I take comfort from the fact she saw some promise in my remarks. Margo soon arrives to admonish me: “Nice try, Libby.”
“What do you mean?” (innocently)
“All material for the Minister must be vetted by me so that I can ensure everything has the proper tone and content. Your draft, incidentally, did not.”
“Really? It must have lost something in the translation,” I say.
Margo flushes blotchy puce. “Don’t do it again.”
I’ve just logged on to my computer to send Roxanne an e-mail when Margo pops her head around my partition to tell me the good news. I’ll be rooming with her on the trip. My shrill protests do nothing to dissuade her.
“Elizabeth, this job is all about optics. We can’t be seen to squander taxpayers’ dollars. The Minister will have her own room, of course, and the rest of us will double up.”
I manage to extract from her that the “away team” is comprised of only the Minister, Margo, Laurie, Bill and me. Obviously Bill and Laurie aren’t doubling up.
From: [email protected]
Subject: My sad life
Rox,
Glad to hear you’ve arrived safely in Douglas, although the constant rain sounds depressing. If it’s any consolation, the micro-climate here at Queen’s Park is equally miserable. Remember that trip we’re taking? Margo is making me share a room with her. Since no one else is doubling up, I have several theories about her motivation:
a) she has a crush on me;
b) she’s worried I’ll be off writing speeches and slipping them into the Minister’s handbag;
c) she suspects Laurie and I will plan a mutiny if we spend our nights together; or
d) two of the above.
I have every reason to think that Margo hates me as much as I do her, so it’s likely choice (d).
Well, she’s a brave woman. I will have nine opportunities to smother her while she sleeps. Try to make it home in time for the trial, will you?
Libby
I’ve been freakishly hungry since I started this job. My stomach always seems to be growling, despite the fact that my waistband is constantly cutting off my circulation. The day of the pre–road show speech-planning meeting, the internal grumbling escalates to a howl. Although I’ve dealt with the freelance speechwriters for weeks, it’s the first time I’ve met them in person. I’ve already developed a burning resentment of them, simply because they get to write while I “coordinate.” One of the writers is forgettable—or would be if only she’d stop talking about communing with her “muse” (she needs a new muse—her writing isn’t that good). The other, Christine, is considered the “intellectual,” which is reason enough to hate her. She also has a frightening wiglike growth on her head. I promptly christen Christine “Wiggy.”
Mrs. Cleary is surprisingly engaged in the meeting and Wiggy and Forgettable are vying for her favor. I’m pleased to note that Forgettable is frequently on the receiving end of the blank Ministerial stare— I presumed such moments were my exclusive domain. Mind you, I am totally excluded from the discussion and sit in silence until my stomach speaks on my behalf, gradually increasing in volume until Margo turns to me and says, “Libby, can you keep it down?”
After the meeting, I realize that what I am experiencing is not hunger, but low-grade indigestion brought on by common jealousy. I never used to be a competitive person, but frustrated ambition has possessed me like a demon, which explains why I’ve been eating for two.
Fortunately, I have a little project underway that will simultaneously improve my profile while improving the Minister’s speaking style. I’ve attended enough events by now to know the latter also needs work. The problem is two-pronged. First, the Minister only occasionally reviews her speeches prior to delivering them. Second, she won’t wear her glasses. Instead, she demands that her remarks be formatted not in the standard speech font of 14 points, but in a 40-point font that wouldn’t be out of place on a street sign. At this size, very few paragraphs fit on a page; even a brief greeting can run to twenty pages, while a keynote address rivals the phonebook in bulk. This does not faze the Minister. She simply heaves her portfolio onto the lectern and stumbles through the speech as fast as her long nails allow, grabbing a breath wherever there’s an opportunity.
“This is ridiculous,” I whisper to Margo one day during a lengthy page-flipper in a high-school auditorium. “She has to wear her glasses. Her delivery is so disjointed people are tuning out.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“A teacher in the second row is snoring.”
“You’ll need a lot more experience under your belt before taking this on,” she advises.
So I launch Project Diminishing Font. One day, I reduce the font to 38 points, with no discernible impact on the Minister’s delivery. Then I try 36, after which I ease it down half a point at a time until I have the Minister reading a 28-point font with apparent comfort. Even this has made a big difference to the amount of text I can cram onto the page. Obviously, she never needed 40 points in the first place.
The Minister slips a streamlined folder onto the lectern and starts into her speech. We’re at a conference for teachers of children with disabilities sponsored by the Hearing Society and the National Institute for the Blind and she’s tearing through the first page quite smoothly, considering she didn’t read it in advance (as evidenced by the lack of yellow highlighting). By the second page, where the text is denser, she starts laboring. By the fifth, she is getting some of the words wrong and by the eighth, she keeps pausing to guess. After leaning in so close to the lectern that all we can see is the top of her head, she finally lifts the speech and holds it inches from her face, muttering into the page. Meanwhile, a teacher standing behind her struggles to simultaneously translate her remarks into sign language.
Perhaps my decision to dip to a 26-point font was a little ambitious.
At the end of the event, I scurry to the car and sink as low in the front seat as possible.
“Ask her,” the Minister says to Margo in the back seat, in an eerily calm voice.
“What happened to today’s speech, Libby?” Margo’s voice is calm too.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what size is the font?”
“I’m not sure,” I hedge.
“Give us your best guess.”
“Well, it’s pretty big. Maybe 32 points.”
“Did you reduce it deliberately?”
Recognizing that evasion is futile, I confess. “Actually, I did. I couldn’t understand why it’s usually so large. It’s difficult to deliver a speech smoothly with so little text on a page. And besides…”
“Yes?”
