The First Part of Chapter 6: Cleaning and Arranging

It was the day after the garden party, and David and Pia were cleaning up the mess that inevitably resulted from such things. There were three bags full of paper plates, disposable tablecloths, plastic cutlery, beer bottles, plastic glasses and the like. “Pia,” he called out, “We need to talk about Belinda,”

“Are you referring to her behaviour last night?”

“Yes. Where did she come from?”

“She’s an old friend from university, we had classes together, and I’m sorry for the way she acted; she stepped on baby Jason’s fingers for goodness sake.”

“You know, Laura and Clarissa called last night to complain.”

“Yes, and Rick did so earlier, and that was Jeannine who just called. Needless to say, I’m not impressed.”

“Yes, and that’s why I don’t want her invited here. She was doing all sorts of things. Did you see the gestures she made at me? I certainly wasn’t going to reciprocate her ‘come hither’ stare, and I felt very uncomfortable avoiding eye contact all evening.”

“Yes, well, I’ll call her,” said Pia, as she wiped down the kitchen counter. David took the last garbage bag to the garage.

“How is Jason doing?”

“He’s sleeping soundly, which you can tell because you can’t hear any screaming; getting stepped on with stiletto heels is no picnic, though,”

“About that. Belinda seemed like she was dressed to go clubbing. That’s very different from socialising at a garden party. Where does she get her fashion tastes from?”

“I saw her mother a few times, and I noticed that they like to wear similar sorts of clothing.”

“Shall we focus on the ways the party succeeded? You did very well on the punch. How did you know I liked lemoncella?”

“I saw a bottle of the stuff in the recycling once when we were courting, and I figured that you must have a taste for it. Oh, and the calls weren’t all bad; Clarissa complimented me on the food, and she said that she liked the bread you made. I’ll call Belinda now.”

While his wife was talking to Belinda, David turned to a story in the newspaper about the Prime Minister’s wife, as written by Ford Dasker, a reporter who seemed ambiguous about nearly everything; he never seemed to take sides, and when one day he would write a glowing piece about someone, the next article he would write would be decidedly more negative. The affair in Parliament seemed a soap opera writ large, and Cathaline Meach was feeling disengaged from her husband, according to all the gossip columns and magazines that his wife liked to read. Why would she act cold? He wondered. She has so much, after all, being close to power; one only has to enjoy the benefits. “I feel unloved” was a quote that an errant reporter had attributed to her during the past week. It was an obvious slow news week, which was often what happened in June. It turned out that she did not actually say, “I feel unloved”; that was actually the reporter poorly paraphrasing what she had said. She had actually said was, “sometimes I don’t feel [Bruce Meach] pays attention to me. He still cares for me, but it can get a little lonely at times.” He had no idea how the journalist twisted that simple statement into “I feel unloved”, and the story he was reading (in the Focus section of The Globe and Mail from the previous Saturday) was about this:

The misquote by reporter Thomas McNulty caused a considerable brouhaha when it was taken inappropriately out of context on CityTV, which opens a new debate about the role of the journalists in reporting on the personal lives of parliamentarians. The questions are, how shall accuracy in reporting be ensured, and where should the line be drawn on reporting on the personal lives of politicians? These questions are particularly relevant given the quantity of talk it has inspired in Ottawa it has inspired about a matter that ought to remain private. The Prime Minister, while a public figure has a right to private life and the events in that bedroom is, to paraphrase Pierre Trudeau, none of the nation’s business.

Really? Then what was The Globe doing perpetuating this soap opera?

Pia was concurrently talking to Belinda.

“We need to talk about what happened last night,”

The voice on the other end of the line sounded sleepy. “Oh yeah, great party. Thanks Pia.”

“I think the party was rather too good for you. Do you recall what you did last night?”

“Um, I had a couple of drinks. Hey, you know Kevin? What does he think of me?”

“Never mind Kevin. He said he was gay, anyways. This conversation is about you.”

“What about me?”

“Your behaviour last night was less than exemplary, to put it mildly. You had four drinks, you were saying all sorts of things about Henrietta that I would rather not hear, you were making eyes at my husband––and hands off, by the way––and you stepped on my baby Jason’s toes in your stilettos.”

“Really? Oh my, I’m so sorry,” Belinda was beginning to break up; Pia could tell, even over the phone, when somebody was crying.

“How can I ever make it up to you?”

Pia wanted the conversation to be over quickly: “It’s simple. We are not inviting you to any of our parties anymore. Goodbye,”

Pia hung up the phone, not wanting to hear Belinda’s caterwauling.

Previous Next