“When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, it’s your birthday,” my father croons as we wait in line at the new Wood Oven Pizza Bistro.
After my parents’ reaction to the new fusion cuisine a few months back, I’m taking no chances: pizza is paternally sanctioned. Besides, this place is ideally located midway between my apartment and Queen’s Park and I want to check it out.
“Dad, my birthday was last week.”
He grins at me before launching back in: “When the world seems to shine, like you’ve had too much wine, it’s your birthday.”
“Can you make him stop?” I ask my mother. She shakes her head helplessly.
“Bells will ring, ting-a-ling-a-ling, ting-a-ling-a-ling, veeta bella…”
Fortunately, the hostess arrives in time to spare me the big finish and leads us to a corner table. After this, dinner progresses quietly enough until a waiter arrives carrying a piece of tiramisu with a sparkler jutting out of it and begins singing “Happy Birthday.” My father and half the diners join in enthusiastically. My humiliation is cut short by a commotion at the front of the restaurant.
“What do you mean it’s not bloody ready?” a man’s voice is demanding. “It’s bad enough that you don’t deliver. Now I’ve left my hotel and traipsed over here and you have the gall to tell me my order isn’t ready. This is unacceptable!”
I know that voice. The imperious British accent is a dead giveaway. A glance over my shoulder reveals Richard leaning over the bar in an attempt to intimidate the manager. There’s a nearly inaudible response from the manager and then, “No, I don’t want a bloody drink while I wait! I want the meal I ordered, thank you very much. I have work to do this evening. Oh never mind. Forget it. Just give me whatever is quickest.” After another calm response from the manager, Richard barks, “You’re damned right I’m not paying for it. I’ve never experienced such poor service in my life!”
I can’t believe how rude he is. If I’d seen this side of him three months ago, I’d have kept my hormones to myself, like a proper lady.
“Get a load of the limey,” my father snorts. “The accent’s given him delusions of royalty. He’s damn lucky I’m not the manager here. I’d shove a pizza up his crumpet-eating ass—teach him some manners.” I sink down in my chair.
“Reg!” My mother is scandalized. “Keep your voice down!”
“I’ve never met a Brit I liked and I don’t care who knows it.” Dad’s arm shoots into the air to summon the waiter.
“There are plenty of fine Englishmen around, Dad.”
“Nah, they’re all pale and uptight. The dampness rots their brains.” He’s baiting me now. “And look at the crap they eat. If it isn’t fish and chips, it’s steak-and-kidney pie.”
“You love fish and chips,” my mother says.
“You’re missing the point, Marjory, which is that I am Scottish: I’m supposed to hate the British.”
“Grampa was Scottish, Dad. You’ve never left this continent.”
“The blood of the Highlanders still courses through these veins, lassie.”
“Italian wine is coursing through your veins, Rob Roy,” Mom says.
I glance again toward the door in time to see Richard striding out with his meal. Dad watches him go, then turns back to pay our bill: “All I can say is, thank God you and Brian never dragged home a Brit.”
“Well, I’m not promising a man in a kilt,” I tell him as we get our coats.
I am sitting with the Minister while she reviews a draft speech when I hear it: a high-pitched giggle. It sounds like Margo’s voice, but it can’t be. She’s incapable of giggling. I hear Richard’s voice murmuring something just outside the door and there it is again. It’s definitely Margo, and Richard is inducing that freakish sound. I almost seize the pencil from the Minister’s hand and drive it into my ear.
“Do you think that’s meant to impress me?” the Minister asks, nodding toward the door.
“I believe that’s the point, yes. Is it working?”
“The performances aren’t very convincing.” She looks at me over her glasses and smiles.
“You’re supposed to suspend your disbelief,” I advise.
“Better to suspend the staff, perhaps?”
I silently marvel over the fact that I’ve actually come to like Mrs. Cleary—at least most of the time. Despite the pleasant exchange, however, I leave her office feeling uneasy. For some reason, I’m still worried about the upcoming policy changes. Richard and Margo are far too caught up with their personal agendas to pay attention to the details and when it comes to government, I’ve learned that the devil is always in the details. I’d like to stay on the sidelines and let the chips fall where they may. It’s not my job to prevent Richard and Margo from embarrassing the Ministry. Unfortunately, the Minister will take the bullet if something goes wrong and I don’t really want to see that happen. She may be naive, vain and annoying, but she doesn’t deserve to be dragged down by scheming opportunists.
I suppose it wouldn’t kill me to do a little digging and see if there’s any basis to my suspicions. Marjory would say it’s the right thing to do.
“I don’t see why we can’t meet somewhere nice for once,” I grumble, as Elliot and I slide onto a bench at the Queen’s Head beside eight strangers. Normally it’s not this busy on a Wednesday, but it happens to be fetish night.
“I do my best work in these places, you know that. Things just flow better…” His voice trails off as a man in a wet suit passes. The rear of the suit has been cut away to expose the guy’s waxed butt.
“Elliot? Hello? A little focus would be nice.”
“Sorry, what were you saying?”
“How does Günter put up with you?” I sigh.
“He doesn’t appreciate the humor of it all as you do,” Elliot concedes.
A buxom woman in a black leather bikini, thigh-high boots and an executioner-style face mask tickles the back of my neck with the tip of her whip. “You shopping, honey?” she asks, in a surprisingly feminine voice.
“Just looking, thanks.” I wave the whip away, while Elliot laughs. “That’s the real reason you bring me to these places—to mock me.”
“It’s been good for you—you’re only half as uptight as you used to be.”
“I’m not uptight.”
“Trust me, your bolts still need loosening. I’ve never met such a worrywart.”
“I am not!”
“Self-knowledge is a wonderful thing, Lib.” Elliot signals the waiter to bring another martini. “But let’s not ruin the evening by arguing. Tell me what’s happening in Flower Girl’s love life?”
“Before you corner me on that, could we talk about work? I sense something is going wrong with a new Ministry initiative, but I don’t know what to do about it.”
“Thought you didn’t worry,” he says, smiling.
“Fine, I worry—and in some cases it’s justified.”
“Well, I’m seeing the image of a chessboard. I sense someone is being played.”
“I knew it!” I say, remembering Richard’s recent behavior with Margo. Maybe he’s trying to put her off the trail of a secret plot. “What else do you see?” I ask eagerly.
“Well, it doesn’t seem to make much sense in this context, but I see a crucifix.”
“Really? Maybe someone is going to be crucified at work. I hope it isn’t me.”
Elliot’s interest evaporates as a police officer walks toward us. I’m convinced it’s a real cop until I notice the velvet thong he’s wearing over his uniform pants. Only after the cop makes a mock arrest of the woman with the whip can Elliot concentrate long enough to confirm there’s still hope with Tim—but only if I’m willing to make the first move.
As we walk to the subway, Elliot invites me to attend a wedding with Lola as research for our book. One of the guys in Günter’s band is formalizing his union with his longtime boyfriend. I suspect this might raise a few eyebrows with our publisher, but agree anyway. Knowing the two grooms, this is likely to be the event of the season.
Joe Connolly is sitting at his desk as I stroll down the hall of the policy branch. I’ve barely seen him since the Gay Pride parade, and each time we’ve passed in the hall, we’ve looked carefully in opposite directions. Today he catches me watching him and waves me over.
“So, how have you been?” I ask, leaning against the door frame and surveying his office. Its sparseness reminds me of his condo: no certificates on the wall, no calendars, no personal photographs—nothing but the essentials of work. Still living the monastic lifestyle.
“Great, you?” The man is surprisingly gracious, considering the terms of our parting.
I’m about to ramble on casually when I notice the crucifix hanging over his computer monitor. My throat dries out as I recall Elliot’s vision. It must be a sign. Since being on staff, Joe has gained the reputation of being one of the best policy analysts in the Ministry. “Listen, Joe, I wonder if you could give me some advice about our new policy initiative.”
“Contact Culture? Actually, I’m not really in the loop. I’m working on other initiatives.”
“I just want to know if you get the sense everything is under control.”
“You’re worried?”
“I can’t help thinking that Margo might be missing an important detail. She’s still reasonably new to policy work and you know how complicated it is.”
“But Richard Neale is working closely with one of my policy colleagues on the changes. You don’t think he’s withholding information from Margo?”
I shrug. “All I’m saying is that I have a hunch something is being overlooked.”
“Look, I’ve got a meeting right now, but let me do some digging. Why don’t you swing by my office tomorrow?”
I nod gratefully and head back to my office. Joe is known to be very thorough and he’s certainly a man of honor. If there is any dirt clinging to this launch, he’ll find it.
The door to Joe’s office is closed and I wonder if I’ve left it too late to visit. After all, it’s almost five on Friday afternoon.
“Hi, Libby,” I turn to see him walking toward me. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
“Just got here.”
“I’ve just come from the comptroller’s office and it looks like your instincts were right on the money.”
I sigh. I didn’t want to be right about this. After all, I spent three months fantasizing about Richard. Do I need more evidence of my poor judgment?
Joe invites me into his office and I see that a framed eight-by-ten glamour shot of a woman has arrived on his desk since yesterday. Joe positions his guest chair to offer me optimal viewing.
“How bad is it?” I ask, ignoring the blue-eyed beauty in her cheap pine frame.
Joe explains that Richard appears to be paying a company called Loud Mouth Publicity far above the amount he originally quoted to the Minister. The additional funds have been siphoned out of the After the Bell budget, since Contact Culture’s budget is already much smaller than that of its predecessor. The restricted funding will obviously have an impact on the support currently offered to students. Worse, Joe says the scheduled changes are likely to impact the students from lower income families the most.
He has more to say, but I’ve heard enough. The Minister should hear this directly from Joe and fortunately, she’s still in the office. I sneak him up the emergency staircase to the Minister’s office. Margo and Richard are working together in the boardroom and I don’t want to raise any suspicions on their part by walking past them with Joe.
Mrs. Cleary beckons us in and I explain that Joe has identified some potential problems with Contact Culture. She listens impassively as Joe speaks until he reaches the part about the reduction in student access to the arts.
“I don’t understand,” she interrupts. “Richard and Margo both know that guaranteeing the poorest kids access to the arts is extremely important to both me and the Premier. How could this happen?”
I offer no explanation.
“I’m afraid there’s more,” Joe says. “Minister, I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of researching Loud Mouth Publicity and discovered something interesting.” He pauses and waits for her assent to continue. When she nods, he says, “It’s a new company, owned by a twenty-seven-year-old named Maxwell Peel—the son of the wealthy London financier James Peel, who has strong ties to the Labor party. Max apparently had trouble holding down a job and when his idleness started causing trouble in the U.K., Daddy shipped him off to the colonies and set him up in business here.”
“So Margo was right in saying the company had no track record,” the Minister says. “I’ve been so wrapped up in Tomorrow’s Talent that I obviously haven’t paid enough attention to this project. But why is Richard so anxious to give this Maxwell our business?”
“I have it on good authority that Richard plans to run as a member of British parliament when a senior MP retires this year. James Peel has a lot of political clout and he’s promised to back Richard if he keeps up his end and helps Junior Peel get his business off the ground. A government contract would go a long way to help.”
“Julian and I had no idea!” Mrs. Cleary is dumbfounded. “How did you learn all this?” she asks Joe.
“As Libby knows, Minister, I have friends in high places.” He looks at me and raises his eyes skyward in a joking reference to his previous career.
“Does Margo know?” the Minister asks. In need of comfort, perhaps, she opens her drawer and runs her index finger along a row of gleaming gold lipstick tubes.
“I doubt it, and I doubt she understands the impact Richard’s scheming is having on either Contact Culture or After the Bell. It was hard enough for me to uncover these details and I had to call in a lot of favors. Plus, I was tipped off that there might be a problem.” Joe gives a pointed nod in my direction.
The Minister pauses in her lipstick application and lowers her compact to look at me. “Libby, how did you know something was going on?” It’s the first time she’s ever used my correct name.
“I didn’t. It was just a hunch, which is why I went to Joe first.”
“Well, I’m grateful that you raised your concerns,” she says. “And now, if you two will excuse me, I have some investigating of my own to do.” She reaches into her drawer, pulls out her curling iron and hands it to me. “Plug this in before you go, would you?” I hesitate for a moment and she adds, “Don’t worry, the office has been rewired.” I notice that her hand is trembling.
I thank Joe on the way out and offer to buy him a beer at the pub around the corner. He declines, saying he already has a date “with a special lady.” Sensing I’m supposed to eat my heart out, I summon a disappointed expression. I owe him that much.
Later, walking home I feel relieved. Whatever happens now, I’ve done what I can and it’s out of my hands. Hopefully, it isn’t too late for the Minister to straighten this mess out.
Lola is outside, honking the horn impatiently. I throw some food down for Cornelius, kiss him on the head (a mistake, since I’m wearing sticky lip gloss) and hurry out of my apartment. I almost careen into Mrs. Murdock, although the scent of lavender should have alerted me to her presence. Obviously she’s been using the bath bombs I gave her.
“Better hurry,” she says, “your ride is leaving without you.”
I run down the walk toward Mindy, Lola’s beloved 1965 Ford Mustang, named in tribute to her favorite TV series of all time, Mork and Mindy. Lola dropped a ton of cash rebuilding and painting Mindy’s chassis but she ran out of funds before she could get Mindy’s engine overhauled, so it’s always a roll of the dice as to whether you’ll get where you need to go. Mindy is sensitive to changes in the weather and it’s been damp all week. I could have offered to drive, but I’ve long suspected Lola keeps the old wreck simply to avoid taking her turn as the designated driver.
Lola allows Mindy to creep forward along the curb. I open the door, take a few running footsteps and launch myself into the moving vehicle. Lola presses down on the accelerator the moment my butt is in the seat and we chug away.
“What’s wrong with Mindy?” I ask, as the car shakes with deep, sputtering gasps.
“PMS.” Lola raises her voice over the whine as the engine catches and guns it through an amber traffic light. “She isn’t in the mood for idling today but as long as I keep her moving, we’ll get to the wedding on time.”
Lola guides Mindy through a series of side streets, turning onto a main road now and then. When there’s a red light in the distance, we peel off to a side street again, or cut through a parking lot or gas station—anything to keep Mindy moving in the general direction of the Capitol Theatre. When Lola pulls into a parking spot and cuts the engine, Mindy coughs twice and dies.
“Poor Mindy,” I say.
“She’ll be fine,” Lola assures me, “but we’ll need to call the motor league half an hour before we want to leave.”
The Capitol Theatre, a beautifully renovated old movie house, is the perfect venue for Decker and Jordie’s wedding. They aren’t having a formal meal, just tapas and sushi and fancy cocktails.
Lola and I head straight to the main bar, a beautiful mix of stainless steel and gleaming dark wood, and settle onto bar stools to take in the view. And it’s quite a view. Jordie is a set decorator for films and he has a skilled eye. Rows of tiny votive candles line the upper balcony, which has been strewn with garlands of greenery and hot pink and orange gerbera daisies. Wrought-iron candelabras light the main floor where enormous urns burst with spring blooms. The rear wall of the theater is covered in a rich, midnight-blue velvet with holes punched throughout. Behind the curtain, strings of twinkle lights make the wall look like an expanse of stars.
“Wow, Jordie has a gift,” I tell Elliot and Günter when they arrive. “It’s magical.”
“There was a lot of hard work behind the magic,” Elliot says. “We spent most of yesterday helping them set up. But we didn’t work half as hard as this guy,” he adds, pulling over a short, stocky, balding man. “Libby, Lola, allow me to introduce Paul, floral artiste extraordinaire—the man behind those gorgeous arrangements. Paul, Libby and Lola are researching their book on the modern Canadian wedding.”
Paul shakes hands with us, saying, “The next few hours should give you two plenty to write about.” He seemed like a pretty ordinary guy at first glance but now that he’s grinning, his blue eyes twinkle with mischief. It has a magical effect on Lola, who strikes up an animated conversation and by the time Paul leaves to assist the grooms, Elliot and I are suspicious.
“He isn’t loaded, Lola,” Elliot cautions. “He owns a flower shop in the Beaches.”
“You’re telling me this why? It’s not like I only date people who are rich,” she says.
“True, you’ll usually date them if they’re gorgeous,” I offer helpfully.
“Could someone give me a little credit here?” she says. “You’re making me sound shallow!”
“Many have risked spinal injury diving into Lola, but we love you anyway,” Elliot says, slipping an arm around her.
Before the conversation can get ugly, the leader of the five-piece band steps to the mike at the edge of the stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he begins, as the percussionist gives a drum roll, “it gives me great pleasure to welcome you to the wedding of Jordie and Decker!”
An enormous movie screen descends behind the band and the opening credits of the Sound of Music fill the screen. While Julie Andrews spins her way across the Alps, two figures appear on stage, dressed as Captain von Trapp and Maria. Cheers erupt as people realize it’s the grooms. Decker cuts a fine figure in the Captain’s dress uniform and Jordie looks fresh and pretty in Maria’s pinafore. The latter is holding an acoustic guitar in one hand and a bouquet of plastic edelweiss in the other. The bridal party, consisting of three nuns in full habit, appears behind them. The ring bearer and flower girl arrive next, in outfits similar to those Maria made from curtains for the von Trapp children.
The bandleader, who has stepped behind the curtain, reappears dressed in liederhosen and a fake moustache: We have our Uncle Max.
“That’s Oliver Blake,” Günter explains, “a pal from the music circuit. He married his boyfriend last year and encouraged the guys to make it official.”
“Dearly beloved,” Uncle Max begins. “We are gathered here today to honor Decker and Jordie. As many of you know, they were very young when they met and they knew in an instant that they were meant for each other. But let us hear the story from the grooms themselves, shall we?”
The grooms step to the mike and begin the duet, “Sixteen Going on Seventeen.”
By the time they finish, the audience is convulsed with laughter. Jordie curtsies as Decker bows. They gesture for silence and the two repeat their vows. Afterward, Günter gets on stage, takes the acoustic guitar and accompanies himself to “Edelweiss,” complete with German accent. The grooms dance. Many of the guests rush the stage and join in a lively rendition of “The Lonely Goatherd,” yodelling enthusiastically.
Elliot and I rush the sushi bar instead but we both keep our eye on Lola, who is bounding around the stage in a mad polka with Paul, the florist. It’s not like her to completely abandon her dignity.
“Interesting,” Elliot notes, “but it’ll never last. Paul’s far too normal and nice.” I nod in agreement. Nice-and-normal has never commanded Lola’s attention for long.
Elliot and I carry our overflowing plates to the balcony and sit by the rail to watch the show. Günter and Decker have joined the band, kicking things up a notch with an energetic cover of the Ramones’ “I Wanna be Sedated.” Lola and Paul are slam dancing the nuns, which reminds me to tell Elliot about how his vision of a crucifix played out at work.
“I’m glad I could help,” he says. “But since you’re in the mood to acknowledge my remarkable gift, why haven’t you followed my advice about Tim?”
“Who says I haven’t?”
He looks at me steadily. “Remember who you’re talking to. Look, in the words of the Reverend Mother, ‘When God closes a door, he opens a window.’ Your window is about to close and you, my friend, are going to get your fingers squashed if you don’t act soon.”
“Roxanne said almost the same thing.”
“So who else needs to tell you? Are you afraid to surrender your title as the Girl with the most Secondhand Bouquets?”
“Give it a rest, Elliot. It’s one thing to know what you should do and another to do it.”
An hour later, Uncle Max summons everyone to gather before the stage for the tossing of the bouquet.
“You’re up, Flower Girl,” Elliot says. “Don’t break a nail.”
“No danger,” I answer, waving my fingers at him, “I’ve gone acrylic.”
The band strikes up “Edelweiss” again, only this time Günter sings the lyrics in the mode of Sid Vicious. There’s a long drum roll as Jordie takes center stage and limbers up with some shoulder rolls. He turns his back to the crowd and heaves the plastic bouquet over his shoulder. The nuns surge forward, nearly trampling the von Trapp children, but the bouquet sails over their outstretched fingers toward me. I consider reaching up and snatching it dramatically out of the air. With this crowd, there’s pressure to put on a bit of a show. I could even do a little leap. Before I can do anything, someone deliberately steps in front of me and shoves me roughly aside. When I regain my footing, my hands are raised over my head—empty. The bouquet is in the hands of the man beside me: Elliot.
“I don’t believe it!” I exclaim. “The curse is broken!”
“I did it for you,” Elliot says, examining a bleeding gash on his hand from the impact of the plastic stems.
“How does it feel, Flower Boy?”
“Like I need a drink,” he replies, but he’s grinning.
Günter hurries over, carrying two glasses of champagne and gives one to each of us. “Oh, liebling, let me be your bride,” he burbles happily, daubing Elliot’s hand with a napkin.
“I did it for you,” Elliot tells him, winking at me.
“Come on, Lib,” Lola grabs my arm and pulls me toward the dessert table, “let’s celebrate your deflowering with wedding cake.”
After the cake is cut and distributed, the two of us fan out to interview guests. In what seems like no time at all, the bandleader announces the last dance: “So Long, Farewell.”
Jordie’s dad waltzes me around with relative ease, considering my two-left-size-12s. Lola, meanwhile, is cheek-to-cheek with Paul the florist and when the song is over, they step to the bar and exchange phone numbers. Then Lola and I bid the grooms good-night, and make our way to the door, where we’re given a small package.
I unwrap mine in the parking lot as we wait for the motor league to resuscitate Mindy. It’s a Jesus night-light with the grooms’ names and the date at our Saviour’s feet.
Lola lights a cigarette, takes a long pull and blows a smoke ring into the chilly air. “That,” she says, “was a fucking great wedding.”
“Amazing,” I agree, stuffing Jesus back into the box. “Give me one of those, will you?” I take the pack of DuMaurier Lights from her hand.
“Are you kidding?”
“Nope, I’m celebrating. Can you believe Elliot caught the bouquet for me?”
“Hmmmm? He’s fantastic, isn’t he?”
“I assume you mean Paul, not Elliot. Are you sure he’s single?”
“There were too many of his friends around for him to lie.”
“True. So, is he rich and famous?”
She shoots me a look, “Yeah, I hear he did the boutonnieres for the Oscars.”
“He’s not even that cute,” I say, then catch myself. “I’m sorry, Lola, I didn’t mean that. It’s just that you normally go for guys who are movie-star gorgeous.”
“Or, rich, as you noted. That’s the second time this evening you’ve accused me of being a gold digger and I’m not too thrilled about it.”
“Gold digger is far too strong a term,” I assure her. We’re silent for a minute as the motor league truck pulls into the lot. “You’re sure he’s not gay?”
“Libby,” she says, exasperated.
“I’m sorry, but I’m missing something. You’ve never been interested in a guy like Paul before.”
“You mean a decent guy with no agenda?” she asks, flicking her cigarette onto the asphalt and grinding it out with her foot. “Well, I’m a pragmatic woman and it’s becoming painfully obvious that my old ways aren’t working. I’ve decided to give ‘normal’ a try.”
She pops the hood and the guy with the jumper cables gives her an appreciative once-over. On his signal, she turns the key in the ignition and Mindy springs to life. We drive home in silence, each of us lost in thought. I jump out in front of my place while Lola keeps Mindy rolling forward.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say as she sputters away from the curb. I run alongside the car for a few paces. “Look, Paul seems great. Good luck!”
Her confident smile suggests she had only to make a decision for everything to fall into place. Walking back toward my door, I wonder if I have the courage to make the same decision so gracefully.