LITMIR.BIZ

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to stay for a silkscreen demonstration by the Grade Ones, despite Margo’s pressure to leave. As we finally head to the car, one of the kids runs up to the Minister and hugs her around the waist. I suspect Margo of deliberately arranging a cute photo op for the local papers, but realize it’s impromptu when I see the handprint in blue paint on Mrs. Cleary’s butt.

      I see no reason to break the silence between us with the bad news.

      I hate flying—especially in planes with motors no bigger than a blow-dryer’s—but I will not give the evil duo the satisfaction of seeing how nervous I am as we embark on a couple of meet-and-greets in small-town Ontario.

      Minister Cleary sweeps onto the plane in an elegant wrap and takes her seat. Since Margo is offering flight advice to the pilot, I clamber aboard and sit next to the Minister. Eventually Margo gets on, takes the seat opposite, and glares at me: she must normally ride shotgun. In revenge, perhaps, she says, “Why don’t you let Libby read your speech aloud, Minister, so that you can see how it sounds?”

      The Minister turns to me as if she’s never laid eyes on me. “Yes, certainly. Did you write this one, Lily?”

      Before I can reply, Margo jumps in. “Oh no, Minister, one of the freelancers wrote it. Libby needs to study you in action for a while before writing speeches herself.”

      “Yes, of course,” agrees the Minister, losing interest immediately and turning to stare out the window.

      Once we’re in the air, I reluctantly pull out the speech. “Minister…?”

      “Yes, yes, go ahead,” she says, without turning.

      I read a couple of paragraphs, my voice quavering. Damn it! They’ll think I’m afraid of them when I’m just afraid of being airborne in this tin can with wings. I force myself to read on, but the Minister suddenly reaches over and grabs the speech out of my hand, seemingly appalled by my dreadful delivery. She reads it aloud herself to illustrate how it should be done, emphasizing all the wrong words. When she finishes, Margo applauds and exclaims,

      “Well, done, Minister! That was excellent!”

      “Excellent,” I echo weakly, nursing my paper cuts.

      The Minister pulls out her highlighter and begins coloring over her favorite words.

      Another day, another small town, another terrifying plane ride. I spend the flight comparing my expectations about this job with the reality. So far, I’ve only been right about the free food. Mind you, I am acquiring something I never expected from this job: a regal bearing. Putting in the time walking behind the Minister and carrying the royal handbag is paying off. When I return to my home Ministry, my special talent will propel me up the ranks. “Who cares if she never wrote a single speech,” the Education Minister will say, “anyone with that polish must be good!”

      Roxanne keeps telling me to calm down, it’s early days yet, but I feel as though I’ve stumbled onto one of her film sets: the Minister is the star who is perpetually in hair and makeup. Today I sneeze seven times during her prelanding touch-up and she has the nerve to look at me with distaste. I’m tempted to wipe my nose on my sleeve. She’d notice. While she may not acknowledge I exist, I’ve caught her casting covert glances at my clothes, my shoes, my teeth, my nails and she doesn’t look impressed.

      I have a single moment of pleasure today. As we hurry from the plane to the waiting car, a damp breeze wipes all life from both the Minister’s and Margo’s hair. Mine expands at the same pace theirs droops. I see them checking it out and exchanging disgusted looks. The Minister actually rolls her eyes. Once in the car, with my back to the ladies, I give it a good fluffing. Take that, you limp-locked hags.

      I try not to look too excited by the brownies on the refreshment table, but there are so few rewards in this job, so far. I set the purse on a chair and reach for a plate.

      “Libby!” I withdraw my hand guiltily. Margo is wedging a sandwich into her mouth and has several more on her plate. “Do not— I repeat— DO NOT leave the Minister’s purse unattended even for a moment.” At least, I think that’s what she says, her mouth being full. It’s definitely a rebuke.

      The good news is I discover I can hold a briefcase, two purses and a notepad and still get a brownie into my mouth. Someday those two will realize how much talent I pack into this pear-shaped body.

      I’m on the subway en route to my first glamour event, wearing Roxanne’s lucky dress—as in “get lucky.” She insists I borrow it while she’s away because she won’t have much use for it on the Isle of Man.

      The dress is sexy despite offering enough coverage to be appropriate at a quasi-work function. The secret is in the flow of the fabric, although there’s less flow now than there was when I tried it on last month. Blame it on the brownies. In fact, the dress is pulling slightly across the thighs, but I wear it anyway, because I only have one other formal dress and I vowed never to wear it again after getting dumped in it after a wedding a year ago (tenth bouquet). Until Margo coughs up a clothing allowance, there will be no new frocks. I hate dressing up anyway and I’m not very good at it, judging by the fact that I snagged two pairs of fifteen-dollar stockings and put on my tights in the end. The dress is floor-length on Rox, mid-shin on me, but it still hangs several inches below the coat I’ve borrowed from Lola. This wouldn’t bother me so much if I had a ride to the event, but no, it’s public transit for me, while the Minister and Margo ride in the car sent by the sponsors of the event. No room for Libby now that she’s put on a few, I suppose.

      I arrive at eight sharp, by order of Margo; she and the Minister are late. I explain I am on the Minister’s staff and make small talk with the organizers while I wait. They chat me up, imagining I have some influence. At last the Minister arrives, brushing by me without acknowledgment. Wait, she’s coming back my way, and…yes, she passes the handbag. Margo beckons and I heel like a well-trained poodle. We follow in the Minister’s wake, a few discreet paces behind. I am at leisure to look around, however, and another dream implodes: no handsome eligibles in this crowd. Just as well. They’d hardly be impressed with my role as lady-in-waiting.

      I’m speaking to a woman I know from the gym when the crowd parts for Margo.

      “Libby. Please go to the washroom.”

      “Actually, I just went, Margo, but thanks.” My friend looks at Margo as if she’s nuts.

      Margo is not amused. “The Minister needs you.”

      Meaning she needs her handbag. I excuse myself and locate the Minister by checking for her size fives under the bathroom stalls. I knock on the door. No response.

      “Your purse, Minister.”

      She sticks her hand out under the stall and I slip the DKNY clutch into her waving fingers. When she emerges, I lean against the counter pretending not to watch as she reapplies a full range of cosmetics and sprays perfume around her head in a cloud. The other women in the washroom are also watching, as she goes through the ritual. I try to look serious and powerful, as if I might be a police officer overseeing my VIP. Then the Minister hands over her purse and back into the crowd we go. She signals that I am to stick with her by snapping her fingers quietly at her side, yet she does not introduce me once as she works the room. When she takes the stage to speak, I pause by the stairs with the royal bag. Despite her lackluster delivery of a mediocre speech, the host gushes and presents the Minister with an enormous bouquet, which she subsequently shoves into my arms.

      Suddenly I realize that all my years of training at weddings haven’t been wasted. I’m just getting paid for my efforts now. Next time I’ll wear the peach satin bridesmaid dress and see how that grabs the Minister.

      I am disappointed about Rox’s (get) lucky dress and when the procession passes a pay phone, I call her to tell her so.

      “Your lucky dress isn’t.”

      “I’ve never known it to fail.”

      “That’s when you’re wearing it. I’m cursed, remember? Toronto’s

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