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she has a crush on me;
b) she’s worried I’ll be off writing speeches and slipping them into the Minister’s handbag;
c) she suspects Laurie and I will plan a mutiny if we spend our nights together; or
d) two of the above.
I have every reason to think that Margo hates me as much as I do her, so it’s likely choice (d).
Well, she’s a brave woman. I will have nine opportunities to smother her while she sleeps. Try to make it home in time for the trial, will you?
Libby
I’ve been freakishly hungry since I started this job. My stomach always seems to be growling, despite the fact that my waistband is constantly cutting off my circulation. The day of the pre–road show speech-planning meeting, the internal grumbling escalates to a howl. Although I’ve dealt with the freelance speechwriters for weeks, it’s the first time I’ve met them in person. I’ve already developed a burning resentment of them, simply because they get to write while I “coordinate.” One of the writers is forgettable—or would be if only she’d stop talking about communing with her “muse” (she needs a new muse—her writing isn’t that good). The other, Christine, is considered the “intellectual,” which is reason enough to hate her. She also has a frightening wiglike growth on her head. I promptly christen Christine “Wiggy.”
Mrs. Cleary is surprisingly engaged in the meeting and Wiggy and Forgettable are vying for her favor. I’m pleased to note that Forgettable is frequently on the receiving end of the blank Ministerial stare— I presumed such moments were my exclusive domain. Mind you, I am totally excluded from the discussion and sit in silence until my stomach speaks on my behalf, gradually increasing in volume until Margo turns to me and says, “Libby, can you keep it down?”
After the meeting, I realize that what I am experiencing is not hunger, but low-grade indigestion brought on by common jealousy. I never used to be a competitive person, but frustrated ambition has possessed me like a demon, which explains why I’ve been eating for two.
Fortunately, I have a little project underway that will simultaneously improve my profile while improving the Minister’s speaking style. I’ve attended enough events by now to know the latter also needs work. The problem is two-pronged. First, the Minister only occasionally reviews her speeches prior to delivering them. Second, she won’t wear her glasses. Instead, she demands that her remarks be formatted not in the standard speech font of 14 points, but in a 40-point font that wouldn’t be out of place on a street sign. At this size, very few paragraphs fit on a page; even a brief greeting can run to twenty pages, while a keynote address rivals the phonebook in bulk. This does not faze the Minister. She simply heaves her portfolio onto the lectern and stumbles through the speech as fast as her long nails allow, grabbing a breath wherever there’s an opportunity.
“This is ridiculous,” I whisper to Margo one day during a lengthy page-flipper in a high-school auditorium. “She has to wear her glasses. Her delivery is so disjointed people are tuning out.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“A teacher in the second row is snoring.”
“You’ll need a lot more experience under your belt before taking this on,” she advises.
So I launch Project Diminishing Font. One day, I reduce the font to 38 points, with no discernible impact on the Minister’s delivery. Then I try 36, after which I ease it down half a point at a time until I have the Minister reading a 28-point font with apparent comfort. Even this has made a big difference to the amount of text I can cram onto the page. Obviously, she never needed 40 points in the first place.
The Minister slips a streamlined folder onto the lectern and starts into her speech. We’re at a conference for teachers of children with disabilities sponsored by the Hearing Society and the National Institute for the Blind and she’s tearing through the first page quite smoothly, considering she didn’t read it in advance (as evidenced by the lack of yellow highlighting). By the second page, where the text is denser, she starts laboring. By the fifth, she is getting some of the words wrong and by the eighth, she keeps pausing to guess. After leaning in so close to the lectern that all we can see is the top of her head, she finally lifts the speech and holds it inches from her face, muttering into the page. Meanwhile, a teacher standing behind her struggles to simultaneously translate her remarks into sign language.
Perhaps my decision to dip to a 26-point font was a little ambitious.
At the end of the event, I scurry to the car and sink as low in the front seat as possible.
“Ask her,” the Minister says to Margo in the back seat, in an eerily calm voice.
“What happened to today’s speech, Libby?” Margo’s voice is calm too.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what size is the font?”
“I’m not sure,” I hedge.
“Give us your best guess.”
“Well, it’s pretty big. Maybe 32 points.”
“Did you reduce it deliberately?”
Recognizing that evasion is futile, I confess. “Actually, I did. I couldn’t understand why it’s usually so large. It’s difficult to deliver a speech smoothly with so little text on a page. And besides…”
“Yes?” Margo asks.
“Well, flipping that many pages is very hard on a manicure.”
“Libby, when you’re ready to think for yourself, we’ll let you know. Let’s return to a 40-point font, shall we?”
Much later, the Minister says, “Margo, you don’t suppose anyone thought I was mocking the people from the Institute for the Blind?”
“Of course not, Minister. You could barely tell there was a problem.”
Margo, who is sitting behind me, hoofs the back of my seat.
I’m about to become a glorified roadie. During the Ministerial tour through the eastern townships, I’ll be part of the “advance” team that sets up the show. This could actually be fun, since Bill and Laurie comprise the rest of the advance, but with Margo, nothing comes easily. Bill and Laurie will drive ahead in a Ministry “limo” (a government-issue sedan), while the Minister flies from place to place in the tiny government plane. I really want to travel by car, but Margo apparently considers me “plane-worthy.” I’m certain this has less to do with wanting me on the plane than with not wanting me to have a good time in the car. It’s her “divide and conquer” philosophy.
This means Bill will often have to leave an event site, pick me up from the closest airstrip, and rush back to ensure all is ready for the arrival of the Minister. Meanwhile, Mrs. Cleary and Margo will stall for time in a separate car with a local driver so that they can make a grand entrance. It’s a pain in the ass for all concerned, but Margo has somehow convinced the Minister that it’s a sound strategy. It’s Margo’s special gift: she can dress up any stupid idea in flawed logic and present it as viable to the Minister. Since the Minister does not appear to be a fool, I assume she has her reasons for accepting Margo’s decisions.
We three roadies have prescribed tasks. Laurie will schmooze the event organizers and keep the kids calm. They’re always wound up at these events, even though they don’t have a clue who the Minister is. Bill and I are to make sure the auditorium is set up properly, and the sound system is working. My special job is to ensure that the podium is appropriately situated to display the Minister to good effect. Specifically, it must be low enough so that she’s visible and properly positioned to allow the lights to gleam off her burnished locks.
My biggest challenge is that we require lecterns that accommodate an 8.5 x 14-inch folder, the standard being 8.5 x 11 inches. The Minister has decided, as a result of Project Diminishing Font, I presume, that her speeches will be printed on legal-size paper to get more 40-point text on each