his hand on my shoulder, I find myself regretting the return of the tight sweater. I’m no longer reluctant to see my colleagues (Richard) in a social setting. I’ve been working like a slave and could use a little distraction (Richard) from the grind. My current malaise is nothing a little dancing (with Richard) couldn’t fix. Long live the Hustle.
Tim Kennedy emerges from the Minister’s office just as I arrive to deliver a draft speech. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen him. He’s grown a beard and it looks great.
“Thanks for coming in, Tim,” the Minister says, walking him out. “I appreciate your advice on my new program ideas.” She sees me cowering in the next doorway and says, “Lily, you’ve met Tim, haven’t you?”
“Yes, of course. How are you?”
“Very well, thanks,” he says, summoning a stiff smile.
“Oh, I have a marvelous idea!” the Minister exclaims. “Tim, I am having a little party for my staff on Thursday and you must join us.”
A fleeting expression of panic crosses Tim’s face, but he responds calmly: “Thank you for the invitation, Clarice, but I’m afraid I already have plans.”
“You must try to reschedule them, Tim. This will be the event of the season. It’s a disco theme.”
“Disco? Well, that does sound like fun. I wish I could make it, but I’m afraid it’s impossible.”
“What a shame,” the Minister pouts. “Are you quite sure?”
“Quite sure, but thanks again.” As he passes me, he permits himself a grin and mutters, “Boogie on down.”
I hope Tim isn’t passing up an opportunity to make Mrs. Cleary happy simply because he hates me. Let’s face it, the budget for his orchestra depends very much on the Minister’s whim. He could probably finance new uniforms simply by suffering through a short Abba number. Just the same, I’m relieved he declined. With Richard attending, it would only become a Ballroom Blitz.
Elliot and Günter pull me along Baldwin Street and into their favorite vintage-clothing store. Apparently Günter gets most of his Glam Session costumes here.
“It’s a ’70s theme, remember,” I say, steering them away from a rack of debutante dresses. “And the point is to look totally fuckable!”
“Well, it’s
your
heart, Lib,” Elliot cautions, knowing full well that I have Richard in mind. “If you’re determined to have it crushed, who am I to stop you?”
Which is rich, coming from the man who has deliberately crushed scores of hearts. But I am not about to pick a fight when I need them to help me get ready for the Minister’s party, so I meekly try on every outfit they toss my way. We’re all partial to the orange off-the-shoulder dress with frills, but it seems unlikely to provide good coverage during a frenzied boogie. Next, there’s a mint green wrap skirt with a rose blouse featuring French cuffs and a detachable tie. Too sedate, we decide. We almost have to dial 911 for the old lady who runs the store when she sees me in the tube top/elephant pant combo. Far too funny to carry me into the fuckable range. Besides, I failed the pencil test a decade ago.
In the end, we all vote for a red polyester jumpsuit with a wide silver belt. It has the best shock value—particularly because it’s a size (or two) too small. Günter assures me it’s nothing a good sturdy girdle can’t handle; I don’t question how he knows this. Then he offers to lend me his glitter platforms with the real block-of-wood soles. For once, these size 12 pontoons have come in handy!