when you’re ready to think for yourself, we’ll let you know. Let’s return to a 40-point font, shall we?”
Much later, the Minister says, “Margo, you don’t suppose anyone thought I was mocking the people from the Institute for the Blind?”
“Of course not, Minister. You could barely tell there was a problem.”
Margo, who is sitting behind me, hoofs the back of my seat.
I’m about to become a glorified roadie. During the Ministerial tour through the eastern townships, I’ll be part of the “advance” team that sets up the show. This could actually be fun, since Bill and Laurie comprise the rest of the advance, but with Margo, nothing comes easily. Bill and Laurie will drive ahead in a Ministry “limo” (a government-issue sedan), while the Minister flies from place to place in the tiny government plane. I really want to travel by car, but Margo apparently considers me “plane-worthy.” I’m certain this has less to do with wanting me on the plane than with not wanting me to have a good time in the car. It’s her “divide and conquer” philosophy.
This means Bill will often have to leave an event site, pick me up from the closest airstrip, and rush back to ensure all is ready for the arrival of the Minister. Meanwhile, Mrs. Cleary and Margo will stall for time in a separate car with a local driver so that they can make a grand entrance. It’s a pain in the ass for all concerned, but Margo has somehow convinced the Minister that it’s a sound strategy. It’s Margo’s special gift: she can dress up any stupid idea in flawed logic and present it as viable to the Minister. Since the Minister does not appear to be a fool, I assume she has her reasons for accepting Margo’s decisions.
We three roadies have prescribed tasks. Laurie will schmooze the event organizers and keep the kids calm. They’re always wound up at these events, even though they don’t have a clue who the Minister is. Bill and I are to make sure the auditorium is set up properly, and the sound system is working. My special job is to ensure that the podium is appropriately situated to display the Minister to good effect. Specifically, it must be low enough so that she’s visible and properly positioned to allow the lights to gleam off her burnished locks.
My biggest challenge is that we require lecterns that accommodate an 8.5 x 14-inch folder, the standard being 8.5 x 11 inches. The Minister has decided, as a result of Project Diminishing Font, I presume, that her speeches will be printed on legal-size paper to get more 40-point text on each page. Besides, this way she’ll barely need to lower her head to read. Looking down is unflattering around the chin line and even having a prominent cosmetic surgeon as a husband cannot completely erase the effects of time.
Not that I’m totally insensitive on this score. My many years of rebound dieting foretell of early wattle. Maybe the Minister will grow to like me and give me a voucher for some cosmetic work in her husband’s luxurious clinic. I plan to age gracefully, but if the nip-and-tuck were a gift, well, it would be rude not to accept it.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Roughing it on the Isle
Hi Libby,
Bridget Wilkinson refused to come out of her trailer and shoot her scenes today. It all started when the local caterers assumed her request for turkey bacon was a joke. You don’t laugh at Bridget! The executive producer stormed over but despite all the yelling, Bridget never appeared on set. I know how much you love the Diva Report, so I hope you’ll still be able to access your e-mails during your trip.
Rox
P.S. I haven’t missed Gavin at all, which doesn’t bode well. I suspect I’ve seen the last of him and his mangy mutt.
I try reverse psychology on Margo with good results. Fearing she will forbid me to bring the laptop on our journey, thereby cutting off my electronic lifeline to Roxanne, I blithely announce my intention of leaving the computer behind.
“You must bring it,” she declares.
“Why?” If she weren’t staring at my shoulder, she’d surely detect the desperation behind the bravado. Rox e-mails often when she’s on location and I’ve been relying on the celebrity gossip more than ever lately to distract me from my woes.
“Because it will be useful, that’s why.”
“But I’ll have to carry it around and it’s heavy. It’s not like I need it to write speeches.”
“You’ll need it to revise the freelancers’ speeches.”
“Well, okay, but I have back trouble, you know.”
“You can get Bill to help you carry it, but I’ve made my decision.”
From: [email protected]
Subject: Victory
Rox,
If they fire Bridget Wilkinson, tell your director I’m ready for my close-up. My superb performance this afternoon convinced Margo that it was her idea to bring a laptop along on our trip. I even managed to look annoyed and resentful when she put her foot down. It wasn’t much of a stretch, since it’s becoming second nature anyway.
Can’t say I’m surprised about Gavin. Country boys were never your type.
Lib
With the trip less than two days away, my worries about rooming with Margo haven’t diminished, particularly as her food issues become more obvious. We’re constantly being offered refreshments at events and on several occasions, I’ve caught her slipping food into her bag for later, presumably because she never goes home. Or maybe she lived through the Irish potato famine in a former life.
Today I catch her removing a plastic cup covered with a napkin secured by an elastic band from her briefcase (i.e., there was planning involved). In the cup are a dozen large shrimp in cocktail sauce. I recognize them from the buffet table at an event we visited hours earlier.
“Margo! You’re not going to eat those are you?” I say. “It’s salmonella waiting to happen!”
“Never mind!” she retorts, slipping them back into her briefcase and stalking out of her own office.
No wonder we have a rat problem. And no wonder her clothes are often a mess, with stains and her shirttail hanging out. The Minister frequently whispers, “Margo, your blouse…”
Still, as much as it pains me to admit it, Margo is actually quite attractive. What’s more, for all her compulsive eating and hoarding, she barely tips the scale at a hundred pounds. Maybe she could get me a similar pact with the devil. I imagine she has some pull.
“Are you drunk, Libby?” my mother asks when I call to tell her we’re shipping out at dawn.
“No, why would you say that?” I counter, scooping the ice cubes out of my glass so that their clinking won’t give me away.
“You seem a little withdrawn, that’s all. And you’re slurring.”
“I am not slurring.”
“You’d
