Free Speechless by Yvonne Collins Page A

to help you carry it, but I’ve made my decision.”
     
    To: [email protected]
    From: [email protected]
    Subject: Victory
     
    Rox,
    If they fire Bridget Wilkinson, tell your director I’m ready for my close-up. My superb performance this afternoon convinced Margo that it was her idea to bring a laptop along on our trip. I even managed to look annoyed and resentful when she put her foot down. It wasn’t much of a stretch, since it’s becoming second nature anyway.
    Can’t say I’m surprised about Gavin. Country boys were never your type.
    Lib
     
    With the trip less than two days away, my worries about rooming with Margo haven’t diminished, particularly as her food issues become more obvious. We’re constantly being offered refreshments at events and on several occasions, I’ve caught her slipping food into her bag for later, presumably because she never goes home. Or maybe she lived through the Irish potato famine in a former life.
    Today I catch her removing a plastic cup covered with a napkin secured by an elastic band from her briefcase (i.e., there was planning involved). In the cup are a dozen large shrimp in cocktail sauce. I recognize them from the buffet table at an event we visited hours earlier.
    “Margo! You’re not going to eat those are you?” I say. “It’s salmonella waiting to happen!”
    “Never mind!” she retorts, slipping them back into her briefcase and stalking out of her own office.
    No wonder we have a rat problem. And no wonder her clothes are often a mess, with stains and her shirttail hanging out. The Minister frequently whispers, “Margo, your blouse…”
    Still, as much as it pains me to admit it, Margo is actually quite attractive. What’s more, for all her compulsive eating and hoarding, she barely tips the scale at a hundred pounds. Maybe she could get me a similar pact with the devil. I imagine she has some pull.
     
    “Are you drunk, Libby?” my mother asks when I call to tell her we’re shipping out at dawn.
    “No, why would you say that?” I counter, scooping the ice cubes out of my glass so that their clinking won’t give me away.
    “You seem a little withdrawn, that’s all. And you’re slurring.”
    “I am not slurring.”
    “You’d drink a lot less if you had Mrs. Bingham living next door, monitoring your recycle bin as she does mine.”
    “I don’t drink enough to interest the Mrs. Binghams of the world. Worry about my chocolate consumption if you must worry.”
    “You’ve been miserable since you started this job.”
    “I’m fine,” I slur soothingly. “How’s Desdemona doing?”
    “Desdemona? The Binghams’ poodle? Good Lord, she died in the ’70s!”
    “Yeah, but they had her stuffed and standing by the fireplace last time I was there.”
    “That was a decade ago. I’m sure they’ve thrown it out by now.”
    “ Her. Desi was a girl. Maybe they sold her at their garage sale last year.”
    “I think I’d have noticed that. I’d have bought her for your father.”
    “He could keep her beside his recliner.”
    “Don’t suppose your diversionary tactics are working, by the way. They may work on your aunt Mavis, but they’re wasted on me.”
    “Not if I’m sober, they aren’t.”
    “So you are drinking!”
    “Mother, you’d be into the bourbon too, if you were facing the week I am.”
    “Never bourbon,” she says. “I’m sure it won’t be as bad as you fear. And when you get back, I’ll make some Nanaimo bars you can take into the office to sweeten Margo up.”
    They’ll be just the thing to tempt her into the rattrap.

7
    T he Royal Tour is off to a majestic start. Witness this day in the life of the average political speechwriter.
    7:00 a.m.: Libby arises immediately upon alarm, only to have tiny, fleet-footed Margo stampede by into shared washroom and slam door. Boots up computer instead and checks hopefully for e-mails from Rox.
    7:30 a.m.: Showers while Margo throws personal effects into suitcase and races off to