collected it from the freelancer and blew up the point size so that the Minister can read it without her glasses.”
Tim snorts. “Here, let me give this a try.” He takes the blow-dryer from my hand.
“Careful, now. Three-quarters, no more, no less.”
“So, how’s the book coming along?”
Still with the book. Ah well, it’s way too late to explain now. “Fine, I guess. It’s hard to make a lot of progress while working full-time….”
I’m lying with newfound ease because Tim has flipped the dryer to high and can’t hear me anyway. He is leaning in for a closer look at the tulips when Margo’s head suddenly pops over the side of the cubicle. Tim fumbles the dryer, knocking the pot to the floor again. He drops to one knee to pick up the battered buds.
“Don’t, Tim, Libby will get them,” Margo says. “The Minister is waiting for you.”
He grabs his briefcase and squeezes my arm. “Sorry, Libby.”
Margo tows him away, looking back over her shoulder at me, one Vulcan eyebrow raised. The rattrap is probably big enough to take her down if I can find the right bait.
I’m taking matters into my own hands. If Margo won’t assign me a speech, I’ll create my own opportunity. With this in mind, I review the Minister’s calendar to find an event for which no speech is required. I plan to craft brief but compelling remarks and ask her to review them. At best, she’ll decide to deliver the speech; at worst, she’ll offer advice on improving. It’s a desperate move, I suppose, but at least she’ll see me as eager.
The most promising event is the upcoming visit to a junior school where the Minister is to judge a poetry contest. Recalling that the Spanish ambassador who visited yesterday is a well-known poet in his country, I decide to propose that Mrs. Cleary tell the kids about his visit, read a poem and comment on how poetry can transcend borders and unite us as human beings. Wonderful sentiment! How could she fail to recognize my genius?
Laurie sneaks the Spanish ambassador’s books out of the Minister’s office for me and I select a poem that seems appropriate for children. By midafternoon, I have a draft, but I’m stumped about my next move. If I give the speech to Margo, she’ll refuse to share it with the Minister, but how can I slip it directly to the Minister when Margo never leaves her side? Then it hits me: I’m joining the dynamic duo at the unveilingof a portrait of a former Premier in the Queen’s Park lobby this afternoon. It’s a short event, but chances are good that the Minister will need to freshen up. When I escort her handbag to the washroom, I’ll seize my opening.
Sure enough, the velvet curtain is barely drawn when the Minister turns and snaps her fingers at me. I follow her down the corridor to the public washroom and take my position beside her stall, heart pounding.
“Minister?”
“What?” (Ever gracious, my lady.)
“You’re judging a poetry-writing contest at Earl Gray Public School on Friday and I thought it might be a nice opportunity to mention the poetry of the Spanish ambassador who visited yesterday.” Silence. Voice shaking, I continue. “I drafted a few lines of introduction—about how the arts draw people together—and selected a poem that the children can understand. Would you like to review my draft?”
“I suppose so,” she says, and flushes the toilet.
“Shall I slip it into your handbag?” I shout over the running water.
Taking the lack of response as permission, I click open her purse and tuck the speech between her glasses and the massive cosmetic bag. The Minister swings open the stall door and snatches her purse from me with a disgusted look. She continues to cast hostile glances at me while touching up her makeup, before finally saying,
“I’ll look at your speech because it’s my job to spread the word about culture, Lily, but please don’t corner me in the washroom again. This is private time.”
My delight over
Tim snorts. “Here, let me give this a try.” He takes the blow-dryer from my hand.
“Careful, now. Three-quarters, no more, no less.”
“So, how’s the book coming along?”
Still with the book. Ah well, it’s way too late to explain now. “Fine, I guess. It’s hard to make a lot of progress while working full-time….”
I’m lying with newfound ease because Tim has flipped the dryer to high and can’t hear me anyway. He is leaning in for a closer look at the tulips when Margo’s head suddenly pops over the side of the cubicle. Tim fumbles the dryer, knocking the pot to the floor again. He drops to one knee to pick up the battered buds.
“Don’t, Tim, Libby will get them,” Margo says. “The Minister is waiting for you.”
He grabs his briefcase and squeezes my arm. “Sorry, Libby.”
Margo tows him away, looking back over her shoulder at me, one Vulcan eyebrow raised. The rattrap is probably big enough to take her down if I can find the right bait.
I’m taking matters into my own hands. If Margo won’t assign me a speech, I’ll create my own opportunity. With this in mind, I review the Minister’s calendar to find an event for which no speech is required. I plan to craft brief but compelling remarks and ask her to review them. At best, she’ll decide to deliver the speech; at worst, she’ll offer advice on improving. It’s a desperate move, I suppose, but at least she’ll see me as eager.
The most promising event is the upcoming visit to a junior school where the Minister is to judge a poetry contest. Recalling that the Spanish ambassador who visited yesterday is a well-known poet in his country, I decide to propose that Mrs. Cleary tell the kids about his visit, read a poem and comment on how poetry can transcend borders and unite us as human beings. Wonderful sentiment! How could she fail to recognize my genius?
Laurie sneaks the Spanish ambassador’s books out of the Minister’s office for me and I select a poem that seems appropriate for children. By midafternoon, I have a draft, but I’m stumped about my next move. If I give the speech to Margo, she’ll refuse to share it with the Minister, but how can I slip it directly to the Minister when Margo never leaves her side? Then it hits me: I’m joining the dynamic duo at the unveilingof a portrait of a former Premier in the Queen’s Park lobby this afternoon. It’s a short event, but chances are good that the Minister will need to freshen up. When I escort her handbag to the washroom, I’ll seize my opening.
Sure enough, the velvet curtain is barely drawn when the Minister turns and snaps her fingers at me. I follow her down the corridor to the public washroom and take my position beside her stall, heart pounding.
“Minister?”
“What?” (Ever gracious, my lady.)
“You’re judging a poetry-writing contest at Earl Gray Public School on Friday and I thought it might be a nice opportunity to mention the poetry of the Spanish ambassador who visited yesterday.” Silence. Voice shaking, I continue. “I drafted a few lines of introduction—about how the arts draw people together—and selected a poem that the children can understand. Would you like to review my draft?”
“I suppose so,” she says, and flushes the toilet.
“Shall I slip it into your handbag?” I shout over the running water.
Taking the lack of response as permission, I click open her purse and tuck the speech between her glasses and the massive cosmetic bag. The Minister swings open the stall door and snatches her purse from me with a disgusted look. She continues to cast hostile glances at me while touching up her makeup, before finally saying,
“I’ll look at your speech because it’s my job to spread the word about culture, Lily, but please don’t corner me in the washroom again. This is private time.”
My delight over
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