It’s Tuesday morning, 8:30 a.m., officially forty hours since I’ve received any communication from Peter. My fury is starting to fade, or at least be overshadowed by my panic. He’s never gone underground like this, not in all of the years we’ve worked together. People are looking for him. Specifically, people are looking for him for the waterfront development meeting at nine, which I scheduled and cancelled twice yesterday, and which I must hold this morning at nine in order to prevent a revolution among our left-wing base.
I circle the outer office again, cruising past Bonnie’s desk. She barely raises her head.
“No,” she says. “I haven’t heard from him.” She is unsympathetic to my plight. Her position requires no explanation: she told me not to open Peter’s door. I have both disrespected her authority and triggered consequences that are raining down on the entire office. I am not entitled to her pity.
“What should I do about the meeting?” I ask her. I have my merry band of Jim, Marla, Doris, Glynis, Charis, and Marshall on their way, along with a team of architects. I have agendas. I have briefing notes. I have copies of the newest version of the plans, which have the daycare centre and the women’s shelter in a completely separate building from the artists’ studios. I have a conference room booked. I have coffee and paper (not Styrofoam) cups. I have muffins from a local organic bakery that provides jobs to women transitioning back into the community after serving prison terms. I’ve even managed (thanks to Peter) to provide Marshall Westwood with forty-eight hours’ notice of the meeting. But I don’t have a mayor, and that is a big problem.
Bonnie shrugs. “That’s why you’re the chief of staff,” she says. Her phone flashes and she holds up a hand to stop me from answering. “Good morning, Mr. Mayor,” she says into the receiver. “Yes, sir. Everything is organized. We’ll see you shortly, then.” She disconnects and says, “He’s on his way.”
“Thank God,” I say. “When will he be here? I’d like him to talk with the architects to go over the plan before he goes into the meeting.”
“That’s unlikely,” says Bonnie as the door opens and Doris Renaud enters the office with one of Glynis or Charis. Twenty minutes early. Of course they are.
“I would like it noted that we are offended by the multiple changes in the meeting time,” says Doris. “It underscores the mayor’s contempt for women’s issues. He could not have made it more obvious that we are not his top priority. This meeting should have been held yesterday morning. As it is, Charis was unable to be here today, having moved an appointment to accommodate the original meeting time.”
“Please give her my apologies,” I say. “We were attempting to work with eight busy schedules on short notice. It simply wasn’t possible to get everyone in one room yesterday, even with Bonnie’s scheduling wizardry.” This offering fails to elicit even a hint of a smile from Bonnie.
Doris scowls. I smile harder. “Why don’t I put you in the conference room now, and you can have some coffee?” I say. “I’ll give you a copy of the agenda as well.”
“Fine,” says Doris. “I would appreciate a few minutes alone with the mayor when he arrives.”
“So would we all,” I say. “Let’s play that by ear.”
I lead Doris and Glynis to the conference room. “Make yourselves comfortable,” I say.
Doris studies my admittedly sparse breakfast buffet. “Are these muffins gluten-free?” she asks.
“Uh, no,” I say. “They’re organic and socially responsible.”
“Any herbal tea?”
“Let me check in the kitchen,” I say.
“Doris is extremely sensitive to caffeine,” says Glynis.
“On it,” I say, and return to the reception area as Jim Crawford and Marla Kraft reach the heavy glass doors. Marlene struggles to pull one open while Jim watches. She holds it for him and he glides through.
“I understand you heard from the international greenkeeper,” says Jim.
“Marshall Westwood, yes,” I say. “He was able to clear his schedule and be here this morning. I’m expecting him any minute.”
“I’d like a private word with the mayor before the meeting,” says Jim.
“That may not be possible,” I say. “The mayor has had back-to-back meetings this morning. He’s on his way now but may not arrive with time to spare.”
“I’m sure afterwards would be fine,” says Marla.
“Let’s go down to the conference room,” I say, ushering them back through the doors and down the hallway.
“Did you find any herbal tea?” says Glynis as I enter. She casts a worried glance at Doris, who is filling a paper cup with coffee.
“Still looking,” I say.
“What the hell kind of muffins are these?” says Jim.
“Banana bran chocolate, pumpkin sunflower, and raisin cardamom,” I say.
“Ridiculous,” says Jim. “What happened to blueberry? What happened to chocolate chip? Who wants to eat stuff like this?”
“It’s local and organic,” I say.
“That’s nice,” says Marla.
“I’m going to look for that tea,” I say to Glynis.
“There you are,” says Bonnie as I enter the reception area. Logan Kim, my lead architect, and two of his juniors are waiting in a cluster off to one side of Bonnie’s desk.
“I’m going to try to get us a few minutes with Peter,” I tell them.
“Good,” says Logan. “We can’t keep moving units around, Avery. We can’t make structural changes without escalating costs at this stage. If we’re adding a green roof, we need to reinforce the structure. If we’re moving the childcare centre, or the studios, or the shelter, or any other element of the design from one building to another, it involves structure.”
“I get it, Logan,” I say. “We need to give Peter a primer, that’s all. There’s no cause for alarm.”
“Avery,” says Bonnie. “This is Mr. Westwood.” I turn to greet a middle-aged man in shorts, a Mother Earth League T-shirt, and sandals.
“Pleather,” he says.
“I’m sorry?” I say.
He points to his sandals. “Pleather, not leather, in case you were wondering.”
I wasn’t. I shake his hand. “Thanks for joining us,” I say.
“I wouldn’t have missed it,” he says. “I’m only sorry that MEL wasn’t kept abreast of this project from the earliest stages of planning. It’s always so much more expensive when we get involved this late.” He smiles with only the slightest trace of humour. Behind me, Logan sighs. It is the sigh of a person who understands that his day is only getting worse.
“Do we have any herbal tea in the kitchen?” I ask Bonnie.
“No,” she says. “Aidan Clarke has left five messages for you.”
“Not today,” I say. “I can’t talk to any reporters today. Do we have any herbal tea anywhere else?”
She purses her lips and opens a drawer in her desk, pulls out a box, and hands me a single, wrapped tea bag. “Chamomile peppermint,” she says.
“Thanks,” I say. She nods, curtly, all business.
I deliver Marshall to the conference room. “Would you like a muffin?” I ask.
“God no,” says Marshall. “Those things will kill you.”
“I’ve gone gluten-free,” says Doris. “It’s added years to my life.”
“Gluten is only one of the poisons in these muffins,” says Marshall. “Lectins and phytates are every bit as toxic. Modern wheat causes all kinds of autoimmune disorders—multiple sclerosis, chronic fatigue, asthma, irritable bowel syndrome—all preventable!” He pats his ample midsection. “No wheat belly here!”
Glynis and Marla drop their muffins.
“They’re made by women reintegrating into society after prison terms,” I say, to no one in particular. “I’ll be right back.”
Glynis intercepts me as I head for the door. “The tea?” she asks.
“Right, sorry,” I say. “Here. I found one. It’s chamomile peppermint.”
I hope it’s not too late,” says Glynis.
“Me too,” I say. I don’t have time to worry about what she means. It’s after nine. I need to find Peter.
“He’s here,” says Bonnie as I enter the office. “He’s in there.” She points to his door.
“Mood?” I ask.
She raises an eyebrow, which I take to mean You’re on your own, kid. I can hear cursing from behind the door. I knock tentatively.
“Peter?” I call. “They’re waiting for you.”
The door opens and Peter glowers at me. “Where’s my fucking briefing note?” he says. “I’ve been looking everywhere for it.”
“I emailed it to you last night,” I say. “I have a hard copy here.”
“I don’t have time to read it now,” he says. “I guess I’ll have to wing it.”
“I wouldn’t recommend that, Peter,” I say. “Let’s take a couple of minutes now and I’ll sketch it out for you. Logan Kim is here and he can take you through the drawings.” Wing it? I think. It’s not enough for you to look unprepared? You have to make us all look incompetent as well?
“You’ll have to tell me while we walk,” he says. “It’s nine fifteen. These folks have been waiting too long already.” The use of the word “folks” is a positive sign that Peter is putting on his game face. We can do this.
“Fine,” I say. Logan falls into step with us. “The players this morning are the artists who live and work in the co-op, the women’s organization that supports the shelter and childcare centre, and the environmentalists.”
“MEL?” asks Peter.
“Yes,” I say. “Jim Crawford is connected with them, but I haven’t yet figured out how or why.”
“Bottom line?”
“Everyone wants us to spend more money, which we can’t do. Everyone wants something that, if we agree, will disadvantage one of the other groups at the table. Promise nothing. The project is over budget.”
“We can’t make structural changes to the plan, sir,” says Logan, who has done a remarkable job of restraining himself thus far. “We are trying to cut all the frills and stay inside the boundaries of the structural drawings so that we don’t have to open them up.”
“I hear what you’re saying, but we can’t send them away empty-handed,” says Peter. “First rule of politics.”
“I thought that was ‘Don’t fuck the intern,’” I say under my breath.
“What?” says Peter.
“I said, ‘I think with luck, they’ll turn,’” I say.
“It’s not about luck,” says Peter and turns his back on us.
Logan and I exchange a glance. I hold up my hand and cross my fingers. Logan presses his palms together, yoga-style, in the centre of his chest. One of his juniors pulls a crucifix from underneath the collar of her shirt and kisses it. The second junior looks astonished, then awkward, and then gives us all a thumbs-up sign. It may not be about luck, but we’ll take all the help we can get, and our little group is hedging its bets and covering its collective ass. It may not be the first rule of politics, but it’s an important one.
To give him his due, Peter starts strong. He opens his arms to his activist brothers and sisters, and beams as if they are old friends, long separated, now reunited by common cause and felicitous circumstance. “I’m so pleased to have you all here at city hall,” he says. “The waterfront development means so much to all of us. Let’s roll up our sleeves and get it right.”
Everyone nods, and I can see the body language softening around the table. “I’ve provided everyone with an agenda and a plan of the site,” I say. “You have those documents in front of you.”
“Thanks, Avery,” says Peter. “Now, the first thing I’m going to do is depart from the agenda.”
I fight the urge to put my head down on the table.
Peter continues, “I’m going to dispense with opening remarks. You all know how central this project is to my administration and to our city. For the first time in history, we have the political will and the funding to make this long-standing dream come true. I consider all of you to be partners in this great enterprise.”
Doris fidgets in her seat. “I thought you were going to dispense with opening remarks,” she says, with a nasty edge to her voice.
Glynis puts a hand on her arm. “Would you like some tea?” she stage-whispers.
“No,” says Doris. “I would not like tea. I would like to understand why this mayor courts the women’s vote with idle promises. I would like to know why our work of the past decade is now under threat. I would like to hear from the mayor why women aren’t as special a special-interest group as the environmentalists and the artists. Women are not a minority. We put him in and we can take him out.”
There is a brief silence, during which Marshall Westwood leans over to Jim Crawford and says something that sounds like “Where is the aquarium?”
“Well,” says Peter, “I want to assure you that women are not a special-interest group in my eyes.”
“Exactly,” says Doris.
“What I meant to say,” says Peter, “is that women’s interests are an absolute priority. My administration understands that when women coalesce around a single issue, that issue must be core to our political mandate.”
“Do you mean to suggest that women are not coalescing around the waterfront shelter?” says Doris.
“He’s not suggesting anything of the kind,” I say. “The mayor’s office is well aware that the waterfront shelter and childcare centre enjoy widespread support among women.” Those of us in the mayor’s office who read the briefing note, I think.
“But that isn’t at issue,” says Jim Crawford. “The issue is coexistence. The issue is location, and accommodation of other uses. You can have as many screaming children on the property as you want. But I shouldn’t be expected to create art over top of them.”
“You are such an arrogant shit,” says Doris.
“Let’s take the temperature down,” says Peter. “There are five buildings in the proposed development. I’m sure we can find a solution.”
I pick up the agenda. “Why don’t we move to the second item on the agenda, and ask Logan Kim, our lead architect, to walk us through the current plan, so that we are all operating from a common understanding.”
“Good idea,” says Peter.
Logan fires up his PowerPoint and, with clear and accessible language, a laser pointer, and just the right amount of detail, explains the purpose and design of each of the buildings on the site. He has itemized and colour-coded every space by use: green spaces, public spaces, retail, housing, offices, and institutions. I’m struck again by the ambition of the project, the generosity of the vision, the goodwill that has brought so many diverse interests together to create a public treasure that will serve every citizen in multiple ways. I don’t need luck, I remind myself. I am lucky. I’m blessed, actually, to be able to do this work, to know that my labour will result in a tangible, permanent benefit to the city.
“Does anyone have any questions?” asks Logan.
“Why am I seeing the artists’ studios in Building Two?” asks Jim Crawford. “It was bad enough to be sharing space with children, but now you’ve cut us off from the light! Your contempt for the artistic community knows no bounds.”
“As I said,” says Logan, who has, in fact, explained the rationale for this decision several times in the past ten minutes, “all of the buildings get considerable natural light. It is true that Building One is slightly, but only slightly, brighter, since it sits further away from the other buildings. But we feel it is the appropriate location for the family-oriented activities onsite. It has the largest adjacent green space and can absorb multiple uses, in this case a fenced-in playground for the daycare and a community green space for shelter residents.”
“Where is the community garden?” says Marshall Westwood. “MEL is recommending that all residential developments include community gardens so that people can be encouraged to engage in sustainable micro-farming.”
“The community was consulted,” I say. “The consensus was that residents would prefer communal green space in the form of a park, rather than gardening allotments.”
“You can have both if you build a green roof,” says Marshall.
“A green roof is not in the budget, I’m afraid,” I say.
“Outrageous!” says Marshall. “You are ignoring one of the most important environmental technologies of our time!”
“Not ignoring,” I say. “Considering at length, and rejecting in the circumstances.”
“Why are you even here?” says Doris to Marshall. “This meeting is not about green roofs. It is about the rights of children.”
“It is about protecting the precious resources of our planet,” says Marshall. “How can you allow temporal budgets to threaten long-term environmental health?”
“It is about supporting the work of the creative class,” says Jim Crawford. “The key driver of the new economy. Where are the great works of public art in this plan?”
“Several have been commissioned,” says Logan. “There are designated spots for additional works as budget becomes available over time.”
“Let me understand this,” says Marshall. “There is a budget for public art, and not for a green roof ?”
“It’s not an either-or,” says Jim. “Public art is an enhancement to the natural environment. We should be looking at the other publicly funded spaces to see where the budget can be cut. This shelter looks like a five-star hotel.”
“Abused women should live in squalor so that you can commune with some pretentious hunk of metal? Are you completely disconnected from reality?” says Doris. “I refuse to treat women’s rights like trading cards. This entire meeting is obscene.” She points to Peter. “You’ll be receiving a formal communication from WAFADASS.” She and Glynis march out of the room.
“Well,” I say, “obviously, there is more work to be done here. Why don’t we all commit to putting our objections on paper, so that the mayor’s office can respond to each and every point?”
“Typical,” says Jim. “Bury us in bureaucratic process to make us go away.” He points his finger at Peter. “You’ve underestimated us. You can read all about it in our press release.” He follows Doris out the door, and Marla follows him, with an apologetic glance in my direction.
“How unfortunate,” says Marshall. “However, I would like to take this opportunity to tell you that MEL will bring the full force of its influence to prevent this aquarium from being built. The kidnapping of wildlife is no different from human trafficking.”
“What aquarium?” says Peter. “Is there an aquarium?”
“No,” I say. “There is not, nor has there ever been, an aquarium in this plan.”
“Oh,” says Marshall. “Well, that’s good, then. Thank you for a helpful meeting. I’ll be in touch about the green roof.” He rises and leaves the room.
The door swishes shut and those of us still at the table sit in silence for a moment.
“In the event that you didn’t capture the full picture in your notes,” says Peter, “that was a gong show.”
“No argument here,” I say.
He shakes his head. “I expect better, Avery. That was not your finest hour.”
“No,” I say. “It wasn’t.”