Speechless. Sandy/Yvonne Rideout/Collins

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СКАЧАТЬ I didn’t know existed to the newsflash that the Minister would be appearing out-of-doors without makeup for the first time in her life.

      At the Have-a-Nap, I chat up the clerk and apologize for our hasty exit. There’s a stack of newspapers on the counter and the unflattering photo is already on display in a cheap plastic frame by the cash register. Gesturing toward it casually, I say, “I can’t imagine how the paper knew we’d be leaving just then.”

      “The editor was leaving Millie’s Roadhouse next door as your driver pulled around,” the clerk offers. “Between you and me, he’s thrilled, because there’s so little real news around here. Apparently they’ve picked up the story in Toronto, too.” I must look shocked because she adds quickly, “The Minister’s not upset about all this, is she?”

      “Not at all! She has a great sense of humor,” I lie. “I’ll let her know that the folks back home will see her in the news.”

      I knock at the Minister’s door and when Margo opens it, I can see the Minister lying on the bed, forearm over her eyes, overcome by the drama of it all. The table is strewn with hair-brushes, makeup and nail polish. Clearly, Margo has been trying to soothe some shattered nerves.

      “You’d better step outside,” I tell Margo. She is so shaken by my news that I actually have to restrain her from heading to our room to write a huffy rebuttal to the local paper—and all three Toronto papers, just in case. “Don’t. You’ll inflame the situation. Leave it alone, and it’ll die out.”

      “And where did you get your degree in Political Science, the University of Kentucky?” I guess she’s onto the bourbon.

      She’s blocking entry to the Minister’s room, but realizing I can turn my personal hygiene issue to my advantage, I lean in nice and close and let the fumes wash over her: “I may not have the degree, Margo, but I know something about public relations.”

      My breath has the desired effect and Margo backs away, allowing me to slip past her. “Minister?”

      “Who’s there?” comes her weak reply.

      “It’s me… Libby. I have something I need to tell you.”

      Margo attempts a body slam in the doorway and we stumble into the room together.

      “Stop it, you two, my head is killing me. What is it, Lily?”

      “I think you should do this morning’s event.”

      “I am not leaving this room.”

      “The children have been preparing for weeks. They’ll be so disappointed.”

      “Can’t you see I’m ill?”

      “Surely you could stand for an hour, Minister… Remember, children don’t read the newspaper.”

      She lifts her head to glare at me. My imagination must have been working overtime when I thought she was warming up to me.

      “I’ll send regrets saying that you’re unwell, Minister,” Margo says.

      “If we don’t generate a fresh story, the paper might do a follow-up piece about last night’s hasty retreat and what they make up will be worse than the reality.” Sensing that I’m getting through to her, I continue. “You could put on your new Dolce & Gabbana suit—it’s stunning—and say something funny and self-deprecating to the teachers and parents before your speech. How about I write up a funny line or two to defuse the situation? What do you say? The show must go on, Minister.”

      “All right, I’ll do it,” she mutters.

      Margo is livid, especially later, when I am proven right. The Minister rises to the occasion, striding onto the school stage looking like a million bucks.

      “Hello, everyone,” she begins, “I do hope I’m looking a little better in person than I did on the front page of your paper this morning?”

      When everyone laughs, she relaxes and delivers the rest of the speech with ease. Afterward, people surge over to offer support; no one mentions the motel incident. My rare moment of satisfaction is enhanced by the fact that Margo isn’t speaking to me. Later, as we drive to the airport, Margo breaks the news to the Minister about the Toronto paper picking up the photograph. I expect tempers to flare, but much to my surprise, Mrs. Cleary takes it all in stride.

      “Well, Margo, we’ll just face this the same way we did today. I managed to maintain public affection quite effectively.”

      I won’t hear any praise from them, but I know I earned my pay today. And I did it all with a hangover. I am good.

      9

      B y some miracle I manage to fall asleep during the forty-minute flight to Ottawa. Maybe Margo slipped a sedative into my Diet Coke, but it’s a welcome reprieve. All good things must come to an end, however, and by the time we pull up to our motel on the outskirts of the city, Margo has clued in to the fact that ostracizing me isn’t having the desired effect and resorts to her old tactics.

      “While you were asleep, the Minister mentioned how much she’s looking forward to seeing your scrapbook.”

      And I look forward to showing it to her—almost as much as I look forward to sharing a room with Margo. The Minister continues to maintain that her staff cannot squeeze the public purse (though some may be forced to carry it). Rest assured fellow citizens, your tax dollars are not being wasted on me.

      Overnight, Mrs. Cleary works herself into a lather about the main event of the road trip—a reception for outstanding youth achievers to be held at Rideau Hall, the Governor General’s residence. Although it doesn’t start until 11:00 a.m., she rings our room at 5:30 to summon Margo, who crashes around long enough to make sure I’m awake. Finally she leaves with the suitcase—the one she keeps locked all the time. I used to think it contained a voodoo doll with big hair just like mine, but when I interrupted the pedicure the other night, I discovered that it’s really a portable spa filled with high-end beauty products. I think she swallows the key each night.

      Despite the early awakening, I’m in great spirits when I slide into the vinyl booth of the motel coffee shop across from the Minister and my bunk buddy. My mood fizzles before the coffee arrives. The Minister, dry toast untouched before her, is holding forth about the importance of reaching the impressionable youth of this country.

      “Here’s our opportunity to make a difference,” she says, looking expectantly at both of us. Margo is impassively working her way through a large stack of flapjacks, eggs, bacon and hash browns while I study my coffee. “We’re role models for these kids,” the Minister continues, voice rising, “and we must use our influence to set them on the right course while there is still time.” She bangs a fist on the arborite table for emphasis, spilling tea into her saucer.

      I can’t tell from Margo’s expression if this is an old rant or a new idea hot off the presses. All I know is that the Minister has spoken to hundreds of kids in the past month alone without any apparent desire to influence them for the good. It’s not till I’m halfway through my waffle that I realize that she’s not worrying about making an impression on young minds, she’s worrying about making an impression on Juliette Moreau, the Governor General. The latter is a lawyer, a generous patron of the arts and a style maven to boot. It seems that the Minister is intimidated.

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