put me in a cage.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“I never exaggerate. It’s a cubicle, for Christ’s sake. There’s no window and it’s in a high-traffic area. I’m an artist! How the hell am I supposed to create in this environment?”
“Maybe it’s temporary. Besides, it’s the work that counts and this is a great opportunity, Lib. What’s the Minister like?”
“Haven’t met her. She’s either at a policy seminar or a spa. Margo, the Minister’s handler, has already lied to me. If I were still speaking to Elliot, he’d tell me he gets very bad vibes about her.”
“What do you mean, if you were ‘still speaking’ to Elliot? He’s a psychic, not your boyfriend. What could you be feuding about?”
“Last week I made the mistake of asking him if this dry spell in my love life is ever going to end. He had the nerve to say he sees me sitting on a rock in the desert wearing a sign that reads, I’m available. Fuck off.”
“Oooh, that’s a little harsh.”
“Rox, you don’t think he’s right, do you?”
“Not really, Lib, but ever since things didn’t work out for you and Bruce two years ago you’ve been a little…cautious…with men.”
“No kidding. That’s what happens when your boyfriend of two years suddenly admits he never loved you. And what about that guy I met at Emma’s wedding? I let him charm the garter right off me before he mentioned his girlfriend. Men are scum, Rox. You’d better hang on to Gavin.”
“You can have him if you think he’s such a catch, but remember, Daisy comes with the package.”
Daisy is Gavin’s dog and Rox always feels like “the other woman” in the relationship. They met five months ago while bidding on the same antique armoire at an auction. He got the armoire, but she got the guy when he invited her over to see how great it looked in the century home he’s renovating in St. Thomas. Gavin has an unfortunate habit of expressing his feelings through Daisy, whose supposed prejudice against downtown living is wearing out the tires on Rox’s new Jeep.
“Being away for three months on the shoot will tell you a lot about your future with Gavin. Are you packed and ready to go?”
“I sent the camera gear off this morning, but I haven’t started on my clothes yet. The weather changes hourly on the Isle of Man, which means I need to take everything in my closet yet leave room for treasures. Want me to look for something special for you?”
“Yeah, a nice Manx guy.”
“Forget it. I’m keeping the nice Manx guys for me. How about a nice linen—”
My gasp cuts her off midsentence. Two round hazel eyes have appeared above the cubicle, looking above me, around me: Margo. She mumbles something into the beige wall.
“Sorry, I’ve gotta go.” I’m chagrined to be caught in a personal call on my first day. “Yes, Margo?” I say, smiling brightly as I put the phone down.
“The Minister’s seminar is starting later than expected so she can see you briefly.”
I trail after her, a battle cruiser following a tug, into the Minister’s corner office. Ah, so here’s the oak paneling I crave. The desk, massive and oak again, would bring a tear to my eye with its beauty if the Minister didn’t look so funny behind it. Like Margo, she is tiny. When she comes around the desk to shake my hand, her height only allows her to reach my armpit, which is probably as disconcerting for her as it is for me. Obviously I’ve been hired for contrast.
“I’m Clarice Cleary,” she announces regally, gesturing to a leather club chair in front of the desk. “Please call me Minister.”
She’s wearing the most beautiful suit I’ve ever seen, with two Cs on the buttons—Coco Chanel or a Clarice Cleary original?
“Libby has been reviewing your portfolio of speeches, Minister,” Margo offers.
“Yes, lovely, Margo.” Looking me directly in the eye, she asks, “So tell me, Lily, what can you do for me?”
I am too intimidated to correct her. I can live with “Lily.” Besides, I’m busy berating myself for not reviewing the lines I prepared for the interview. Finally, after a long pause, I say I’ve noticed inconsistencies in the tone and style of her speeches, due to the fact that she’s been using several freelance speechwriters. I can ensure she develops “one strong voice.” I’m rather pleased with this observation, but she looks unimpressed, so I add that I want to see her speeches reflect her obvious love for the arts—a love that I, incidentally, share. (No need to mention that I’m more Bon Jovi than Beethoven. I’m a quick study.) The Minister and Margo sit watching me in silence, so I ramble for a bit about how excited I am to have this excellent opportunity.
Pushing her chair back, the Minister opens her top drawer. It’s filled to the brim with beauty aids. I continue to speak while she flips up the lid of a gold compact and dusts her face with powder. She selects a tube of lipstick from a tray of at least two dozen and applies it, blots and checks her teeth. When she pulls out a mirror and starts back-combing her short chestnut bob, I finally rumble to a stop, overcome by the realization that I am so boring people forget I’m in the room even while I am speaking.
The Minister eventually looks over her mirror at me and says, “I must make a call if you don’t mind…. Thank you, Lily.”
Thus dismissed, I retreat to my cubicle. I’ve always known that my downtown polish is only skin deep. It’s no surprise that the Minister saw right through me to the shack in the suburbs where I started out.
3
I ’m still studying the sample speeches Margo gave me because I don’t have much else to do. I can barely concentrate anyway, knowing that there’s a baited rattrap under my desk. It’s well out of pedicure range, but if that baby ever snaps, I will too.
Laurie says the rodents have been running amok since the building’s refurbishment project kicked off three months ago. The construction has rousted them from their usual lairs and despite the best efforts of a pest-control company, every employee in the building must have a rattrap in his or her office. According to the running tally on the staff-room chalkboard, five rats have already met their end in the trap lines. Laurie has the Rat Guy on speed dial. No matter how bad my job may become, his is definitely worse.
I check my trap every morning, less worried about finding a dead rat than about finding a half-dead one. Elliot once awoke to a strange noise in the night and found a bloody, mangled rat dragging a trap across the hardwood floor of his hip downtown loft. It was as big as a dachshund, he claims, and its heartrending squeals drove him to seize the only weapon at hand—a plunger—and put it out of his misery. I keep a sturdy umbrella in my cubicle for just such an occasion. A speechwriter must be prepared for anything.
To date, Margo has assigned only stupid, make-work tasks. I suspect it’s part of her plan to beat the “attitude” out of me before it surfaces. She already senses it’s there, because I can’t even feign enthusiasm for my list of chores. Mind you, I’ve done worse in my time than pick up dry cleaning and book appointments. It’s just that I’m anxious to start writing speeches—surprisingly so, given that all this came about so recently.
