I withdraw my hand guiltily. Margo is wedging a sandwich into her mouth and has several more on her plate. “Do not— I repeat— DO NOT leave the Minister’s purse unattended even for a moment.” At least, I think that’s what she says, her mouth being full. It’s definitely a rebuke.
The good news is I discover I can hold a briefcase, two purses and a notepad and still get a brownie into my mouth. Someday those two will realize how much talent I pack into this pear-shaped body.
I’m on the subway en route to my first glamour event, wearing Roxanne’s lucky dress—as in “get lucky.” She insists I borrow it while she’s away because she won’t have much use for it on the Isle of Man.
The dress is sexy despite offering enough coverage to be appropriate at a quasi-work function. The secret is in the flow of the fabric, although there’s less flow now than there was when I tried it on last month. Blame it on the brownies. In fact, the dress is pulling slightly across the thighs, but I wear it anyway, because I only have one other formal dress and I vowed never to wear it again after getting dumped in it after a wedding a year ago (tenth bouquet). Until Margo coughs up a clothing allowance, there will be no new frocks. I hate dressing up anyway and I’m not very good at it, judging by the fact that I snagged two pairs of fifteen-dollar stockings and put on my tights in the end. The dress is floor-length on Rox, mid-shin on me, but it still hangs several inches below the coat I’ve borrowed from Lola. This wouldn’t bother me so much if I had a ride to the event, but no, it’s public transit for me, while the Minister and Margo ride in the car sent by the sponsors of the event. No room for Libby now that she’s put on a few, I suppose.
I arrive at eight sharp, by order of Margo; she and the Minister are late. I explain I am on the Minister’s staff and make small talk with the organizers while I wait. They chat me up, imagining I have some influence. At last the Minister arrives, brushing by me without acknowledgment. Wait, she’s coming back my way, and…yes, she passes the handbag. Margo beckons and I heel like a well-trained poodle. We follow in the Minister’s wake, a few discreet paces behind. I am at leisure to look around, however, and another dream implodes: no handsome eligibles in this crowd. Just as well. They’d hardly be impressed with my role as lady-in-waiting.
I’m speaking to a woman I know from the gym when the crowd parts for Margo.
“Libby. Please go to the washroom.”
“Actually, I just went, Margo, but thanks.” My friend looks at Margo as if she’s nuts.
Margo is not amused. “The Minister needs you.”
Meaning she needs her handbag. I excuse myself and locate the Minister by checking for her size fives under the bathroom stalls. I knock on the door. No response.
“Your purse, Minister.”
She sticks her hand out under the stall and I slip the DKNY clutch into her waving fingers. When she emerges, I lean against the counter pretending not to watch as she reapplies a full range of cosmetics and sprays perfume around her head in a cloud. The other women in the washroom are also watching, as she goes through the ritual. I try to look serious and powerful, as if I might be a police officer overseeing my VIP. Then the Minister hands over her purse and back into the crowd we go. She signals that I am to stick with her by snapping her fingers quietly at her side, yet she does not introduce me once as she works the room. When she takes the stage to speak, I pause by the stairs with the royal bag. Despite her lackluster delivery of a mediocre speech, the host gushes and presents the Minister with an enormous bouquet, which she subsequently shoves into my arms.
Suddenly I realize that all my years of training at weddings haven’t been wasted. I’m just getting paid for my efforts now. Next time I’ll wear the peach satin bridesmaid dress and see how that grabs the Minister.
I am disappointed about Rox’s (get) lucky dress and when the procession passes a pay phone, I call her to tell her so.
“Your lucky dress isn’t.”
“I’ve never known it to fail.”
“That’s when you’re wearing it. I’m cursed, remember? Toronto’s eligible men don’t seem to attend charity events.”
“Wait a second, Lib, are you on the pill?”
“I went off it last year to see if my ovaries work. You never know, I could still need them.”
“Didn’t I tell you that the dress only works when taken in combination with the pill? Taking the pill sends a message to the universe that you’re available.”
“Yeah, yeah.” But it’s true that Rox has never really had a dry spell.
“Don’t ‘yeah’ me. Get your prescription filled, my friend. Take it and they will come.”
“All right, I will. So when’s your flight?”
“Seven a.m. I’ve already said goodbye to Gavin and—”
“Libby, I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” Margo strikes again. “The Minister needs her handbag.”
“She just freshened!”
“There are photographers everywhere. You’re here to work, remember.”
“Listen, Rox—”
“Never mind, go. And don’t talk back to Margo!”
I emerge from the ladies’ room in the Minister’s wake, reeking of her perfume and in some discomfort because I couldn’t use the toilet myself. There was nowhere I could safely put the Minister’s purse and the flowers—plural now, since two additional bouquets have arrived. The Minister, holding me by the wrist to ensure I don’t disappear, approaches a tall, attractive man and trills, “Why, Tim, how nice to see you!”
“Minister Cleary, the pleasure is all mine!”
I am about to gag when I realize it’s Tim Kennedy, the garter-catcher from Emma’s wedding. He recognizes me immediately and says, “Well, hi there! How’s the forehead?”
The Minister looks momentarily displeased, then slaps on a wide smile for a passing photographer. The smile disappears as quickly as the photographer, and the Minister turns her attention back to Tim. “Oh, so you already know…” she struggles for my name “… Lily?”
“Uh, yes,” Tim says, confused. “We met recently at a wedding.”
“Isn’t that lovely. So tell me, Tim, how is your work going?”
The Minister releases my wrist and steps directly in front of me. This would be a more effective blocking strategy if she were a foot-and-a-half taller, but I take the hint and escape into the crowd.
“Oh, Lily! Lily!” It’s Tim calling me in a singsong voice.
“Shut up.”
“Now, Lily, is that any way to greet an old friend?”
“You’re not funny, old friend.”
“You’re just grouchy because you’ve caught yourself another bouquet.”
“Make
