Speechless. Sandy/Yvonne Rideout/Collins
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ten minutes. Margo chose to spend the ten minutes shovelling scrambled eggs into her mouth and has therefore been running around without makeup, her wet hair drying in pleasing strings. We’re on the plane before she gets a chance to pull her cosmetic bag out of her briefcase.
Mrs. Cleary, who has been idly flipping through a decorating magazine during the flight instead of reading her speech, wrinkles her perfect little nose and exclaims, “Good Lord, what is that smell?”
At first, all I smell is her own cloying perfume, but then I detect an acrid odor. The Minister’s gaze is fixed on Margo, who is shrinking behind a green Clinique hand mirror, as she applies her eye makeup.
“Margo? Answer me, please.”
“I have no idea, Minister,” my roomie replies, looking guilty as she casually snaps the lid of her briefcase closed with her elbow.
“Open it,” the Minister commands.
“My briefcase? Why? There’s nothing in it but notes.”
“Let me see for myself,” says the Minister, more bemused than harsh.
“Why don’t I ask the pilot? It smells like chemicals.”
“Margo, open your briefcase.”
Margo clicks it open reluctantly to reveal a few date squares from Monday’s school visit, half a tuna sandwich of relatively recent origin and an ancient orange, molded almost beyond recognition.
“Eeeew!” the Minister and I exclaim in unison. “Get rid of that immediately,” the Minister adds.
Sheepish, yet defiant, Margo stashes her treasures in the plastic bag I hand her. The Minister turns to me and rolls her eyes dramatically and we both laugh. We are actually having “a moment.” I laugh even harder when I notice that Margo has only applied her makeup to one eye and is looking like a “before and after” picture. Unfortunately, the Minister notices too.
“Fix your makeup, Margo, we’ll be landing soon.”
I must look too happy, because she turns to me and says, “As for you, Lily, your eyebrows are unruly. Margo has her waxing kit with her and I recommend letting her help you with them.”
Margo pauses in the middle of her application of mascara to raise one penciled-in eyebrow at me over the edge of her mirror. How will I sleep tonight?
Today was the lightest day of the tour circuit and we move into Fort Everest’s Have-a-Nap Hotel by 4:30 p.m. I have rest and relaxation on my agenda, but thankfully, Margo is here to rescue me from that.
“What we really need, Libby, is a scrapbook of our trip and this would be a great project for you, since you’re so creative. I want you to get started tonight, while it’s all fresh in your mind.”
And there you have it, folks, the spirit-busting task of the day. I knew she’d punish me somehow for my beautiful moment with the Minister, but this is an inspired move. I lack the “craft” gene and Margo knows it. Time to put my foot down, I decide. Skill with scissors and glue is not required of a speechwriter. I practice the words in my head: “Margo, I’ve worked some long days lately and I really need to take it easy tonight.” But when I open my mouth, waffle-talk trickles out.
“Well, Margo, I’m not sure if I’m the right person for a job like that. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
Where’s my father’s legacy now? This is the man who once asked his boss, “Would you like me to shove a broom up my ass and sweep as I go?” Wait, he got fired from that job. Which explains why I soon find myself wandering the aisles of a local dollar store, filling my basket with art supplies from Margo’s list.
Back at the Have-a-Nap, I begin pasting photos, speeches and programs into the scrapbook. Running my glue stick across the pages is actually quite soothing and I don’t even mind when Margo pops her head in the door to let me know that she and the Minister are heading into town to see a late movie. Eventually, I become so relaxed that I’m forced to call it a night lest Margo return to find me glued to the table by my own bushy eyebrows.
8
I am sound asleep when Margo comes into the room. In fact, I’m having an amazing dream about Tim in which we’re having dinner together at Lavish, the trendy new restaurant I can’t afford in my waking life.
Tim looks gorgeous; I look thin (dreams take off ten pounds). He’s entranced by my conversation, and no wonder: every word that falls from my lips is a perfect gem. When the waiter brings the dessert menu, Tim orders chocolate mousse and tries to tempt me with it. He’s describing how he’s wanted to rip my clothes off since the night we met. Soon we tumble into a cab, where we grope each other like sex-starved teenagers. Buttons and bras are springing open seemingly of their own accord. Suddenly a cell phone rings—one of those annoying musical rings, like the William Tell overture. Tim lets go of me to lunge for his phone and my head hits the backrest with a thud. Confused, I hear Margo’s voice squawking away in the distance. I can’t make out what she’s saying at first, but her voice gets louder and clearer and I hear my name.
“Libby! Libby, wake up!
The lights are on and my eyes are open but I’m groggy enough to wonder what Margo is doing in the back of our cab. Then she reaches out to shake my shoulder and I remember where I am. Squeezing my eyes shut, I struggle to hang on to the feeling of Tim’s lips on the back of my neck, of his hands in my hair and—
“What are you grinning at?” Margo asks.
“Grinning? I’m not grinning, I’m grimacing because you’re standing over me in the middle of the night for no apparent reason.”
“The Minister is upset! We’re leaving!”
“Leaving?” I glance at the clock on the bedside table. “For God’s sake, Margo, it’s 2:30 in the morning. What’s going on?”
If it were anyone other than Margo, I’d be on my feet already, certain that tragedy had struck. Because it is Margo, I can only guess that the Minister has broken a nail and I am about to be dispatched for an emergency repair kit.
“Never mind, just get Bill to find us another motel right away.” Maybe it’s resentment over being torn from my dream, but I find the nerve to stare back at her without flinching. I will wait for an explanation. “All right,” she yields, “if you must know, the Minister found something in her bed and refuses to stay here.”
“What? A cockroach?”
Silence. I hold my ground. I will stage a bed-in until I get a response.
“It was a condom—a used condom.” I throw back the covers and pull on my jeans, all thoughts of sex extinguished. “When you’ve taken care of the arrangements, come and get me,” Margo says, rushing out.
Bill finds us new digs and pulls the car around. Laurie emerges from her room and stands, dazed, beside the car.
“You and the Minister can leave now,” I tell Margo when she opens the Minister’s door. “Bill will come back for Laurie and me later.”
The Minister sweeps out in a gorgeous yellow silk kimono, matching head scarf and dark sunglasses. Somehow I manage not to laugh as she clatters toward the car in those feathered mules and slides into the back seat. While she’s pulling her leg in, there’s a flash, as if someone has taken a picture. We all spin to see a man running around the corner of the motel. Bill slams the car door and races to the driver’s side, while Margo hurls herself into the passenger seat. “Libby,” she calls out the window as they squeal off, “go after him! Get the film! Then grab our things.”
I look at Laurie questioningly and she shakes her head; we’ve sacrificed enough for our province. Instead, we return to our rooms to pack. Handling Margo’s belongings is plenty heroic for me, since it means disposing of the garlic bread she lifted at dinner. By the time Bill returns, we’re ready to roll and the three of us laugh ourselves sick all the way to the new fleabag motel.