“As promised!” I announce dramatically to the shadowy form behind Margo’s desk.
It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom. No wonder she prefers to raid my stash of snacks—she’d need night-vision goggles to find her own in here. Using the glow from the computer monitor to guide me to her desk, I present the speech for the Opera Company with a bow and a flourish.
“It took me most of the weekend, but I think the Minister is going to be pleased,” I say. I actually finished in time to meet Emma for a late lunch on Saturday, but I’m not about to share that with the Dungeon Master.
Ignoring both speech and amateur dramatics, Margo looks up from her computer.
“The Minister has hired a private political consultant who’s flying in from London tomorrow to advise all of you on how to improve our image.”
I’m not fooled by her apparent nonchalance. There’s a chocolate chip cookie sitting uneaten on her desk—she’s plenty worried. I just hope the consultant is a guy: we could use some testosterone on the executive team.
“Is there a reason you’re still here, Libby?”
“Yes, actually. The speech…?”
“What speech?”
“The one I just put on your desk—for the Opera Company?”
She looks down at the speech as though wondering how it got there.
“Oh, that. I’ll look at it when I have the time.”
I beat a hasty retreat before she snaps out of her daze and questions me about the state of the reference shelf. On the way back to my desk, I bump into Bill and ask if he’s heard the news about the new consultant.
“Yeah, I heard, all right. It’s Richard Neale. I can’t believe she’s hiring that arrogant son of a bitch.”
“You know him?”
“He’s a friend of the Clearys’ and I’ve driven him around when he’s been in town. Thinks he’s better than the rest of us just because of that posh British accent. It’s phony, if you ask me. He’s from Yorkshire, for God’s sake—farm country—but he acts like he was to the manor born.”
“A real snob, huh?”
“Take it from me, Libby, the man’s a pain in the arse.”
I’m waiting by the microwave for my soup to heat up when I learn that the Ego has landed. Two female admin staff spill into the kitchen, abuzz with the news.
“Who was that?” one asks, fanning herself with a Lean Cuisine box.
“I don’t know, but I’d sure like to! What a hunk! And that accent!” The woman extends her hand to her friend in an imitation of Richard: “Good Aufternoon. That’s an absolutely charming jumper you have on.”
Please. So the man has an accent and a little polish. Big deal. In my experience, the private sector consultants are always smooth. They arrive wearing expensive navy-blue suits and expressions of bemused tolerance— Big Business riding into town to clean up the Bungling Bureaucracy. Yet, time and again I’ve watched them crumble under the red tape, delays and mixed messages of government. The strain begins to show when the suits are replaced by bad casual wear. Their hours get shorter, their meetings get longer and all thoughts of reforming us vanish. By the time they’re fully assimilated, you couldn’t pick them out of a crowd of civil servants, except for their bulging wallets. I give this guy six weeks.
The women’s twittering is making my head ache so I collect my soup and head down the hall to dine in the relative peace of my cubicle. Rounding a corner, I nearly run into Margo, who’s leading a very tall, well-built man in a navy suit toward the boardroom. This must be Richard Neale but he doesn’t seem like such hot stuff to me. Margo hurries past without a glance, but Richard, who accidentally clips me in the shoulder, stops to apologize.
“I’m dreadfully sorry,” he says, squeezing my arm gently before rushing after Margo.
Whoa! The hairs on my arms are all standing at attention and as I turn to watch Richard’s broad shoulders disappear into the boardroom, I feel my brain roll over, kick a few times and die. Surely Bill is mistaken about this guy; he seems perfectly delightful. But perhaps a fatal blast of pheromones has disengaged my usually stellar capacity for reasoning.
Back at my desk, I’m very much aware of Richard’s presence in the boardroom nearby. The Minister is giggling and even Margo’s voice has a breathless quality. There’s also a constant stream of women passing my cubicle to stroll by the boardroom. Evidently, the pheromones have already penetrated the building’s ventilation system.
“How can you sit there so calmly?” Laurie says, peeking around my partition. The fast, high tone of her voice betrays that she too has been affected by Richard’s magic—and this is a woman who is so happily married I usually want to slap her.
“Don’t tell me you’re on your way past the boardroom too?”
“You bet I am. Richard is hot! Haven’t you met him yet?”
“Well, we haven’t been formally introduced, but I’ve seen him.”
“And…?”
“And I suppose he’s attractive enough.”
“Playing it cool, huh? Well, then I won’t bother to share what I’ve learned about him.”
I pull a Mars bar out of my drawer and surrender half of it to her. “Spill it, sister.”
Laurie laughs and perches on the corner of my desk and tells me that Richard is divorced, currently single and living in Chelsea, an upscale London neighborhood. Although he’s a renowned political consultant, the stock market is behind his great wealth. He received a modest inheritance as a teen and parlayed it into a small fortune by the time he was twenty-five. He met Mrs. Cleary and her husband, Julian, at an alumni event at Cambridge and despite the difference in their ages, they’ve been close friends ever since. The Minister is particularly fond of him.
“So,” Laurie concludes, “I’m heading down to the coffee machine. Care to join me?”
From the coffee machine, one can enjoy an unobstructed view into the boardroom. “I could use a coffee.”
I steal a good look at Richard as we pass the open door. His suit looks expensive, as does his shirt and tie, but when my eyes slide south, I’m surprised to discover that he’s wearing fancy, fringed loafers with a pointy toe.
“Did you check out the shoes?” I whisper to Laurie when we reach the coffee machine. “He’s wearing party pumps.”
“Maybe that’s the height of fashion in London.”
“Or maybe it’s a big mistake.”
“Are you saying you’d reject him on the basis of his footwear?” Laurie asks.
“I’m saying he’ll need the services of a friendly native to help him get dressed in the morning.”
“It looks like Mrs. Cleary is already applying for that position.” Laurie nods in the direction of the boardroom where the Minister is currently straightening Richard’s tie. “Not that Richard seems to mind,” she adds.
“He’s probably just being polite,” I say. “Do you think he realizes how attractive he is to women?”
“I’d say he’s pretty confident of his appeal, yes.”
“He’s awfully manly for a civilized Brit. Maybe he was blessed with two Y chromosomes.”
“Well, if you ask me, two Y’s spell trouble.”
What’s a little excessive masculinity between colleagues? I could help him find more constructive uses for that testosterone.
Richard has rearranged the furniture in his office so that his desk now faces the door. I know this because I’ve been devising lame excuses to stroll down the hall past his office. For example, I’m catching up on my photocopying, what with the copy room being near his office. I also take the long way round to the washroom and back. It’s pathetic, but I’m in good company: who knew so many women worked in the building?
Ashamed, I consult with my self-help library and discover a volume entitled, Flirt Now, Marry Later. It confirms that the parade is a time-honored courtship ritual and offers the following guidelines:
If I tried all that, I’d blow a circuit, but fortunately, even my feeble attempts are generating good results: I’m almost certain Richard looks up as I’m passing and tracks me with his eyes. The book doesn’t indicate whether it’s allowable to laugh once you’re out of sight, but I do— I can’t take the game that seriously. Just the same, I find myself pondering the relative merits of thong underwear. If he’s going to monitor my backside, perhaps I should give him less to look at. On the other hand, given my expanding girth, I’m better off with something more binding.
I’m still tabulating the pros and cons of various undergarments when I overhear Richard’s deep voice greeting our receptionist on the other side of my partition:
“Good morning, Nancy. Where might I get a decent cup of tea around here?”
“I’m fine, thanks!” Nancy replies, before adding, “I love tea.”
What is it about Richard that is reducing all of the women—and some of the men—on our floor to idiocy? I’d love to set up a few cameras around the office to study the phenomenon—maybe do a little in-house reality television show.
We open with a view from the Ladies’ Bathroom Camera where the audience witnesses a dozen women jockeying for a position in front of the mirror. They’re fluffing and preening and turning to examine their profiles. Some are describing what they’d do if they got Richard alone for a night—or even for twenty minutes in the office boardroom. Several discuss sharing him. The giggling is deafening. After a final adjustment of panty hose and bras, they sashay out the door one by one.
We cut to Hall Camera, which picks up Richard swaggering past the ladies’ room, seemingly oblivious to the steady stream of well-groomed women—all staring straight ahead with expressions of studied nonchalance. The audience is wowed by Richard’s cool demeanor in the face of such temptation, but wait! What’s Hall Cam picking up now? As the women pass, Richard waits a beat, then cranes his neck around to do an ass check. No human has ever before shown such flexibility of the cranial vertebrae. It’s almost reptilian.
Let’s cut to Cubicle Cam for a closer look at the action. There’s our hero now, stopping at a few desks as he collects the information he needs to do his job. He’s charming his way from desk to desk while women stare agog like schoolgirls. Under Desk Cam reveals nervous trembling and crossed fingers. Special sensors pick up an increase of perspiration and blood flow to the privates.
Finally, Richard makes his way to his office and closes the door. Office Cam provides an insider’s view of primal man in his habitat. Viewers may be startled, and even horrified, as Richard belches (where’s that British polish now?). Under Desk Cam zooms in on the man’s crotch just as his large, well-manicured hand comes to rest upon it. The cameras will linger there, simultaneously titillating and repelling the viewer. The credits roll to end this week’s episode and the voiceover asks, “Will the Minister’s girls have their nasty way with Richard? Or will our hero choose self-love over a foursome on a boardroom table? Tune in next week to Much Ado about Dick to find out!”
The phone rings, shattering my fantasy.
“Hi, Libby, it’s Tim.”
For the first time in three days, all thoughts of Richard have vanished from my head. My heart starts pounding. I’m a woman of simple tastes after all. Why waste a moment’s thought on an unattainable businessman when a very pleasant high-school music teacher is actually on the line?
Tim apologizes again for the Porta Potti incident and explains that the girls mistakenly believed one of their own pals to be in the potty when they jammed the latch. It was just a harmless joke that got out of hand because they forgot to come back for her, he says. I don’t believe this for a second, but why dispel his kindhearted delusions? Instead, I graciously accept his apology. And when he invites me to join him for a movie, I happily agree.
After hanging up, my concentration immediately improves and I take full advantage by tackling one of the two new speeches the Minister has assigned. I haven’t been able to focus since Richard’s arrival. At checkout time, I take the shortest route to the elevator. I don’t give Richard a thought all evening and even forget to mention his arrival to Lola when she calls to complain that Michael canceled dinner plans at the last minute again. For a change, I’m blissfully content as I climb into bed. My second date with Tim is going to be terrific. I will carry cologne in my purse, though, just in case.
I awaken with a vague sense of guilt. Then my dream about Richard comes flooding back to me. I let the man have his way with me. No, worse, I had my way with him. The details are sketchy, but clothes were flying and he was talking dirty to me with that lovely English accent. The sex, if I may say, was incredible.
I go heavy on the cold water in the shower to erase the feeling and am soon able to appreciate just how uncomfortable the boardroom table would be for a real life shagging. I’m not eighteen anymore and Richard and I are both very tall. And how about those party pumps? I must cleanse my mind of illicit thoughts of Richard and replace them with images of Tim. Tim is just as handsome as Richard and his footwear—with the exception of the sports sock episode at the Governor General’s—is far superior.
A trip to the photocopier is my first priority upon reaching the office, despite my good intentions. I still haven’t been formally introduced to Richard. Admittedly, the opportunities have been few because the Minister and Margo keep him in back-to-back meetings. Still, you’d think they’d stop by my cubicle and make an introduction. Or you’d think he’d make an effort himself. He may even be going out of his way not to notice me. Given my frequent visits to the Xerox machine, he probably has me pegged as the office lackey and Bill did say he’s a snob.
I manage to live through the day without seeing him. Laurie says the Minister has taken him to a policy seminar. At least it leaves me free to focus on my other speech and by 6:00 p.m. I’m able to drop both of them on Margo’s desk. I have just enough time to hit the ladies’ room to prep for my date and take one last, slow pass by Richard’s office on my way out to see if he’s returned. I made quite an effort with my appearance today and I’d like Richard to benefit from Tim’s good fortune.
I’m loitering by the bulletin board near Richard’s door when Margo appears.
“Thinking of buying a boat?” she asks.
“What?” I look at her incredulously.
“Well, you’re staring at that ad for a sixteen-foot power boat.”
“Not at all. I’m looking at this ad for the dog walker,” I say, pointing to it.
“You don’t have a dog.”
“How do you know that?”
“You’re obviously a cat person.”
“I am not,” I say, bristling. I hate being labeled a “cat person,” as if I’m some old spinster living in a Victorian house that reeks of cat pee.
“My mistake. No need to get defensive,” Margo says, grinning.
A simple elbow to the temple, and she’d be down for the count. It’s ridiculous to have to rein in my brute strength like this day after day.
“I’m not defensive,” I say, defensively. “I like cats—and I’m getting a dog.”
“Yeah, what breed?” She looks skeptical.
“A Jack Russell—they’re bred to hunt rats, and I could use the protection around here. Anyway, is there something you want from me, Margo?”
“I noticed that the reference shelf is still in disarray.”
“Did you notice the two speeches I put on your desk?”
“Perhaps I failed to explain how important these reference texts are to the Minister.”
“You’ve explained. I’ve just been busy.”
“Maybe you could look into it when you’re done with these ads.”
She scuttles off and I’m turning to leave myself when Richard pokes his head out of his office with a curious smile. Evidently, he’s overheard our petty conversation. That’s what I get for trolling.
Thanks to my unexpected run-in with Margo, I arrive at the theater a few minutes late. Tim has already bought the tickets and the trailers are starting as we sit down. A group of people move into the row behind us, knocking into my seat repeatedly as they pass. I turn around to glare and find it’s the six juvenile delinquents from the concert.
“Hi, Mr. Kennedy!” they chorus.
Tim looks around in surprise. “Well, girls, this is a coincidence! You remember Miss McIssac? In fact, I think you have something to say to her.”
The ringleader, who is directly behind me, speaks up: “Sorry about locking you in the Porta Potti last week, Miss McIssac. It was an accident.”
“An accident?” I say, raising my eyebrows.
“Yeah, we thought it was Shelley in there and we were just joking with her. Right, Shelley?” Alpha Teen turns to a girl farther down the row, who blows a bubble and cracks it before nodding at me.
I can’t see their faces very well in the darkened theater but I sense a row of smirks. Tim is oblivious to mockery and smiles proudly at his students. He’s fallen for their bullshit, hook, line and sinker. He finds them hard to ignore during the movie, however. Every few minutes, one or another asks him to explain the plot. They laugh overly loudly at the jokes and make kissing noises during the love scenes. About halfway through, Alpha Teen leans forward and says,
“How do you feel about the recorder, Mr. Kennedy?” He shushes her, but moments later, she inquires, “How tall are you, Mr. Kennedy?”
“Six foot three. Now, be quiet.”
I smile smugly in the darkness, but then they start whispering for my benefit.
“What’s that perfume?” Shelley asks Alpha.
“It’s called Outhouse,” Alpha replies.
“Man, it reeks.”
Somehow I manage not to rise to the bait. The fact that Tim has taken my hand gives me strength. Later, the girls simmer down and settle for pelting me with popcorn and kicking the back of the chair in a restrained way, so as not to attract Tim’s attention.
I’ve never been so glad to see credits roll. Tim quietly suggests we give our entourage the slip and find a quiet coffee shop. I’m all for it, but when I stand to leave, my feet won’t move. They’re stuck to the floor and my efforts to free them tip me sideways onto Tim. He pushes me upright and stands himself. The girls have moved out into the aisle, and are standing there, snickering. My feet, it turns out, are glued to the floor with a soft drink that the Ruffians deliberately spilled behind me. A struggle reminiscent of the chicken dance finally frees me to stalk out of the theater ahead of Tim. He catches up to me in the lobby and sheepishly points to the paper napkins stuck to my shoes. The girls advance again while I’m peeling them off, but Tim stops them in their tracks with a severe “Good night, girls.”
Realizing they’ve worn out their welcome, the girls disappear down Yonge Street amid much laughter. We head in the opposite direction and find a quiet café in Yorkville. Tim plucks kernels of popcorn from my hair as we sit down.
“Sorry,” he says. “I seem to have to say that to you a lot.”
“Well, you can’t help it if you’re a hit with younger women.”
“They don’t have your sophistication.”
“True. You saw the way I handled the soft-drink-and-napkin crisis.”
“Grace under pressure.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice lately.”
We order Spanish coffees and Tim is soon regaling me with stories of his work. His passion for teaching is obvious.
“You’re lucky to have found your calling,” I say. “Until I started writing speeches, every job I’ve ever had was just that—a way to pay down the Visa bill.”
“And now?”
“Now, I know the fulfillment that comes of carrying designer handbags.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Libby,” Tim says, “you’re also a great waitress. And you’re not half-bad at speechwriting. At least it’s something to fall back on.”
“As long as I never have to teach. Those girls of yours scare the hell out of me. “
“Their bark is worse than their bite,” he says, smiling. Then he turns serious. “They’ve had to be tough, Libby. All of them have overcome serious problems to get where they are. Brianne, for example, was a homeless kid who I met when she was busking on Queen Street. I got her into a shelter, then into a technical school and finally she auditioned for the Youth Orchestra. You wouldn’t believe how far she’s come.”
My God, the man is some sort of musical missionary, cruising the streets of Toronto for opportunities to change lives. He really cares about these kids. No wonder they adore him. Whereas, in my spare time, I pay Elliot to tell Me more about Me. Not that Tim is trying to make me feel small. On the contrary, he’s leaning across the table and his arm is touching mine. He doesn’t seem nearly as repelled by my shallowness as he should be. Clearly, I need to help him fathom my complete lack of depth.
“Tim, it’s amazing the way you support these kids. I have to confess, the closest I’ve come to helping humanity was when I considered smothering Margo in a motel room last month—and even then, I was too lazy to follow through. All I seem to want to do on weekends is chill out and it’s never occurred to me to volunteer. I guess that’s pretty selfish.”
“There are plenty of weekends where all I do is hang out with my dog,” Tim says. “Besides, I’m sure you put a lot of energy into writing your book.”
Damn that book, I curse the moment I invented it! Since we’re sharing this confessional moment, I should come clean right now. But he looks so earnest and kind that I hate to disappoint him. Surely I’ve humbled myself enough for one night.
“Well, I haven’t made a lot of progress lately…so busy…”
“That must be frustrating, when it’s your creative outlet.”
Why can’t I be like other girls and choose flawed men who allow me to feel good about myself? Instead I’m sitting with the nicest man in the room and lying to him. Really, I’m despicable.
“How do you find the time to juggle so many things?” I ask.
“I’m just used to it. These days, it’s only stressful when someone throws a curveball.”
“Like what?”
“Well, a few months ago, one of my guys from music camp showed up at my door with a black eye and a dislocated shoulder. His mother’s boyfriend has been roughing him up. My life became a series of court dates and meetings with the Children’s Aid Society. It was brutal, but I’m grateful he could confide in me.”
“I don’t know how you handle it.”
“You just do, Libby. You’d do the same if it were you.”
I’d never let it stand between me and a mochaccino, that’s for sure. The man refuses to accept just how frivolous I am. The same blind eye he turns on his students’ bad behavior is now benefiting me. Tim’s life seems terribly grown up, whereas mine is all about petty battles with Margo.
The combination of shame and Spanish coffee is bringing me down. I sit back in my seat and withdraw my arm from the table. By the time Tim drops me off at my house, I’m wondering why on earth he’d want to spend a minute with me. He’s as sweet and charming as ever when we say good-night, but I jump out of his Jeep before he can kiss me—or worse, avoid kissing me. No sense in becoming too attached to a guy who’s bound to see through me anyway. I’ll save him the trouble of spurning me: the self-dump has long been my preferred method of saving face.
The phone is already ringing when I reach my cubicle the next morning. As I pick up, I notice that nothing is on my desk as I’d left it: Margo has been rifling through my things again.
“Hey, Lib, it’s Lola. Remember Julie Redding, from journalism school?”
“How could I forget? She’s the one who told me I should get my teeth done.”
“Yeah, well, she told me that smoking was aging me,” Lola replies.
“Smoking is aging you.”
“And you should get your teeth done. Cosmetic dental work is far more advanced than when we were in college.”
“When you get your first face-lift, I’ll do my teeth and we can write a book about it,” I suggest. “So, why are you calling?”
“To tell you that Julie has just published her second book.”
“Jesus.” I feel like the wind has been kicked out of me.
“I know. Her first one sucked.”
“A total piece of crap.”
“I paid full price for it, too,” Lola adds.
“I got it out of the library, but at least you were able to deface yours.”
“True. I wrote profanity in the margins and sold it to a secondhand book dealer.”
“Yet they’ve set her loose on the page again. It’s so wrong. We should be writing books, you know. Julie Redding has nothing on us.”
“Except that she actually does it, instead of just talking about it, you mean.”
“Exactly, but if we were to write, we’d be far better than she is.”
“That goes without saying.”
“So, thanks for ruining my day.”
“My pleasure,” Lola laughs.
When I get home, I pick up the latest compelling addition to my woo-woo self-help library, Write it Down, Make it Happen, and vow to work through every exercise. I don’t have a lot of hope though, because I’ve kept a journal for twenty years and nothing much has come of writing it all down. At least I’m consistent, having listed writing a book as my goal for the past decade.
Despite a brisk round of affirmations, I feel demoralized as I climb into bed. Talentless Julie Redding is writing books full-time whereas I’m best known for carrying someone’s handbag. Furthermore, I’m dating a man who is too good for me. I should give him Julie’s number.
There’s been a lot of press on “sick building syndrome,” but Queen’s Park is probably the first case of “horny building syndrome.” On my way in today, the security guard told me he’s patrolling hourly, because a couple keeps coming in off the street to have sex in the women’s washrooms. He’s caught them in the act three times in two days. This never happened before Richard arrived. Fortunately, he won’t be with us on a full-time basis or no one would get any work done. Margo just informed me that he’ll be flying in from London as his schedule permits. I’m wondering if I’ll get to meet him before he leaves, when Margo adds, “By the way, the Minister expects you to attend the Opera Company event tonight. Richard and I will be there, of course. It’s black tie, so please make an effort.”
Thanks for the advance notice, Marg. I have no choice but to resurrect Roxanne’s lucky dress. To my relief it fits better than it did a month ago. With the aid of two dozen bobby pins and heavy-duty hair spray, I anchor my hair in an elaborate up-do and still make it out the door in record time.
Forty minutes later, I’m watching a soprano perform a painfully long piece. Literally. Every time she warbles the high notes, I feel an invisible stake driving into my gut. The control-top panty hose must be squeezing my spleen against my kidneys. Not that I had any choice about wearing them tonight—without them, I wouldn’t have the courage to meet Richard.
The Minister finally takes the stage to address the crowd and for the first time, I’m thankful for her habit of racing through her speeches. She’s had a glass or three of champagne and keeps giggling over her own (i.e., my) jokes. Fortunately, the crowd seems to find this endearing. They even laugh warmly at the reference to the Sawdust’s song—not that the Minister intended this to get a laugh but I couldn’t see any way to work it into the speech other than to make a gently self-deprecating joke at her own expense. I trusted that she would not read it in advance, and I was right. Her champagne consumption is an unexpected bonus. Although momentarily taken aback by the laughter, she soon joins in and when the speech is over, she floats off the stage and across the room with Richard in tow.
“Richard,” she says, “I want to introduce you to Lily. She helps me prepare my speeches.”
Helps me?!
“It’s a pleasure to meet you—” he takes my hand, and I’m overcome by an urge to bury my head against his chest “—Lily.”
Did he just call me Lily? Better address that right away. I don’t want him screaming that into my pillow. I give myself a mental slap and release his hand.
“Hello, Richard. The name is Libby.”
“Libby?” he repeats, turning quizzically to the Minister.
“Will you excuse me for a moment?” she says. “I see Monique LeClerc.” She leaves me alone with Richard and my burgeoning hormones.
“So,” he says, “you help the Minister with her speeches.”
“Uh…yes, yes I do.”
What am I supposed to say? That I write every last word of them and she isn’t involved in any way, other than to deliver them poorly?
“I believe I’ve seen you at the copy machine,” he says. “You must be lining up facts for Clarice.”
So he does think I’m the office minion. This has gone far enough.
“Actually, I’ve been very busy—”
“—researching and formatting the Minister’s speeches,” Margo interrupts smoothly, materializing with her usual stealth.
So that’s it: the Minister doesn’t like to admit that she never writes her own speeches. No wonder I get so many mixed messages about my job—it doesn’t really exist! It’s crazy. Very few Ministers write their own speeches, although now that I think about it, I believe Monique LeClerc, Minister of Recreation and friend of Mrs. Cleary, does write hers.
“Well, tonight’s speech hit the mark,” Richard says, “although Clarice spoke much too quickly. And the reference to that ’70s song was a bit odd.”
What a discerning fellow he is! My knees are buckling, so I tip half a glass of bourbon down my throat to steady myself.
“The Minister has good instincts about an audience like this,” Margo pipes up again. “She offered strong direction to Libby in preparing the text.”
“She did indeed, Margo,” I say, smiling. “Every dosie-dodo…” The booze is going to my head and I can’t resist.
Margo looks at me as though I’ve lost my mind, then turns abruptly to Richard and changes the subject.
“Are you a fan of the opera, Richard?”
“Not at all,” he replies. “I find it exquisitely painful and attend only under duress.”
I stifle a guffaw and am rewarded by a steady gaze from the most hypnotic green eyes I’ve ever seen. Suddenly the room feels extremely warm and I use my copy of the Minister’s speech as a fan. Then, recalling that fans just move the pheromones around, I judge it safer to remove myself.
Call it women’s intuition, but I sense that Richard is watching me go. While I stand at the bar waiting for my drink, I chance a look over my shoulder and sure enough, he’s swiveled right around to stare at my butt! He catches my eye and has the audacity to grin at me! I should feel harassed, I suppose, but I’m harassed only by doubts about the quality of my rear view.
After a few casual sips of my drink, I look around a second time. Mrs. Cleary is at Richard’s side, chattering up at him vivaciously, but he’s looking over her head at me. I suspect he’s been matching the Minister glass for glass of champagne. I have consumed more alcohol than usual myself, but there’s no mistaking the expression on his face. Red alert, Libby! You got away with professional misconduct last month, but do you want to tempt fate again? You’re not that lucky. Richard is still gazing at me and my face is flushing. If he comes over, resistance will be futile. So, I gather my strength, set my unfinished drink on the bar and head out the door. I am not too drunk to know when I’m way out of my league.