get home, I have eight bouquet-related voice-mail messages. Good news travels fast. The first is merely a long, loud guffaw, which sounds suspiciously like my brother Brian. Emma’s mother must have called my mother, who sent out a family bulletin. Message two confirms it: my mother telling me, in her most soothing voice, that she’s heard about the bouquet and there’s nothing to worry about, even though it is “Unlucky thirteen.” (So she is counting!) The third and fourth are hang-ups; I know it’s Lola because there’s a distinctive pack-a-day wheeze. The fifth is Roxanne: she’s heard from Lola, she says, voice oozing sympathy. I am not to take it seriously, although it is hugely fluky and she can understand how I’d be freaked out—it’s just a tradition. Number six: Rox, again, asking if I want her to come over; she’s made chocolate chip cookies and we could debrief on the wedding. Number seven is Lola hanging up after a prolonged whistling sigh. Probably smoked an extra pack today. Rox again for number eight: “Libby, do not— I repeat do not—do anything desperate with that bouquet. I’m on my way over to pick it up. I’ll make a big batch of potpourri out of it for Lola. Her place always reeks of smoke.”
Lola snorts when I tell her I’m scheduled for an interview at the Ministry of Culture. Although she’s an underchallenged copy editor at Toronto Lives magazine, she’s always giving me a hard time about my restlessness, or, as she calls it, “repressed ambition.”
“Why would you want a job like that?” she says. “You’ll get your fifteen minutes of fame when I convince the magazine to profile you and your bouquet collection.”
I should have stuck with my plan to write her off, but as usual, she got around me. And also as usual, she relents and helps me prepare for the interview. Her sleuthing at the magazine turns up an in-depth article on Clarice Cleary, Minister of Culture. It won’t be published until next month, but if I take a vow of silence, she’ll get me a copy. This article, with its current research and interviews, gives me an edge, but it still takes me a whole weekend to write my “take-home” speech assignment.
The interview goes far better than I expect. The Minister is called away unexpectedly and advises the human resources rep to proceed without her. Laurie O’Brien, the office manager and events planner, attends in the Minister’s place.
“This is very good,” Laurie pronounces after reading my sample speech, “but how do you know about our plans to increase funding for after-school arts programs? We haven’t announced this publicly.”
“A reporter never reveals her sources,” I say, smiling. (Not if she wants to keep her friends, she doesn’t.)
In any case, they’re convinced I have my finger on the pulse of government: three weeks and a police check later, the job is mine.
Visions of oak paneling dance in my head as I walk toward Queen’s Park, the pink sandstone fortress that houses Ontario’s Legislative Assembly. It’s my first day and I’m more nervous than I ought to be, considering I’ve had a shiatsu treatment and two intensive yoga sessions over the weekend. Maybe I should have gone the chemical route instead. Still, I’m optimistic. It’s an elegant building and there probably isn’t a bad office in the place. I just hope it’s quiet, because I expect I’ll be in seclusion writing speeches most of the time once I’m up to speed. During the interview, Laurie warned that I’d need to attend dozens of events in the first few weeks to get a sense of the business and how Mrs. Cleary likes to work. Cool. Free food and entertainment. Culture-loving guys, maybe. What could be wrong with that?
I don’t notice the dead rat until I’m standing on its tail. I’m practically on the doorstep of the Pink Palace, so I stifle my scream and step away from the rat. “This is not a bad omen,” I tell myself. “There are no bad omens.” No, this job is going to be great. Straightening up, I brush cat fur from my black jacket and skirt (you can’t even tell they’re from the Gap), fluff my hair, and stride through the imposing front door with renewed confidence.
“Welcome to the Minister’s Office,” says Margo Thompson, the Minister’s executive assistant, looking me over from shoulder to foot. “You’re very tall.”
At barely five feet, Margo clearly isn’t thrilled about my having the height advantage, but at least she isn’t going to be one of those people who looks up at me and says, “I’ve always wanted to be tall. You’re so lucky.” No woman who has been addressed from behind as “sir” is likely to feel lucky about being tall. It’s not as if I’m tall in a supermodel, waiflike sort of way. Rather, I’m tall in a big-boned, size-twelve-feet sort of way. But there is a notable advantage to looming above the crowd: you can tell a lot about people by checking out their roots.
Margo’s do-it-yourself henna is a month past its “best before” date and the wide stripe of gray running down the center of her head worries me. No one who invites comparison to a skunk is likely to become an inspiring boss. I try to keep an open mind, but it’s hard, because Margo refuses to meet my eyes. She leads me to a sleek boardroom, settles into a chair at one end of the gleaming mahogany table and motions me toward the chair at the other end. I’m sure I look smaller from a distance, but she still can’t meet my eyes. Instead, she examines the ends of her long, ruddy hair while delivering a half-hour monologue on the importance of protocol in the Minister’s Office. My questions on program priorities and upcoming events are dismissed with a wave.
“Make no mistake,” she says, “Mrs. Cleary cares a great deal about appearances. She has to.”
“Of course,” I say, conscious that my hair is swelling. There must be a storm front moving in. “When can I meet her?”
“She’s away today at an off-site meeting—a policy seminar—and is attending a gallery opening tonight. You’ll probably get some face time with her tomorrow.”
Face time. Oh my. Margo hands me a binder of speeches and advises me to review them carefully to study the Minister’s style. Laurie will show me to my office, she says, eyes fastened on my left shoulder. Laurie’s roots are in excellent condition and as she also appears to have a sense of humor, I am optimistic.
“I’m so happy you accepted the job,” Laurie says, “I think we’re going to get along great.”
“Me too,” I reply, encouraged, “but Margo doesn’t seem happy I’m here.”
“She’s only been here a few weeks herself and is still getting her bearings. I think she wanted to choose her own speechwriter, but Mrs. Cleary wouldn’t wait.”
“What’s the Minister like?” I ask.
“Wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise. Far better to experience her firsthand.”
“Okay, then what’s the off-site meeting about?”
Laurie sizes me up for a moment before saying, “It’s a pretty heavy agenda: hair; nails; exfoliating; massage.”
“Don’t spas fall under the Ministry of Recreation?”
“There’s more overlap than you might imagine,” Laurie says, stopping beside a cubicle along the inside wall. I must look aghast, because she smiles and asks, “You were expecting oak paneling?”
“Uh, yeah, actually.” I run a finger over the bristling beige carpet on the walls and across the wood-look desk.
Laurie is sympathetic. “Don’t despair. I’ve been working on Margo to give you more space, but in the meantime, I’m afraid this is it.” She leaves me with my binder of speeches and I do the first thing that comes to mind—call Roxanne. Thank God she doesn’t
