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happened to hear something about a firm called Sanderson and Something—had I heard of them?—that they were about to take on half a dozen new architects. Naturally I asked her precisely who had given her that information, but she just waved her glove in the air and murmured something or other about keeping an ear to the ground. (Do you think, now I’ve emerged from my cinder-block cellar, that I too will acquire an aptitude for crucial ear-to-ground skills? I can only hope.)

      Sunday afternoon, after a lunch composed entirely of pecan coffee cake, Mia went roller blading with the Finsteads, those new people across the way, who have, they told me when they picked her up, a series of family outings planned—bowling next week, hiking the following Sunday, and perhaps an excursion to Squamish in November. Greg disappeared too, saying he had “plans.” I pressed him. What plans? Well, he might go down to the rink. Was there a practice on? Not exactly. Who was going to be there? Coupla guys. When would he be back? Dunno. (I loved this kid once.)

      I must revise and type my CV for Sanderson et al. and catch today’s mail. We all miss you!

      Love,

      Chas

      P.S. Quit worrying about how you’ll do in the big time. My experience with bureaucracy is that anything above mediocre is considered brilliant. You’ll do fine.

      Château Laurier

      Sept. 11

      Dear Chas,

      I’ve phoned down to the desk three times hoping for a letter from you (pretending an urgent message), so will give you an update on my adventures with the Commission while waiting.

      After our initial meeting, the four of us had a get-acquainted luncheon at the Parliamentary Restaurant, which I found a tremendously glamorous thing to do. (Maybe, despite all our Vancouver years, I’m still just a Williams Lake gal.) It’s a beautiful room with arched colonnades and windows looking out on the Ottawa River, and round tables, and all sorts of important people, and less-important people watching the important people and feeling important doing it. (I am among the latter category.)

      I nearly yelped as we went in to find myself right behind the environmental minister (I never dreamed he was that tall!) and then noticed that his companion was the Minister of Justice (I never dreamed he was that short).

      As soon as we sat down Jessica clawed around in a pocket of the awful pants and produced a rumpled pack of cigarettes (oh Lord! My sinuses!) and Senator Pierce—Vance—was rude to her about it.

      “Where’s your character, woman? I thought you were quitting.”

      “Yer not smokin’ any more, Van?” she drawled. “Whatsa matter? Lose yer nerve?”

      “No, found my senses.”

      Dr. Grey and I smiled weakly at one another and he said, “The buffet is rather good. I would recommend it.”

      In the end we all went to the buffet—which was superb!—and drank a couple of carafes of white wine. I noticed that Vance didn’t look around or wave to anyone, and since everyone else seemed to spend a lot of time leaping up and trying to catch the eyes of others, I wondered who it was he was ashamed of. I mean, I’m still wearing my navy and grey uniform, but I blend in pretty well here, clothes-wise. (Matter of fact, I’ve become sufficiently de-dazzled to recognize that Ottawa is not the haute couture capital of the western world.)

      Okay, I can sympathize with Vance for being a tad reluctant to draw attention to Jessica.

      Not that Jessica was about to let him get away with it. “Hey, Van,” she bawled, at one point. “Don’t you know anyone? What’s yer name—you, the legal counsel—”

      “Jocelyn,” I said weakly

      “Jocelyn—she’d probably like to meet some heavies.”

      “She’s met you.”

      “Shit, Van, you’ll have to do better than that—” and just then who should walk in with the Minister of Finance but Senator Kennedy—yes! U.S. Senator Kennedy. Up here to look (enviously, I presume) at Canadian medicare. You can imagine the stir that rippled through our hallowed eatery! And who do you think he recognized? Jessica.

      “Well, well, surely not Jess Slattery. You turn up everywhere, just like a bad penny, don’t you?” he said. “How come you’re eating subsidized food?”

      “I helped pay for it, didn’t I?” Jessica shot back, and then she introduced him to Dr. Grey and to me (I stood up. Should I have?) and pretended to forget Vance, who was doing a knee-bend halfway between standing and sitting and said, in French, “Oh, et un faux senator, M. Pierce,” and Kennedy smiled and murmured, “Enchanté!”

      Everyone, even Jessica, speaks fluent French—how I wish mine were better! At that point I forgot how to say anything but oui, which is why I drank too much wine, I guess.

       Sept. 12

      Still no letter. The hotel clerk no longer answers with, “Yes, may I help you?” He just murmurs, “Nothing.” Regretfully.

      Must finish this. Not much more to tell. When we finished lunch Vance shot back the silver-clasped cuffs of his elegant French shirt and looked at his watch and said he had a three-o’clock appointment, but maybe we could get together a little earlier tomorrow before the hearings started.

      “Where you rushing off to, Van? Got a new flame?”

      In a voice that would have frozen Hawaiian rain, Vance said, “Catherine is the only flame I’ll ever need.” Catherine? Must be his wife.

      Jessica was not frozen. “Lucky Catherine,” she drawled, “and unlucky all the rest of them. Let’s get the hell out of here. Slurping up the government booze isn’t helping the godamn starving women of Canada.”

      “Surely no one is starving,” I said, sounding about as assertive as talking Jello.

      Jessica turned and glared—or no, she didn’t exactly glare. I’ve been trying to analyse that look. I’d expected accusing or hostile or contemptuous, but that wasn’t it. It was some sort of challenge, as though she were testing me to see if I was a fellow woman. I don’t think I am. She scares the hell out of me.

      She asked me where I was staying, and when I said I was still at the Chateau Laurier but was looking for a bedsitter she said, “I live in a group home—always room for one more.” I told her I had a line on a place.

      “Suit yerself,” she said. “Holler if you change your mind.”

      When hell freezes over, I thought—but didn’t say. (I do have a line on a bedsitter. Keep your fingers crossed.)

      Know what? Writing letters is turning out to be therapeutic as well as economical. It helps me feel closer to home and also to sort out my own impressions. The phone just isn’t a substitute. God, I’m lonesome! I wish we hadn’t decided against Thanksgiving—is it too late to change? Although I haven’t got the moola for a ticket at the moment. Have you?

      Anyway, I’ll look forward to talking to you this weekend—maybe you’ll have my letter by then. They say the postal service is improving. They lie. At the moment I feel low. Why did it have to be Jessica on the Commission?

      Much love,

      Jock

      P.S. Your letter just arrived. The hotel clerk phoned me! He sounded so excited I thought maybe he’d opened it. Thrilled about the Sanderson thing—what’s happening? Phone if you get work.

      29 Sweet Cedar Drive

      North Vancouver, B.C.

      15 September

      Dear Jock,

      Nothing yet on the Sanderson thing. A week since I sent the application—typed it on the drafting table, which I have in the down position to accommodate the computer. I spent two hours revising

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