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What happens when a political wordsmith finds herself at a loss for words?
Libby McIssac is known for two things: catching bridal bouquets (her record's an even dozen) and having a way with words. Since the former isn't really something that looks good on a resume, it's a good thing she's been able to parlay the latter into a new career as a political speechwriter. But just as she's being careful to dot her i's, cross her t's and make her boss ...
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What happens when a political wordsmith finds herself at a loss for words?
Libby McIssac is known for two things: catching bridal bouquets (her record's an even dozen) and having a way with words. Since the former isn't really something that looks good on a resume, it's a good thing she's been able to parlay the latter into a new career as a political speechwriter. But just as she's being careful to dot her i's, cross her t's and make her boss look like she knows something about . . . well, anything, Libby's world is turned upside down.
Libby just wants to write the speeches that'll make the whole world sing, or at least ones that will get her boss to remember her name correctly and stop using Libby as her coatrack at flashy events. But in Clarice Cleary's office there's only one belle of the ball, and it's the one reading the speeches — not writing them. Enter a handsome British consultant — a bit on the cagey side, perhaps — who upsets the delicate chain of command around the office and somehow always gets what he wants, including Libby?
When a media leak of a big-time scandal sends everyone into a tailspin, Libby fears she may get caught in the cross fire. Cue the fake alliances, the secrets, the sex, the subterfuge, the hidden friendships: it's all there.
Welcome to the world of politics, where perception is everything, nothing is as it seems and the last thing you want is to be left speechless.
"Found her! She's asleep!" Emma's six-year-old niece yells. She's peering under the stall door, a wide grin on her annoying little face.
"I was not asleep," I say, opening the door to find two bridesmaids in buttercup yellow dresses identical to mine glaring at me. "I've got a migraine."
"You don't get migraines," Lola says, grabbing my arm with one hand and hitching up her special Maid-of-Honor chiffon cape with the other. "Cut the crap and let's get this show on the road. The sooner it's over, the sooner we're back at the bar."
As they escort me to the dance floor, the delighted flower girl skips ahead, shouting, "I found Libby! She was asleep on the toilet!"
I should have known better than to attempt escape with Lola in charge. She's cranky because yellow makes her look sallow and worse, Emma made her promise not to smoke tonight. The honor of being chosen maid of honor is hardly compensation enough. In fact, no one is more oblivious to this sort of honor than Lola and no one is less willing to be on her best behavior. That's why I expected the Maid-of-Honor nod myself, but Emma probably wanted to leave me free to enjoy my own brand of nuptial notoriety.
For five minutes at every wedding, I am a bigger star than the bride. My role is to catch the bridal bouquet. It isn't staged, it just happens. No matter how poorly the bride throws, nor how eager my competitors are, the bouquet is always mine. All I have to do is show up. I stand among the single women, hands at my sides and it flies straight at my face. At the last moment, I inevitably raise my hands in self-defence. Like I could afford twelve nose jobs on a government salary!
Twelve bridal bouquets. Now, there's a claim to fame. At six foot two (six-five in yellow satin bridesmaid pumps), I suppose I'm an easy mark. I prefer to blame my unlikely talent on my height than accept that Fate is playing a cruel joke on me. After all, everyone knows that the girl who catches the bridal bouquet will be next to marry - it's a tradition. Yet, somehow, I remain single despite my twelve trophies.
When I caught my first bouquet at age eight, I was thrilled. When I caught my third at age twenty, I was cautiously hopeful. When I caught my eighth at twenty-eight, I was mortified. And when I caught my tenth at thirty, well, I asked my friends to stop inviting me to their weddings.
They didn't, obviously. These days I get invites from people I barely know, just so that they can see me in action. I've become a party trick.
Being a little superstitious, I held on to the bouquets long after I gave up all belief in the tradition. Lola found them hanging in my closet last year. "This is seriously weird," she said, as if she'd stumbled upon Bluebeard's wives. "I'll destroy them to spare you from ridicule." As if anyone who's caught that many bridal bouquets is a stranger to ridicule! Still, I was relieved when she took responsibility for dumping them. Given my history with men, I can't afford to be sending that kind of message out to the universe.
When I agreed to be her bridesmaid, Emma promised to show some restraint. "Don't worry, I won't get all bridey," she said moments before launching herself into a vortex of white lace and tulle. After that, it was Fairytale Wedding by the book. Pathetic optimist that I am, I even believed her when she told me she'd keep the bouquet toss simple. "Just the basics," she said.
Many have been less considerate. They embraced the variation on the tradition where the woman who catches the bouquet has to dance with the man who catches the garter because they're destined to marry each other. People love seeing the look on my face as the garter-catcher - usually a single-for-good-reason guy in a bad suit - comes to claim his dance. It makes for great wedding video footage. Take the following scene from Emma's, running unedited at nine minutes:
Emma, resplendent in $2000 worth of strapless, beaded taffeta, is beaming from the podium as she prepares for the bouquet toss.
The camera cuts to the crowd of single women, where my big, bushy head looms above the crowd. There's a sullen expression on my face. Lola stands guard over me, a drink in one hand, a partially hidden smoke in the other. Two eager young women flank me. They're sizing me up and, judging by their smirks, they don't consider me much of a threat. Lola pretends to burn one of them in the butt with her cigarette and we both make faces behind them. We have forgotten the camera.
Emma winds up for the pitch and the video slips into slow motion. The bouquet shoots out over the crowd. The camera captures my expression as I assess the bouquet's trajectory. Closer ... closer ... The two youngsters jockey for position, elbowing me. I step backward to avoid them. Arms outstretched, they hurl themselves into the air. You can see the hope on my face: this time I am finally going to miss it! But no, the teens careen into each other. One stumbles off her platforms and into Lola, who "accidentally" spills red wine on the teen's tight white dress (never wear white to a wedding). The bouquet travels like a missile over their perfectly coiffed heads, my hands go up and ... yes! It's a direct hit, ladies and gentlemen. Turning, I hold the bouquet high and curtsy for the crowd. The teens check out my butt and sneer, confirming my suspicion that there is no good angle in a yellow stretch-poly frock.
I offer the photographer a big, fake smile before stepping to the sidelines to make way for the single men. The D.J. cues the stripper music and Bob, the groom, removes the garter from Emma's leg and snaps it into the air. There's a flash of blue as it streaks across the dance floor, the camera panning to follow its path. Over the heads of the single men it goes, until its flight is suddenly arrested ... by my forehead. It snaps my head back with its force, then drops into the bridal bouquet I'm still holding. Heads are swiveling. No one knows where the garter landed. The videographer speaks up: "Libby caught it!"
Stunned, I pluck it from the bouquet and hold it aloft. The single guys turn as one and race toward me. There's a brief struggle as they grab my arms, my waist, my legs and hoist me into the air. I stop resisting when I realize that the more I thrash, the less coverage my dress provides. The D.J. plays the Village People's "Macho Man" and the guys pump me up and down to the beat. As the song ends, they deposit me - quite gently, really, when you consider the trays of tequila slammers they've consumed - before the bride and groom. I surrender the garter with a dizzy flourish. Bob snaps the garter again; this time a tall guy grabs it casually out of the air. Emma grins in my general direction before whispering something in the D.J.'s ear. He steps to the mike: "Would Libby McIssac please step forward again? Tim Kennedy will now place the garter on Libby's leg and the two will share a special dance."
I look stricken, but Tim is smiling as he walks toward me and bows. He leads me to a chair in the center of the dance floor. I lift my own bridesmaid gown and place my foot on the chair. Tim slips the garter over my foot and slides it up my leg. The video does not capture the snag in my thirty-dollar stockings.
"Let's give Libby and Tim a hand, everyone," the D.J. shouts.
"We'll see them united in wedded bliss sometime soon!" (I hate this guy.)
The camera follows us briefly as we start dancing, then finally cuts back to the bride.
Excerpted from Speechless by Sandy Rideout Yvonne Collins Copyright © 2004 by Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd.. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Posted June 25, 2008
Posted January 17, 2007
When I saw this book, I was really excited. But it just didn't seem to hold my interest, and I felt it was too long. It had a few funny parts, but overall I was relieved when I'd finally finished it.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted June 18, 2004
I related to the character, Libby, in that I too am 'getting older' and am not yet married and while I haven't caught as many bouquets as Libby, I have caught quite a few! But really, I couldn't put this book down! I think that if you liked Bridget Jones's Diary that you would like this book.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted January 3, 2004
In Toronto Libby McIssac is legendary for catching bridal bouquets having caught twelve over the past two decades starting when she was eight. Libby knows she has a tall advantage being six foot five in three inch heels, but even when she does not try she makes the play as every wedding she ahs attended she has caught the bouquet................................... Libby obtains a job at the Ministry of Recreations as a political speechwriter for Minster Clarice Cleary. However, the job stinks as her immediate boss and the Minister barely acknowledge that she breaths and blithely informs her that they will let her know when she can think for herself. The positives are Tim Kennedy, who she met at a wedding when she easily caught the bridal bouquet, and a male friend willing to end the bouquet curse. On the other hand a scandal shakes up the Ministry and people like Libby are considered mass sacrifice fodder................................. Even though the heroine¿s angst is bigger than her basketball physique and can become disruptive, Libby still makes this chick lit pleasurable through her often amusing perspective of the worlds of dating even much shorter males, weddings and politics. The story line is for the most part humorous (think of a penis of a peninsular), but also has a serious undertone involving workplace culpability (the buck stops below management). Readers will enjoy Libby¿s lament just don¿t try to crash the boards against her................................ Harriet KlausnerWas this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.