Speechless

by Yvonne Collins

  “I want to be a teacher just like him one day,” Shelley offers shyly.

  “Not an astronaut?” I ask. “I’m hurt.”

  “Hey,” says Brianne, “who’s the guy with the big bulge? You know, in the Star Trek suit?”

  I feel my face start to burn. “Uh, that’s Richard, otherwise known as Captain James T. Kirk. He’s a consultant who works with the Minister.”

  “Did you go out with him?” Shelley asks.

  “No,” I turn to the mirror to fluff my helmet head.

  “I bet she did,” Shelley says to the others. “Is he nicer than Mr. Kennedy?”

  “No one is nicer than Mr. Kennedy—am I right?”

  “Right!” they all chime.

  “But I bet Mr. Kennedy doesn’t look like that in a space suit,” Brianne offers.

  “I doubt we’ll have a chance to find out,” I say.

  “So is it real?”

  “What?”

  “The bulge.”

  “Brianne!”

  “What? He’s your friend.”

  “Trust me, we’re not that close.”

  “Anyway,” Brianne concludes, “we didn’t mean to break you two up.”

  “Who?” I ask, honestly baffled at this point.

  “You and Mr. Kennedy.”

  “You aren’t responsible for that.”

  “You could give him another chance,” she says, offering me her lip gloss. “Try this, it would look good on you.”

  It’s not the time to worry about hygiene, so I take it and put some on. “Will it show through my visor?”

  “Libby!” Margo is back at the door. “What do I have to do to get some help out here?”

  I hand the lip gloss back to Brianne. “Listen, girls, let’s fan out and locate the Pomeranian.”

  Shelley soon entices Goliath out from under a display case with a cocktail wiener from the snack table. Tim watches from across the room as they gather around me and the dog. He doesn’t come over. Finally, the girls say goodbye and by the time I’ve taken another trip to the washroom to collect my helmet, the whole group has disappeared.

  “Roxanne’s help line.”

  “How did you know it was me?” I ask.

  “I recognize your ring. Besides, you’re the only one who forgets about the time difference.” I look at my watch and make a quick calculation.

  “Shit. Sorry, Rox, did I wake you up?”

  “Nah, I’m still at work—on lunch actually.”

  “But isn’t it 2:00 a.m. there?”

  “Yup.”

  “Hey, is Miguel with you?”

  “Yup.”

  “Is he still sexy?”

  “Yup.”

  “Are you still sneaking to his room every night?” I can’t resist teasing Roxanne when she’s at work and can’t divulge any personal information.

  “Yup.”

  “Is he beginning to suspect that you’re talking about him?”

  “Yup. So when are you going to tell me what’s up? Are you having regrets about the Brit?”

  “Oh yes, but only that I ever gave him a passing thought. The man is willing to do whatever it takes to get what he wants. Thank God I never cracked. He’d be tossing me aside by now without a second thought about my reputation. I was an idiot!”

  “You’re hardly the first girl to sacrifice logic to lust.”

  “Rox, I think I used him as an excuse to avoid getting involved with Tim.”

  “If you’re still having regrets about that, why don’t you just call him?”

  “He won’t even talk to me when he sees me. Besides, he’s seeing someone else.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, it ain’t over till the fat lady says ‘I do’.”

  “She’s blond, five-two and skeletal.”

  “Yeah, but can she write like you?”

  “Actually, she writes for Maclean’s.”

  “Jesus. Well, what’s the worst that can happen?”

  “He could tell me to fuck off.”

  “And if he does, it’ll ruin your life? Look, you’ve gotta move before he gets serious with the bone rack. You must save him from a life of misery with the wrong woman.”

  “So, by stealing him back, I’ll be doing them both a favor.”

  “Now you’ve got it.”

  By the time I put down the phone, Rox has me pumped, so before I can talk myself out of it, I dial Tim’s number. His machine clicks on after one ring and I’m paralyzed by the thought that he’s on the phone with Melanie this very moment. She’s probably filling him in on the big news story she’s breaking. I hang up.

  32

  “When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, it’s your birthday,” my father croons as we wait in line at the new Wood Oven Pizza Bistro.

  After my parents’ reaction to the new fusion cuisine a few months back, I’m taking no chances: pizza is paternally sanctioned. Besides, this place is ideally located midway between my apartment and Queen’s Park and I want to check it out.

  “Dad, my birthday was last week.”

  He grins at me before launching back in: “When the world seems to shine, like you’ve had too much wine, it’s your birthday.”

  “Can you make him stop?” I ask my mother. She shakes her head helplessly.

  “Bells will ring, ting-a-ling-a-ling, ting-a-ling-a-ling, veeta bella…”

  Fortunately, the hostess arrives in time to spare me the big finish and leads us to a corner table. After this, dinner progresses quietly enough until a waiter arrives carrying a piece of tiramisu with a sparkler jutting out of it and begins singing “Happy Birthday.” My father and half the diners join in enthusiastically. My humiliation is cut short by a commotion at the front of the restaurant.

  “What do you mean it’s not bloody ready?” a man’s voice is demanding. “It’s bad enough that you don’t deliver. Now I’ve left my hotel and traipsed over here and you have the gall to tell me my order isn’t ready. This is unacceptable!”

  I know that voice. The imperious British accent is a dead giveaway. A glance over my shoulder reveals Richard leaning over the bar in an attempt to intimidate the manager. There’s a nearly inaudible response from the manager and then, “No, I don’t want a bloody drink while I wait! I want the meal I ordered, thank you very much. I have work to do this evening. Oh never mind. Forget it. Just give me whatever is quickest.” After another calm response from the manager, Richard barks, “You’re damned right I’m not paying for it. I’ve never experienced such poor service in my life!”

  I can’t believe how rude he is. If I’d seen this side of him three months ago, I’d have kept my hormones to myself, like a proper lady.

  “Get a load of the limey,” my father snorts. “The accent’s given him delusions of royalty. He’s damn lucky I’m not the manager here. I’d shove a pizza up his crumpet-eating ass—teach him some manners.” I sink down in my chair.

  “Reg!” My mother is scandalized. “Keep your voice down!”

  “I’ve never met a Brit I liked and I don’t care who knows it.” Dad’s arm shoots into the air to summon the waiter.

  “There are plenty of fine Englishmen around, Dad.”

  “Nah, they’re all pale and uptight. The dampness rots their brains.” He’s baiting me now. “And look at the crap they eat. If it isn’t fish and chips, it’s steak-and-kidney pie.”

  “You love fish and chips,” my mother says.

  “You’re missing the point, Marjory, which is that I am Scottish: I’m supposed to hate the British.”

  “Grampa was Scottish, Dad. You’ve never left this continent.”

  “The blood of the Highlanders still courses through these veins, lassie.”

  “Italian wine is coursing through your veins, Rob Roy,” Mom says.

  I glance again toward the door in time to see Richard striding out with his meal. Dad watches him go, then turns back to pay our bill: “All I can say is, th
ank God you and Brian never dragged home a Brit.”

  “Well, I’m not promising a man in a kilt,” I tell him as we get our coats.

  I am sitting with the Minister while she reviews a draft speech when I hear it: a high-pitched giggle. It sounds like Margo’s voice, but it can’t be. She’s incapable of giggling. I hear Richard’s voice murmuring something just outside the door and there it is again. It’s definitely Margo, and Richard is inducing that freakish sound. I almost seize the pencil from the Minister’s hand and drive it into my ear.

  “Do you think that’s meant to impress me?” the Minister asks, nodding toward the door.

  “I believe that’s the point, yes. Is it working?”

  “The performances aren’t very convincing.” She looks at me over her glasses and smiles.

  “You’re supposed to suspend your disbelief,” I advise.

  “Better to suspend the staff, perhaps?”

  I silently marvel over the fact that I’ve actually come to like Mrs. Cleary—at least most of the time. Despite the pleasant exchange, however, I leave her office feeling uneasy. For some reason, I’m still worried about the upcoming policy changes. Richard and Margo are far too caught up with their personal agendas to pay attention to the details and when it comes to government, I’ve learned that the devil is always in the details. I’d like to stay on the sidelines and let the chips fall where they may. It’s not my job to prevent Richard and Margo from embarrassing the Ministry. Unfortunately, the Minister will take the bullet if something goes wrong and I don’t really want to see that happen. She may be naive, vain and annoying, but she doesn’t deserve to be dragged down by scheming opportunists.

  I suppose it wouldn’t kill me to do a little digging and see if there’s any basis to my suspicions. Marjory would say it’s the right thing to do.

  “I don’t see why we can’t meet somewhere nice for once,” I grumble, as Elliot and I slide onto a bench at the Queen’s Head beside eight strangers. Normally it’s not this busy on a Wednesday, but it happens to be fetish night.

  “I do my best work in these places, you know that. Things just flow better…” His voice trails off as a man in a wet suit passes. The rear of the suit has been cut away to expose the guy’s waxed butt.

  “Elliot? Hello? A little focus would be nice.”

  “Sorry, what were you saying?”

  “How does Günter put up with you?” I sigh.

  “He doesn’t appreciate the humor of it all as you do,” Elliot concedes.

  A buxom woman in a black leather bikini, thigh-high boots and an executioner-style face mask tickles the back of my neck with the tip of her whip. “You shopping, honey?” she asks, in a surprisingly feminine voice.

  “Just looking, thanks.” I wave the whip away, while Elliot laughs. “That’s the real reason you bring me to these places—to mock me.”

  “It’s been good for you—you’re only half as uptight as you used to be.”

  “I’m not uptight.”

  “Trust me, your bolts still need loosening. I’ve never met such a worrywart.”

  “I am not!”

  “Self-knowledge is a wonderful thing, Lib.” Elliot signals the waiter to bring another martini. “But let’s not ruin the evening by arguing. Tell me what’s happening in Flower Girl’s love life?”

  “Before you corner me on that, could we talk about work? I sense something is going wrong with a new Ministry initiative, but I don’t know what to do about it.”

  “Thought you didn’t worry,” he says, smiling.

  “Fine, I worry—and in some cases it’s justified.”

  “Well, I’m seeing the image of a chessboard. I sense someone is being played.”

  “I knew it!” I say, remembering Richard’s recent behavior with Margo. Maybe he’s trying to put her off the trail of a secret plot. “What else do you see?” I ask eagerly.

  “Well, it doesn’t seem to make much sense in this context, but I see a crucifix.”

  “Really? Maybe someone is going to be crucified at work. I hope it isn’t me.”

  Elliot’s interest evaporates as a police officer walks toward us. I’m convinced it’s a real cop until I notice the velvet thong he’s wearing over his uniform pants. Only after the cop makes a mock arrest of the woman with the whip can Elliot concentrate long enough to confirm there’s still hope with Tim—but only if I’m willing to make the first move.

  As we walk to the subway, Elliot invites me to attend a wedding with Lola as research for our book. One of the guys in Günter’s band is formalizing his union with his longtime boyfriend. I suspect this might raise a few eyebrows with our publisher, but agree anyway. Knowing the two grooms, this is likely to be the event of the season.

  Joe Connolly is sitting at his desk as I stroll down the hall of the policy branch. I’ve barely seen him since the Gay Pride parade, and each time we’ve passed in the hall, we’ve looked carefully in opposite directions. Today he catches me watching him and waves me over.

  “So, how have you been?” I ask, leaning against the door frame and surveying his office. Its sparseness reminds me of his condo: no certificates on the wall, no calendars, no personal photographs—nothing but the essentials of work. Still living the monastic lifestyle.

  “Great, you?” The man is surprisingly gracious, considering the terms of our parting.

  I’m about to ramble on casually when I notice the crucifix hanging over his computer monitor. My throat dries out as I recall Elliot’s vision. It must be a sign. Since being on staff, Joe has gained the reputation of being one of the best policy analysts in the Ministry. “Listen, Joe, I wonder if you could give me some advice about our new policy initiative.”

  “Contact Culture? Actually, I’m not really in the loop. I’m working on other initiatives.”

  “I just want to know if you get the sense everything is under control.”

  “You’re worried?”

  “I can’t help thinking that Margo might be missing an important detail. She’s still reasonably new to policy work and you know how complicated it is.”

  “But Richard Neale is working closely with one of my policy colleagues on the changes. You don’t think he’s withholding information from Margo?”

  I shrug. “All I’m saying is that I have a hunch something is being overlooked.”

  “Look, I’ve got a meeting right now, but let me do some digging. Why don’t you swing by my office tomorrow?”

  I nod gratefully and head back to my office. Joe is known to be very thorough and he’s certainly a man of honor. If there is any dirt clinging to this launch, he’ll find it.

  The door to Joe’s office is closed and I wonder if I’ve left it too late to visit. After all, it’s almost five on Friday afternoon.

  “Hi, Libby,” I turn to see him walking toward me. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

  “Just got here.”

  “I’ve just come from the comptroller’s office and it looks like your instincts were right on the money.”

  I sigh. I didn’t want to be right about this. After all, I spent three months fantasizing about Richard. Do I need more evidence of my poor judgment?

  Joe invites me into his office and I see that a framed eight-by-ten glamour shot of a woman has arrived on his desk since yesterday. Joe positions his guest chair to offer me optimal viewing.

  “How bad is it?” I ask, ignoring the blue-eyed beauty in her cheap pine frame.

  Joe explains that Richard appears to be paying a company called Loud Mouth Publicity far above the amount he originally quoted to the Minister. The additional funds have been siphoned out of the After the Bell budget, since Contact Culture’s budget is already much smaller than that of its predecessor. The restricted funding will obviously have an impact on the support currently offered to students. Worse, Joe says the scheduled changes are likely to impact the students from lower income families the most.

  He has more to say, but I’ve heard enough. The Minist
er should hear this directly from Joe and fortunately, she’s still in the office. I sneak him up the emergency staircase to the Minister’s office. Margo and Richard are working together in the boardroom and I don’t want to raise any suspicions on their part by walking past them with Joe.

  Mrs. Cleary beckons us in and I explain that Joe has identified some potential problems with Contact Culture. She listens impassively as Joe speaks until he reaches the part about the reduction in student access to the arts.

  “I don’t understand,” she interrupts. “Richard and Margo both know that guaranteeing the poorest kids access to the arts is extremely important to both me and the Premier. How could this happen?”

  I offer no explanation.

  “I’m afraid there’s more,” Joe says. “Minister, I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of researching Loud Mouth Publicity and discovered something interesting.” He pauses and waits for her assent to continue. When she nods, he says, “It’s a new company, owned by a twenty-seven-year-old named Maxwell Peel—the son of the wealthy London financier James Peel, who has strong ties to the Labor party. Max apparently had trouble holding down a job and when his idleness started causing trouble in the U.K., Daddy shipped him off to the colonies and set him up in business here.”

  “So Margo was right in saying the company had no track record,” the Minister says. “I’ve been so wrapped up in Tomorrow’s Talent that I obviously haven’t paid enough attention to this project. But why is Richard so anxious to give this Maxwell our business?”

  “I have it on good authority that Richard plans to run as a member of British parliament when a senior MP retires this year. James Peel has a lot of political clout and he’s promised to back Richard if he keeps up his end and helps Junior Peel get his business off the ground. A government contract would go a long way to help.”

  “Julian and I had no idea!” Mrs. Cleary is dumbfounded. “How did you learn all this?” she asks Joe.

  “As Libby knows, Minister, I have friends in high places.” He looks at me and raises his eyes skyward in a joking reference to his previous career.

  “Does Margo know?” the Minister asks. In need of comfort, perhaps, she opens her drawer and runs her index finger along a row of gleaming gold lipstick tubes.