again, but without the good looks. Not that Elliot is really in any position to criticize: his longest relationship lasted six months. Coincidentally, it, too, was with someone who strongly resembled Jason Priestley. Or so he tells me.
When I arrive at the Manhole, Elliot’s favorite bar, he’s holding court at his usual table, which happens to afford an excellent view of both the bar and the door to the men’s room. A waiter is sitting across from him. At first it looks like they’re holding hands, but then I realize Elliot is reading the guy’s palm. Not that I’d have been surprised: Elliot’s charm is legendary and he’s particularly dashing this evening.
“The positive energy is rolling off you in waves!” Elliot greets me with a delighted squeal, sending the waiter scurrying off to get me a beer. “And you look hot, too,” he adds, leaning over to kiss my cheek. “Scorching! Too bad it’s totally wasted in my domain.”
“Not at all,” I say, smiling. “I’ve been hit on here before.”
“That’s nothing to brag about, doll,” he says, but he’s laughing, because he enjoys it more than anyone when I’m mistaken for a drag queen.
“Buy me a martini?” Elliot asks. It’s his way of telling me he’s picking up psychic signals about me and is willing to share them—for a price.
“Do I want to know?” Elliot is not the type of psychic to spare one bad news.
“I’d say so, Flower Girl, but enter at your own risk.”
Elliot’s presence in my life is entirely Lola’s fault. I would never have consulted a psychic myself, but she took to him during a fact-checking phone call five years ago. They clicked over their mutual interest in great food, exotic smokes, and getting laid (not by each other, clearly). Elliot has ranked first in Toronto Lives “best of” edition as the psychic to see for the past four years—the one “most likely to make you feel great about yourself.”
At first I paid fifty dollars a session and cringed over his carnival-barker–style delivery. Now he gives me the ten-dollar “family” rate if I meet him at a boy bar and buy him a drink. I’ve grown to find his performances hilarious. Although he never makes me feel great about myself, he’s frequently dead-on with his predictions. For example, Elliot said that Bruce and I wouldn’t last two years; we survived only twenty months. Mind you, anyone who saw Bruce and me together might have predicted that. My brother, for example, said, “Pay me five bucks and I’ll predict your future with ‘Bwuce.’”
“Tell me all about the Minister, first,” Elliot says. “Has she mentioned me yet?”
His crush on Clarice Cleary predates my employment. She’s all about appearances and he respects that. Besides, Elliot is an artist as well as a psychic and has been the grateful recipient of several Ministry arts grants.
“She hasn’t even acknowledged I exist yet, but I do have some news.” He leans forward with unexpected focus, given the constant parade of handsome men past our table. “She’s been shopping—two Armani suits and an Ungaro ball gown this week alone.”
“Jewelry?” Elliot is practically drooling.
“Not this time, but last week she picked up a stunning tennis bracelet and two new Kate Spade handbags.”
“And you didn’t call me?”
“I wasn’t speaking to you.”
“Oh right, you were still in a snit. Look, it’s not my fault if the universe sends me messages you don’t like. I am merely a medium.”
“Yeah, but would it kill you to keep your mouth shut if you know I won’t like the message?”
“It would.” Elliot is smiling over my left shoulder and I don’t have to be a psychic myself to sense that fresh prey looms on the horizon. “Oh my, the man of tonight’s dreams,” he says, already out of his chair and gliding toward the men’s room.
I have a moment of worry that he’ll be too distracted to give me the good news he’s coaxed out of the cosmos about me, but he’s back presently, with a beautiful, bashful youth in tow.
“Libby, this is Zachary,” he says, “never Zack.” It takes another hour and a second martini before I can get him to focus on the reading. “Okay, Libby, if we must talk about you, fine. I intuited something remarkable about you today, which intensified as you walked through the door. Something different from anything I’ve picked up in months…years, even. In fact, since I’ve known you. Zachary, you would not believe Libby’s luck with men.” Zachary smiles in silent sympathy.
“Elliot, get to the point.”
“Don’t interrupt the energy flow.” Which means he wants to put on a show for Zack. “It’s been a long time since Libby’s had sex, if you must know, Zachary.”
“Must he know, Elliot?”
“He must.” Elliot’s hand is now resting on Zack’s forearm. “How else will he appreciate the significance of this news? Because, Libby, honey—(pause for dramatic effect) you are going to get laid.”
I’m silent for a moment, then, “Really?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. It has happened before—just not in recent memory.” Zack is giggling and gazing admiringly at Elliot. “But what’s truly amazing, is that it’s going to happen more than once. And with different people.”
I’m staring in stunned disbelief.
“I absolutely feel this in my bones,” Elliot continues, voice rising. “You will have several opportunities in the coming months, some of them quite unorthodox. And for a change, I actually see you taking them.”
“Can you sense anything about the men?”
“Who said anything about men?” Elliot says, laughing, but then his brow furrows. “I also sense conflict, and on many fronts.”
“What else is new?” I shrug, undaunted. This news was worth a dozen martinis.
Zachary excuses himself and I taunt Elliot about his penchant for youth. “You’re a cougar,” I tell him.
“And you’re jealous,” he responds.
“I don’t know how you do it,” I sigh. “You were gone less than five minutes and returned with Zachary clinging to your arm. What am I doing wrong?”
“I told you, it’s the sign. Take it off.”
“Don’t start with me.”
“Okay, leave the ‘I’m available,’ and strike a line through the ‘Fuck off.’”
“And we’ve been getting along so well…”
“Actually, you need to get along home.”
“Fine,” I say, becoming huffy in an instant.
“I just want to woo Zachary. You know I’d do the same for you.”
He would, too, but it’s never been necessary. I slip my coat over my raised hackles, reach for my purse and grudgingly kiss Elliot goodbye. On the way home, I stop at the drugstore and fill my prescription for the pill. Best be prepared for all that sex.
I hear my admirer long before I see him. That’s because he is singing—and quite loudly—in the dreary halls of the Pink Palace. Not the worst item in the catalog of male flaws, but it’s unusual, even by government standards. Every day for two weeks, he’s warbled up the long hall to my cubicle, stopped abruptly, then started again ten feet past me. Since male birds sing to attract a mate, I put two and two together.
No doubt sensing I’d prefer to remain anonymous, Margo hastens to introduce me to my songbird, Joe Connolly, an analyst with the Ministry’s policy branch. After a few days of dropping by with policy papers and arias, he gets the nerve to leave me a note inviting me for a drink. Elliot’s predictions in mind, I pick up