by Kate Hilton
I fight the urge to put my head down on the table.
Peter continues, “I’m going to dispense with opening remarks. You all know how central this project is to my administration and to our city. For the first time in history, we have the political will and the funding to make this long-standing dream come true. I consider all of you to be partners in this great enterprise.”
Doris fidgets in her seat. “I thought you were going to dispense with opening remarks,” she says, with a nasty edge to her voice.
Glynis puts a hand on her arm. “Would you like some tea?” she stage-whispers.
“No,” says Doris. “I would not like tea. I would like to understand why this mayor courts the women’s vote with idle promises. I would like to know why our work of the past decade is now under threat. I would like to hear from the mayor why women aren’t as special a special-interest group as the environmentalists and the artists. Women are not a minority. We put him in and we can take him out.”
There is a brief silence, during which Marshall Westwood leans over to Jim Crawford and says something that sounds like “Where is the aquarium?”
“Well,” says Peter, “I want to assure you that women are not a special-interest group in my eyes.”
“Exactly,” says Doris.
“What I meant to say,” says Peter, “is that women’s interests are an absolute priority. My administration understands that when women coalesce around a single issue, that issue must be core to our political mandate.”
“Do you mean to suggest that women are not coalescing around the waterfront shelter?” says Doris.
“He’s not suggesting anything of the kind,” I say. “The mayor’s office is well aware that the waterfront shelter and childcare centre enjoy widespread support among women.” Those of us in the mayor’s office who read the briefing note, I think.
“But that isn’t at issue,” says Jim Crawford. “The issue is coexistence. The issue is location, and accommodation of other uses. You can have as many screaming children on the property as you want. But I shouldn’t be expected to create art over top of them.”
“You are such an arrogant shit,” says Doris.
“Let’s take the temperature down,” says Peter. “There are five buildings in the proposed development. I’m sure we can find a solution.”
I pick up the agenda. “Why don’t we move to the second item on the agenda, and ask Logan Kim, our lead architect, to walk us through the current plan, so that we are all operating from a common understanding.”
“Good idea,” says Peter.
Logan fires up his PowerPoint and, with clear and accessible language, a laser pointer, and just the right amount of detail, explains the purpose and design of each of the buildings on the site. He has itemized and colour-coded every space by use: green spaces, public spaces, retail, housing, offices, and institutions. I’m struck again by the ambition of the project, the generosity of the vision, the goodwill that has brought so many diverse interests together to create a public treasure that will serve every citizen in multiple ways. I don’t need luck, I remind myself. I am lucky. I’m blessed, actually, to be able to do this work, to know that my labour will result in a tangible, permanent benefit to the city.
“Does anyone have any questions?” asks Logan.
“Why am I seeing the artists’ studios in Building Two?” asks Jim Crawford. “It was bad enough to be sharing space with children, but now you’ve cut us off from the light! Your contempt for the artistic community knows no bounds.”
“As I said,” says Logan, who has, in fact, explained the rationale for this decision several times in the past ten minutes, “all of the buildings get considerable natural light. It is true that Building One is slightly, but only slightly, brighter, since it sits further away from the other buildings. But we feel it is the appropriate location for the family-oriented activities onsite. It has the largest adjacent green space and can absorb multiple uses, in this case a fenced-in playground for the daycare and a community green space for shelter residents.”
“Where is the community garden?” says Marshall Westwood. “MEL is recommending that all residential developments include community gardens so that people can be encouraged to engage in sustainable micro-farming.”
“The community was consulted,” I say. “The consensus was that residents would prefer communal green space in the form of a park, rather than gardening allotments.”
“You can have both if you build a green roof,” says Marshall.
“A green roof is not in the budget, I’m afraid,” I say.
“Outrageous!” says Marshall. “You are ignoring one of the most important environmental technologies of our time!”
“Not ignoring,” I say. “Considering at length, and rejecting in the circumstances.”
“Why are you even here?” says Doris to Marshall. “This meeting is not about green roofs. It is about the rights of children.”
“It is about protecting the precious resources of our planet,” says Marshall. “How can you allow temporal budgets to threaten long-term environmental health?”
“It is about supporting the work of the creative class,” says Jim Crawford. “The key driver of the new economy. Where are the great works of public art in this plan?”
“Several have been commissioned,” says Logan. “There are designated spots for additional works as budget becomes available over time.”
“Let me understand this,” says Marshall. “There is a budget for public art, and not for a green roof ?”
“It’s not an either-or,” says Jim. “Public art is an enhancement to the natural environment. We should be looking at the other publicly funded spaces to see where the budget can be cut. This shelter looks like a five-star hotel.”
“Abused women should live in squalor so that you can commune with some pretentious hunk of metal? Are you completely disconnected from reality?” says Doris. “I refuse to treat women’s rights like trading cards. This entire meeting is obscene.” She points to Peter. “You’ll be receiving a formal communication from WAFADASS.” She and Glynis march out of the room.
“Well,” I say, “obviously, there is more work to be done here. Why don’t we all commit to putting our objections on paper, so that the mayor’s office can respond to each and every point?”
“Typical,” says Jim. “Bury us in bureaucratic process to make us go away.” He points his finger at Peter. “You’ve underestimated us. You can read all about it in our press release.” He follows Doris out the door, and Marla follows him, with an apologetic glance in my direction.
“How unfortunate,” says Marshall. “However, I would like to take this opportunity to tell you that MEL will bring the full force of its influence to prevent this aquarium from being built. The kidnapping of wildlife is no different from human trafficking.”
“What aquarium?” says Peter. “Is there an aquarium?”
“No,” I say. “There is not, nor has there ever been, an aquarium in this plan.”
“Oh,” says Marshall. “Well, that’s good, then. Thank you for a helpful meeting. I’ll be in touch about the green roof.” He rises and leaves the room.
The door swishes shut and those of us still at the table sit in silence for a moment.
“In the event that you didn’t capture the full picture in your notes,” says Peter, “that was a gong show.”
“No argument here,” I say.
He shakes his head. “I expect better, Avery. That was not your finest hour.”
“No,” I say. “It wasn’t.”
{CHAPTER 18}
July 2015
I woke to the tickle of Matt’s stubble on my cheek.
I rolled toward him and gave him a sleepy kiss. “What time is it?”
“Six,” he said. “You made me promise to wake you up.”
“I take it back,” I said. I opened my eyes. “This campaign is going to kill me. Is it still summer?”
“It is,” said Matt. “Se
e?” He raised the blind over our bed so that I could see the sunlight. “Still lots of time.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing anymore,” I said. We needed every minute of the remaining three months until the October election to work against Roger Wozniak. We had underestimated his tenacity and, frankly, his appeal. He had funding, and a strong team led by his son, and an uncanny knack for bonding with the lowest common denominator. It turned out that there were more voters in the lowest common denominator than you would expect, mathematically. They liked big cars and sprawling properties in the suburbs and all-you-can-eat buffets. They liked everything to be supersized except for government. And consequently, summer had been nothing more than a period of time with more daylight. It was otherwise an irrelevancy, punctuated not at all by patios, cottage weekends, or holidays.
“I don’t know either,” said Matt.
“I feel terrible about the weekend,” I said.
“I know,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He sighed. “I know.”
“Are you mad?”
“What would be the point of that?” he asked.
Matt and I were supposed to be spending the weekend at the Inn on the Bay, to make up for the fact that I’d worked every single day for months. We had planned to leave first thing tomorrow, Friday, but Peter had slotted some campaign events into the schedule, and he wanted me there. He hadn’t asked me not to go away, but he didn’t have to.
“Can I make it up to you?” I asked, sliding a hand under the waistband of his pajama pants and over the curve of his ass.
“I’m not that easy,” said Matt.
“You kind of are,” I said.
“I kind of am,” he agreed.
Our friends who were married talked about “married sex” with affectionate resignation, as if its irregularity and predictability were signifiers of success. And perhaps they were. So many marriages we knew had faltered at the ten-year mark, leaving heartbroken children, financial catastrophe, and permanent disillusionment in the wake of their destruction. I considered myself lucky, in a way, to have escaped marriage with only disillusionment.
“Let me taste you,” said Matt, moving down my body.
Sex had never been routine with us. Somehow, we’d held on to the urgency, the desperation that fell by the wayside in most long-term unions. Maybe it was because our schedules kept us apart, but I liked to think it had to do with our origin story, which was, for me, one of flight and of rescue. “Don’t stop,” I told him, and after a time I let go with a cry, a different kind of flight.
“Thank you,” I whispered, once I could form words again.
“My pleasure,” he said, kissing me deeply. I took him inside me and held his gaze as he began to move.
“So beautiful,” he said. “You are so beautiful like this.”
Afterwards, we lay together, our bodies cooling. One of the things I loved best about Matt was that he genuinely liked to talk after sex. I had told him this was unusual, which he found puzzling. “I’m lying here naked and relaxed with my favourite person,” he said once. “Why would I want to sleep?”
“I love this house,” I said.
“What brought that on?” said Matt.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s an oasis here. It’s a shelter from the storm.” We’d bought a Victorian row house five years ago, in what our real estate agent told us was an up and coming neighbourhood. We’d only half-believed him then, but sure enough, a couple of years later, a Starbucks had moved in onto our retail strip, along with a few excellent restaurants and a home furnishings store. I loved our patchy lawn and raccoon-tortured garden, I loved our sunny kitchen with inadequate counter space, I loved our stained bathtub with the ornamental feet, and I even loved our gigantic Restoration Hardware bed with matching bedside tables that Matt had insisted we buy.
“I’m glad you feel that way,” said Matt, and kissed the top of my head. It was astonishing to me that twelve years had passed since we’d first rented an apartment together. It was strange to remember how much we’d worried about Matt’s job then, and whether it would keep us apart; he was still at the same firm all these years later, and a partner. We’d grown into responsible adults together.
But we weren’t married, because I didn’t want to be.
The truth was that I’d given myself a real scare with Hugh. I had relied on him to provide me with an adult identity, and then resented him for choosing one that didn’t suit me. I wouldn’t be so irresponsible again. “Adulthood is about taking responsibility for yourself,” my therapist had told me in the aftermath, and I had. When I moved in with Matt, it was as an equal partner, with separate bank accounts and every bill split down the middle. Our first apartment wasn’t fancy, but I had at least a one-half entitlement to everything in it. This time, I was starting as I intended to finish.
“What do you have on today?” asked Matt.
“I have a lunch with Jenny,” I said.
“How long has it been since you last saw her?” he asked.
“Almost a year,” I said.
“Are you taking her out to make up for missing her show?”
“Yes,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I am.” There was another reason for the lunch, too, but I wasn’t telling Matt that.
“Be sure to tell her I think her new work is spectacular,” said Matt. “I’m saving my pennies. I’d love to own a Jenny Beck.”
Jenny had changed her name from Haines to Beck—her mother’s birth name—a number of years earlier, but I wasn’t used to it. Jenny Beck, establishment artist, was a person I didn’t know.
“You went to the opening and I didn’t,” I said. “You don’t need to remind me. I feel guilty enough as it is.”
“Occasionally you need reminding,” said Matt.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I said.
“It means that saying you feel guilty isn’t worth much if you don’t change your behaviour,” said Matt.
“I’m trying to win an election here,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Matt. “I’m aware.”
“Do you think I want to have no personal life?” I said. “Do you think it gives me pleasure to disappoint people all the time?”
“No,” he said. “I don’t think that about you. But you need to get some perspective. You won’t be any use to Peter if you fall over from exhaustion.”
“The Wozniaks are gaining too much ground,” I said. “Every day, every event. We can’t afford to take a night off. And if Jenny had agreed to invite Peter to the opening, like I asked her to, I could have done both. It was an opportunity for Peter to score some points with the women’s community and the artistic community, and she said no.”
“I expect that she wanted her first major exhibition in her hometown to be about her and not about her estranged ex-stepbrother,” said Matt. “Which, for the record, is fair.”
“I’m saying she could have made it easier for me,” I said.
“And I’m saying that it’s not every day that an artist gets three works featured in a major show at the Art Gallery of Ontario,” said Matt. “So you might want to cut her some slack. Not everything is about you.”
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” I said. “I have to get to the office.”
Down in the kitchen, I went to open the fridge and saw the invitation to Jenny’s opening still stuck to the door with a magnet.
The exhibition was called The Glass Ceiling, and it showcased the country’s best female artists. There was a strong feminist bent to the selection and organization of the works. The painting on the invitation was one of Jenny’s, called Thanksgiving.
Like her other recent works, it was an oil portrait, highly realistic, of a woman—Greta, although few would know it. Greta was in a kitchen, her back pressing against a partially opened door. Her anxious face was framed with huge round earrings of bright plastic gemstones. One of the earrings was real—it had been Gre
ta’s once—and the other was painted. Jenny’s art was famous for its use of found objects or, as the description on the invitation card called them, “artifacts recording women’s social history.”
Greta’s hands, encased in red quilted oven mitts, held a platter upon which sat a turkey. The meat and Greta’s face both glistened with moisture. Through the opening behind her, you could see a man seated at the head of the dining room table. He looked dour and impatient. I’d seen that expression many times on Don’s face when he felt he’d waited too long for his evening meal. And here it was, recorded for posterity. According to the curator’s notes online, the painting exposed the false promise of holidays and celebrations in women’s lives.
I took the card off the fridge and threw it in the garbage. I didn’t want to look at it anymore.
At the door to the campaign office, I almost collided with an elegant lady in a black linen suit and a silk scarf, her silver hair in a pixie cut.
“Good morning,” she said. “I have a meeting with Avery Graham.”
“Mrs. Parker?” I said.
“You can call me Lillian,” she said. “My nephew, Will Shannon, is very fond of you and your friend Matt.” Lillian was obviously not the sort of person who thought the word “partner” should be applied to romantic relationships.
“Will is your nephew?” I said.
“My great-nephew,” she said.
“He’s a terrific guy,” I said.
“He’s a rascal,” she said, “but a most adorable one. Are you ready to see me?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Follow me.”
I led her to the conference room and offered her coffee, which she refused. “I have a few commitments today,” she said. “Let’s get down to business, if you don’t mind. I’m not a delicate flower.” Even on five minutes’ acquaintance, this seemed an understatement. “What is Peter hoping for from me?”
“We’re hoping you might make a donation to the campaign,” I said.
“What did you have in mind?” she asked.
I said a number. She didn’t flinch. I would have wagered there wasn’t much that made Lillian Parker flinch. “I’ll consider it,” she said.