Campaign Ruby (2 page)

‘Christ.'

‘There's only one thing to do,' he said, nudging the elegant box in my direction. ‘If you are to cling to the integrity you have earned in this godforsaken cesspit of a bank you must deflower these Louboutins. Prontissimo.' Sean knelt and slid off my Steve Madden pumps. He loosened the black ribbon, removed the lid and unfolded the tissue paper. Inside was, quite possibly, the
perfect
pair of boots. ‘Let these be your glass slippers.' He unzipped the right boot and fitted it to my foot. The left followed. Their curve spooned my arches. I zipped them up and let Sean pull me off the floor.

It's amazing what four inches of height can give you. Sean handed me my pumps and kissed my cheeks. ‘I'll miss you, darling girl. But you mustn't miss this place. Let this be the making—not the breaking—of Ruby Stanhope.'

Fifteen minutes later, there were tiny ticks next to Items 1 through 4 on my list. I was looking forward to Item 5 with keen anticipation.

To: HR Department

CC: All in London Office; Global Board

From: Stanhope, Ruby (Emerging Markets)

Dear HR Department,

I have received your profoundly ill-mannered email. I'm astonished that you have the audacity to enforce monthly ‘Internal Communications' training sessions, and didn't think to inform me in person or even via telephone that certain global investment decisions have had an uncomfortably local impact for me and eight of my esteemed colleagues. I work two floors away from you.

If the restructuring process hadn't been masterminded by incompetent nincompoops like those found in your department, we might have seen some very positive organisational change, such as the permanent outsourcing of all HR and IT services to Mumbai. Alas, it wasn't to be.

When I was here at 1.20 a.m. today, eating lukewarm teriyaki salmon alone at my desk to the sound of vacuuming—having missed yet another dental appointment, another gym session, another dinner with my sister, another opportunity to meet a future partner— I was comforted by the knowledge that while I might die fat, friendless and alone of a tooth infection, I would die a valued employee of this bank, which employed my father and his before him.

Once, this institution showed me loyalty. Now, it is showing me the door.

I accept the redundancy package you offer and thank you for the free box.

Regards

Ruby Stanhope

Former Senior Analyst (Emerging Markets)

Tick. Tick. Ping.

The Tube was as empty at half eleven in the morning as it was at half eleven at night. I picked the bluest and therefore newest of all the available seats and put my free box next to me. At the other end of the carriage a suited man was on the phone, taking advantage of the only reliable thing about the Hammersmith and City line—it offered at least ten minutes of uninterrupted mobile signal.

‘You assured me that you sent them my CV,' he fumed, presumably to a recruiter. ‘Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to turn up to an interview like that without a CV?' He caught me staring at him and lowered his voice. ‘Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to turn up to an interview like that without a CV?'

Why, I pondered, do people reiterate sotto voce the things they've already shouted? It's nonsensical. First, you've already broadcast it. Second, it draws the attention of people like me to the very thing you're trying to keep private. Anyway, what kind of airhead would go to an interview without a copy of his CV?

My stomach writhed, reminding me of my new reality. I was now that guy. I was unemployed. Soon, I too would be pacing between stations, blaming my predicament on a recruiter.

Did I really just send an email to the entire bloody office and the global board? If I did, I was also unemployable. The faces of the old men at my parents' thirtieth wedding anniversary shuffled through my mind. Many of them were still on the board, including Andrew Leigh, the chairman. I imagined the chairman's secretary knocking on his open door. ‘Andrew, you've received an email from Roger Stanhope's daughter, Ruby—shall I print it for you?' I couldn't even remember what I'd said. I grew clammy as I searched through my bottomless pit of a handbag for my BlackBerry. Shit. It wasn't my BlackBerry anymore. Shit, shit, shit—it was in the other box.

I pulled out my rickety personal mobile to text Sean. There was a message.

Brill email, sweet cheeks! Everyone talking. My contact at the mailroom in Paris wants to meet you. Wear those Louboutins tonight to celebrate. Sean xxxxxxx

Good grief.

Paris? Merde. I only copied in London and the board. Can you hack my account and hit recall? Password: Rueful. R x

‘The next station is Ladbroke Grove,' the Tube Lady announced.

My niece, Clementine, explained to me last Sunday on the way home from Covent Garden that there is a magical lady who lives inside the Tube. She is a very small, very busy lady, ‘like Tinkerbell, but with a very big voice'. She runs around at light speed in the ceiling of each carriage giving everyone the information they need. Because there are so many different lines and she is getting old, she has asked her friends to help her, which is why you sometimes hear a man's voice instead of a lady's.

Clem insisted on greeting the Tube Lady and thanking her for the friendly reminder to mind the gap. ‘Thank you, Tube Lady, I certainly will.'

Almost five years ago, just as I entered the workforce, my sister Francesca left it to have Clem. She was a fearsome litigator at a magic circle firm and was on the brink of making senior associate after leading a messy trademark dispute for a major retail client. The firm urged her to take paid maternity leave when she discovered she was pregnant, a few months after marrying Mark, but she was determined to be a parent first. We all found this news shocking, especially Mark, who probably expected he'd have to fight for my feisty sister to take any leave at all. ‘I was good at my job,' she maintains, ‘but I didn't love doing it; whereas I'm a good mother and love being one.'

My phone.

Too late for recall, gorgeous. Paris got it from Dubai who got it from Facebook. You've gone global! S xxxxxx

Fuck.

The freezing February breeze stung my nose and ears at Ladbroke Grove Station. The salt on the platform from the morning's frost crunched under my new boots. I swiped my Oyster Card at the turnstile before commencing the short journey to my neglected flat in Elgin Crescent. The sky was the colour of my formerly favourite white shirt, ruined by washing it in haste with a new black bra. The wind played havoc with the long line of skeletal trees in my street. It didn't worry me that it was so bleak outside: it was a nod from God acknowledging my bad day.

My legs carried me up the three flights of stairs without buckling. Thank you, legs. I unzipped my boots, peeled off my clothes and stood under the shower. As always, I glanced up at the waterproof digital clock suction-cupped to the tiled wall, but this time was different. Euphoria set in. I had nowhere to go and nothing to do. I could exfoliate, shave even. I flipped open my face scrub with abandon. I didn't have to use a hair dryer because it wouldn't matter if my hair was frizzy tomorrow. I could use a face mask fearless of spots, watch the extras on my
Love Actually
DVD, drink and stay up all night. Tomorrow's hangover wouldn't matter; I could sleep all day.

The buzzer interrupted my sudsy fantasy. I ignored it. Nobody is home at lunchtime on a Wednesday, not even the old lady next door. It rang again. Bugger off, I willed it. No such luck. I rinsed, wrapped myself in a towel and went to the intercom. ‘Hello?'

‘Delivery.'

I peered through the window to see a courier van and a man with a big box. ‘Sorry, I'm not expecting anything.' I hung up. Buzz. I picked up again.

‘Yes?'

‘Are you Ruby Stanhop?'

‘Sort of.'

‘Delivery from Blurrybross.'

‘Listen, I don't know a Blurrybross. I suggest you take it up with Dispatch.'

‘My sheet says delivery of one case of Austrian peanut noise to Mrs Ruby Stanhop at this address—this is flat 302, isn't it?'

‘Peanut noise?'

‘Says right 'ere, Austrian peanut noise to be delivered to—'

‘Hold on a minute.' Wringing the drips from my hair, I yanked a pair of perilously under-elasticised sweat pants over my damp skin, and grabbed a cardigan, buttoning it up on the way down the stairs.

‘Look, who did you say the sender was?' I asked, breathless.

‘Blurry-Bross-And-Rudd, delivery of one case of Austrian peanut noise to Mrs Ruby Stanhop.'

‘It wouldn't by any chance be a case of Australian pinot noir from Berry Bros & Rudd, would it?'

‘That's what I said.' He pushed past me with the box.

Five minutes later, straddling the wooden crate on my living-room floor, I knew this was one of life's intersections. My instincts told me to get the flat-head screwdriver and jemmy the lid.

Leave the crate alone
, said my head.
This wine represents
an investment: the kind you might need to rely on
now that you're unemployed.

My head had a point. It was 2005 Toolangi Estate pinot noir, destined for better drinking in a couple of years. Luckily, a suite of excellent counterarguments came to me, so I sat up to present them for the benefit of my sceptical head.

1. I must ensure that each bottle has arrived unscathed

2. I was dumped by my employer today on the eve of certain promotion, so it is fitting to open a bottle and drink it before its time

3. You, my dear head, only favour the No camp for dread of your own pain in the morning. Red wine is known for its holistic benefits—it would be unfair to listen only to the voice of the self-interested lobbyist on my shoulders.

But
…my head protested. Triumphant, I leaped up and began rummaging through the kitchen drawers for the screwdriver.

The afternoon was productive. I called Cool Monkey, ordered, had delivered, and demolished their delicious Thai red duck curry—a perfect match for the peanut noise, which I sampled in abundance. I unpacked the crate and tucked each of the remaining ten bottles into my temperature-controlled wine fridge. I even put on a load of washing. Nearing the halfway mark of my second bottle of peanut noise and still impressively sober, I decided to call my sister. The phone rang twice.

‘Good evening, Clementine speaking, how may I subsist you?'

‘Good evening, Clementine, it's Aunty Ruby. Would it be possible to speak with your mother?'

‘Hello, Aunty Wooby, kindly hole for one minute and I will see if she is abailable. ARE YOU ABAILABLE, MUMMY? AUNTY WOOBY IS ON THE PHONE FOR YOU AND SHE'S DOING FUNNY VOICES
!
' Footsteps.

‘No need to yell, darling,' said Fran. ‘Hello, how are you?'

‘Slightly deaf. Just thought I'd call for a quick—'

‘Just a second,' said Fran, covering the receiver. ‘Clementine, could you please brush your teeth and choose a story—I'll be there in a minute.' She uncovered the receiver. ‘Sorry, we're attempting to enforce a seven o'clock bedtime because she talks herself hoarse if she's awake until eight and Mummy will go bonkers and get alopecia if she doesn't get an hour of alone time. What's on the desk menu tonight? Teriyaki salmon or teriyaki chicken?'

‘Actually, it was red duck curry.'

‘You've already eaten? I'm impressed, Ruby. I'm surprised they haven't sacked you.' She laughed.

‘That's why I'm calling.'

Her laughter petered out. ‘Seriously?'

‘According to an email from HR this morning my position has been made redundant.'

‘Oh, Ruby…wait, did you say email? That's a disgrace!'

‘That's what I said in a rather too angry email to HR copying the entire office and global board.'

‘Well, it's no wonder you're doing funny voices.'

I could hear heavy breathing. ‘See, Mummy.'

‘Clementine Genevieve Gardner-Stanhope, if you do not hang up that phone right now there will be no story for you tonight or any night.'

Darth Vader disappeared with a clunk of the bedroom extension. I giggled.

‘I'm so sorry, Ruby,' Fran said, perhaps not knowing whether I was laughing or crying. ‘What utter nobs they are. How much have you had to drink?'

‘Almost two.' Bottles, not glasses, but she didn't need to know that.

‘Why don't you come over? We made cupcakes today. They taste prettier than they look. I'd come to you, of course, but bloody Mark isn't home yet.'

‘No, I think I might just go to bed.'

‘Okay, don't worry about this—we'll sort something out.'

‘Goodnight, Aunty Wooby,' breathed Darth, risen again.

The deterioration of my hand–eye coordination was the only thing clear as I emptied the last of bottle number two into my glass and wandered over to the computer at my desk.

Googling aimlessly about wine, I was bewitched by a photograph of grapes on a vine. Toolangi seemed to be somewhere near Melbourne. How did those frosted purple, spherical Australians become this complex liquid in my glass in Notting Hill? Despite the amount of time we had spent together, I was yet to meet Mr Noir in his fruity flesh. We were like those couples in the tabloids who've had an entire relationship online before marrying at their first date. I heard my thoughts grow stranger with each sip.

Drink a case, pack a case

Fuck you, Ruby
, said my head.
Yeah, fuck you, Ruby
, the rest of my body chimed in.

Morning had broken and entered my flat. I could see its orangeness through my sealed eyelids. I groaned, pulling the duvet back over my head. This was supposed to be a day of sleeping with possible cupcakes in the afternoon, but blood pumped through my veins with the grace of a snowplough. My liver flapped and floundered, mopping up toxins.
Go to the loo
, urged my bladder. The carpet of tannins on my teeth and tongue felt ghastly. I couldn't remember my last glass of water and was certain I hadn't brushed my teeth. I was parched. How I made it to bed was a mystery.