Speechless (27 page)

“I
assume you’ve read
Anne of Green Gables,
” Laurie says, dropping into the chair beside my desk.

“Oh, about ten times.”

“L. M. Montgomery’s other novels?”

“Every one, like a good Canadian girl.”

“And the published journals?”

“All four volumes—plus a couple of biographies.”

“Excellent, I backed the right horse. You know I’ve been organizing the press conferences to announce the new mentoring program.”

“Yes, of course, the Minister’s pretty charged up about it.”

This is an understatement. The mentoring program is Mrs. Cleary’s darling and it’s taken a fleet of analysts several months to bring it to life. Next week she will finally launch “Tomorrow’s Talent,” which encourages leaders in the cultural community to mentor students. Some of Ontario’s finest musicians, artists and dancers have already agreed to participate and the program may well become a hit.

I’ve had a terrible time with the speech for the launch. Mrs.
Cleary has called me daily to share personal anecdotes about the various mentors in her life and would like to pay tribute to each and every one. I keep telling her there’s only so much gratitude one can cram into a ten-minute speech without sounding like an Academy Award winner.

“She’s charged up, all right,
and
she’s still on a high from the success of her little costume party.”

She raises her eyebrows at me and sits back to wait for dim light to dawn. Realization hits me like a rush of cold to the head.

“Laurie…tell me the Minister isn’t planning to dress up as one of her mentors.”

“I couldn’t lie to you about that. You’d punish me for it later.”

“And Margo will also be in costume?”

“Yes, indeed.”

I close my eyes and sigh. “I suppose I’ll be attending as Lucy Maud Montgomery.”

“Bingo.”

“Why does she want to torment me? We’ve been getting along so well lately.”

“To her, it’s an
opportunity.
She really believes that dressing as Canadian cultural icons will attract attention to the program and encourage artists to get involved. Unfortunately, Richard isn’t here to tell her otherwise.”

“So, who are the Minister and Margo going as?”

“I can’t spoil the surprise,” Laurie says, shaking her head and standing to leave.

“Wait!” I yell after her, but she has already disappeared down the hall.

The launch of the mentoring program is scheduled for 11:00 a.m., but the Minister has decreed that Margo and I will arrive in her office at eight to get into costume. I end up sprinting across Queen’s Park to make it on time. It’s Lola’s birthday and I stopped at her place to leave a gift in the mail
box. Michael is taking her to dinner tonight so I won’t see her in person.

When I arrive at the Minister’s doorway, I have to swallow a yelp of laughter. She’s already wearing a pink tutu, tights and pointe shoes. There’s a short, brunette gamine wig under her tiara.

“Karen Kain, I presume?” I say, offering a silent prayer of thanks for Victorian modesty. I put up with a lot of abuse around here, but I draw the line at wearing a pink tutu in public.

“Bien sûr, Lily. Madame Boulier is a guest of honor at today’s event. I told you about her, remember?” She executes a clumsy pirouette.

“Your ballet teacher? The one who kicked you out of class?”

“Correct. And she thought she could keep me off the stage!” She hoists a leg onto her desk and stretches awkwardly over it. “I want her to see me in pointe shoes before she dies.”

She directs me to the closet for my costume—a floor-length navy-blue skirt, a petticoat and a high-necked white blouse with enormous puff sleeves and a million tiny buttons. I pick up the granny boots from the floor: Size 12.
How did she know?

“Lucy Maud, the early years,” I say.

“This will complete the look,” she replies, handing me a cameo brooch and a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. “Margo will be out in a second to do your hair.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

“L. M. Montgomery did not have a wild mane, Lily. She’d have had no time to write if she’d been wrestling with
that.
”

“Now wait just a minute…”

Before my lip gets the better of me, the door to the Minister’s private bathroom opens and Margo appears, wearing a black turtleneck, bell-bottoms and a black tam over a long blond wig. Strapped to her back is an enormous acoustic guitar. As she steps into the room, the instrument swings forward and the momentum nearly takes her down.

“Anne Murray?” I snigger.

“Joni Mitchell,” she gasps, adjusting the guitar strap that’s now choking off her air supply.

I’m not laughing half an hour later, after Margo and Mrs. Cleary have harnessed me into my costume. Bushy hair would have been the least of Maud’s worries. This lace collar is so itchy, I’m getting hives.

Twang, twang, twang. The guitar slaps against Margo’s butt as we hurry down the front stairs. We’ve used up all our lead time and have only twenty minutes to get to the west end of the city. Bill jumps out of the car as we approach and somehow manages to keep a straight face as he opens the rear door for the Minister. He closes it quickly behind her, leaving a flutter of pink tulle protruding from the door. I’m about to point this out when the Minister rolls down her window.

“Get in, Lily,” she snaps. “We don’t have all day.”

Fine, if she’s reverting to that tone, she’s on her own. I wrestle my petticoats into the front passenger seat. Bill pulls into traffic and drives silently through the muddy streets of Toronto. I notice he keeps glancing at the rearview mirror and eventually Margo notices too.

“What’s on your mind, Bill?” she asks.

“I was just thinking you should be arriving in a Big Yellow Taxi.”

“Very funny.”

It is, though, and the Minister, laughing so hard her tulle rustles, apparently agrees.

When Karen Kain takes to the stage at the Etobicoke School of the Arts, one side of her tutu is crushed and mud-splattered. The students are already snickering, but the Minister is too revved up to notice.

“I’m here today to launch my Ministry’s new mentoring program. Tomorrow’s Talent is very dear to my heart, because it is
my
mentors who made me what I am today. I will mention just a few of them…”

She reels off the entire list of people who inspired her to greatness, none of whom happen to be ballerinas. Clearly, the point of the tutu is to stick it to her former teacher—a point that appears to be lost on Madame Boulier, whose head is lolling forward as she dozes in her wheelchair.

“Nice do,” Laurie says, gazing at my tight topknot.

“Now I know how I’ll look after a face-lift. Margo stuck about fifty bobby pins straight into my head—and she looked like she was enjoying it. Either that, or she was amused by my Dumbo ears.”

“Your ears are fine, but that bustle is not so flattering.”

“Laurie?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not wearing a bustle.”

“Oh. Excuse me while I see if the caterers need a hand.”

More aware than ever about how ridiculous I look, I scan the crowd to make sure Tim Kennedy isn’t here. Mercifully, there’s no sign of him. The last thing I need is to parade my bustle before him looking like Prince Charles in drag.

“Hold this!” Margo says, thrusting her guitar into my hands. I’m already juggling Mrs. Cleary’s purse and my own, but there’s no time to protest. Margo is heading toward the stage at a brisk trot, carrying an enormous bouquet of red roses.

The Minister, having returned at some point to the script I penned, now finishes with a deep curtsy. Although the crowd applauds politely, she doesn’t straighten up immediately. Instead, she holds her pose and casts a sideways glance at Margo, who’s standing in the wings. From where I stand, I can see that Margo has been momentarily distracted by a student. She collects herself and rushes onto the stage to present the Minister with the bouquet—just as if Clarice were a real prima ballerina. The Minister straightens up and accepts the flowers graciously. Her wig has slipped askew during the extended curtsy. Clutching it to her head with one hand, she races off the stage and storms down the stairs toward me, Margo in hot pursuit.

“Bring my bag,” the Minister says, tossing the bouquet at me.

It hits me in the chest and drops to the floor because my hands are too full to catch it. Before I can lean over to pick it up, Margo stampedes past and tramples it. I sling the guitar over my shoulder, pick up the crushed blooms and follow them over to Madame Boulier, who is wide awake now that the speech is over.

“Of course I remember you, Clarice,” she is saying, her voice surprisingly strong for one so frail. “I am surprised to see you in such a costume, my dear. Dare I hope I was your greatest role model?”

After hesitating briefly, the Minister rises to the occasion: “Why yes, of course, Madame Boulier, it goes without saying.”

“I
was
a fine dancer in my day,” Madame says, smiling at the memory. “It’s a shame
you
didn’t have the gift, Clarice.”

At this, the Minister visibly deflates to the dimensions of a wounded seven-year-old and looks over at me in dismay. Suspecting that Madame Boulier can’t see very well, I signal the Minister to take her best shot by clenching my fist and jabbing it ever so slightly toward the old woman. Mrs. Cleary straightens up and says, “Madame, I realized at some point that it was far better to
control
the ballet than perform in it. It’s so much easier on the knees!” I give her the thumbs-up and point toward the door. “It was
so
nice to see you,” the Minister continues, before the old lady can respond. “My assistant Lily will wheel you to the door.” As she brushes past me, the Minister whispers, “If you were to stumble near the front stairs, no one would blame you.”

When I’ve hoisted Madame Boulier into her cab, I hurry to the car. Margo is fixing the Minister’s wig in the back seat and there’s a lecture in progress.

“I told you to rush the stage with that bouquet the exact second I curtsy—not twenty minutes later,” the Minister is saying. “And what happened to the bravos? I specifically asked you to have everyone scream ‘bravo’ at the end of my speech.”

“I’m sorry, Minister, I forgot about the bravos.”

“You should be sorry. I had a great finale planned and you ruined it. It would have been so
perfect.
”

It would have been so
humiliating.
My job description is already stretched to its limit without playing an unpaid extra in the Minister’s fantasy life.

My phone is ringing as I enter the apartment and I sprint over to answer it.

“Lib, it’s Emma. We’ve got a 911.”

“Lola?”

“Yeah. Michael didn’t show for their date tonight and when she called his house, she heard a woman giggling in the background.”

“The bastard! And on her birthday of all days! Okay, what’s the plan?”

“The usual. She picked a new bar at Yonge and Eglinton.”

“But it’s a meat market up there,” I whine.

“That’s the point. Anyway, Bob’s offered to chauffeur. We’ll swing by your place in half an hour and then collect Lola. You know your role.”

I hang up the phone and bid goodbye to the weekend. Lola, Emma and I initiated the 911 party during university. Each time one of us was wronged by the hairier sex, the others took her out for a who-needs-’em-anyway girl’s night out. The 911s are rarer these days, and thank God, because it takes so much longer to recover.

I race into the kitchen and pull out a cocktail shaker and a thermos. After measuring vodka and Triple Sec into the shaker, I squeeze several limes with a practiced hand. I’m shaking the ingredients over ice when Bob toots the horn outside. Pouring the liquor into the thermos, I throw three shot glasses into my purse and head for the door. My wicked Kamikaze shots are a 911 tradition.

We’ve already got a decent buzz by the time Bob pulls up in front of Magnolia.

“Fuck, there’s a lineup,” Emma says.

My sentiments exactly. Lineups weren’t so bad at age twenty-three, but at thirty-three, it’s demoralizing. What if the muscle-bound wanker with the headset passes me over for some young babe who looks better in Lycra?

“Why don’t we just head down the street to the wine bar?” I suggest, hopefully.

“No way!” Lola protests. “It’s
my
911 and it’s
my
birthday. We’re staying here.”

She gets out of the car and joins the queue.

“No arguing with that,” Emma says, dividing the last of the Kamikazes between our shot glasses.

“Here’s to humiliation.” I clink my glass against hers before draining the contents.

“It’s not looking good, ladies,” Emma observes as we join Lola in the line. She’s referring to our chances of being allowed in when we’re surrounded by scantily clad women who appear—to my trained eye—to be under legal drinking age. Much to our surprise, however, the beefy bouncer immediately points to the three of us, unhooks the velvet rope, and waves us inside.

“We’ve still got it, Lib,” Emma whispers happily to me as we pay the cover and hurry after Lola to the bar.

“A bottle of your cheapest champagne and three tequila slammers!” Lola calls to the bartender. “Look at all the yummy guys!” she says, as we fight our way to seats at the end of the bar. “I feel better already.”

“Yeah,” I agree, scanning the crowd, “but they still have their baby teeth.”

“Oh, come on, Lib, we’re not
that
old.”

Emma shoots me a look and I know what she is thinking. Lola’s 911s usually end with Emma and me catching a cab home without her. I notice a young man who appears to be checking me out. I turn around to see if there’s a gorgeous twenty-year-old woman standing behind me, but no. When I
look back, the guy is smiling at me and his buddies are nudging him.

“Looks like you’ve already got a fan,” Emma says.

“Well, he may be young and cute, but he’s no Tim Kennedy.”

“Tim!” Lola exclaims, gulping champagne. “You ran that guy right out of town.”