Campaign Ruby

by Jessica Rudd

  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 cert
ain I hadn’t brushed my teeth. I was parched. How I made it to bed was a mystery.

  The intrigued part of me wanted to get up and assess the damage; the other part knew that the slightest movement could disrupt my equilibrium, resulting in certain vomit. I caught a glimpse of my clock radio out of the corner of one eye: 12.48 p.m. Not a bad effort.

  With little warning, my head span, my mouth watered, my stomach churned. These telltale pre-purge signs were not unfamiliar to me. Ignore them at your peril, warned my head. I rose, slowly enough to prevent upchuck, but fast enough to make it to the bathroom. I sent a quick prayer to the plumbing gods in the hope that my Georgian loo would cooperate, along with my liver. Briefly, the cool slate of my bathroom floor comforted me. Alas, what followed was inevitable.

  After what felt like a marathon, I got up. Loo flushed, teeth brushed, toothbrush buried, I exited the bathroom.

  The pungent stench of expelled grapes and curry polluted my flat. I reached for a favourite candle and matches, learning quickly that sick overlaid with gardenias is less pleasant than sick alone. Instead, I opened the windows in the living room and kitchen.

  An icy gust gave flight to some sheets of paper in my printer tray. I couldn’t remember printing anything. I stepped over three empty wine bottles and gathered them.

  My credit and debit cards were scattered across the kitchen bench next to my laptop, presumably from when I ordered the Thai curry. I needed hydration and rest. I went to the fridge, took out the bottle of Evian I had left there in case I ever made it to a yoga class, and sipped.

  A cursory glance at the printouts puzzled me. It seemed I had printed a Wikipedia page about pinot noir, another about the Yarra Valley and one about Melbourne. En route to the sofa, my body felt the shock of chilled liquid. I had missed my mouth and poured the Evian down my front and onto the pages. I carried the soggy mess to the kitchen sink and wrung the damp from each sheet.

  And there it was.

  To: Ruby.Stanhope@gmail.com

  From: etik@qantas.com

  Thank you for choosing to fly with Qantas.

  Your e-ticket itinerary and receipt are attached. Print this document and carry it with you when travelling.

  We may use this email address to contact you about flight updates up to three days before your first flight out.

  We look forward to welcoming you onboard soon.

  Surely not. But the next page was more alarming. ‘QANTAS BOOKING CONFIRMATION,’ I read aloud, ‘BOOKING REFERENCE GCU9263…MS RUBY STANHOPE…QF30… LHR–HKG; HKG–MEL…26 FEBRUARY…0020.’

  I dashed to the bedroom as best I could, stubbing my little toe into the Samsonite suitcase on the floor. My toe throbbed in unison with my head. I flopped on the bed, reached for my phone and looked at the date.

  Today was the twenty-fifth of February. It was now 1.12 p.m. I appeared to have booked a flight to Melbourne via Hong Kong departing in eleven hours. Fuckity fuck. I clutched my toe. Calm down, Ruby, said my head, still pounding. Take deep breaths.

  ‘Welcome to Qantas,’ said a friendly lady when I dialled the number. ‘If you’re a Qantas Frequent Flyer, please enter your membership number, followed by the hash key.’

  My fingers mashed my number into the keypad. I hobbled to the freezer and pulled out a bag of frozen peas for my swelling toe.

  ‘That is not a valid membership number,’ said the lady. ‘Please enter your—’

  I silenced her and re-entered my number.

  ‘I’m sorry, we couldn’t find that membership number,’ she said. ‘Please choose from the following options.’

  ‘Don’t pretend to be sorry—you’re not sorry at all.’

  ‘Please hold the line. A customer service representative will be with you shortly.’

  ‘Thanks for your patience; we’re currently experiencing longer than normal wait-times,’ said someone with Hugh Jackman’s voice. Hugh would have sympathy for my situation.

  As the peas thawed against the heat of my feet, I worked on my excuses. ‘You see,’ I rehearsed, ‘I’ve broken my toe and it is so swollen that I can’t wear shoes and it would be unsafe to travel without shoes.’ This excuse had merit because it carried an element of truth.

  Hugh’s spiel came to an end and a new lady answered the phone. ‘Welcome to Qantas. This is Mara.’

  ‘Hello, Mara, my name is Ruby Stanhope and I’m calling from London.’

  ‘How can I help, Miss Stanhope?’ asked Mara. She was much nicer than the first lady.

  ‘Well, I’m glad you ask, Mara,’ I said, channelling my mother’s charming I’m-about-to-ask-you-to-do-something-for-me voice. ‘You see, yesterday I was made redundant. I went home, got terribly drunk on some very good Australian wine and appear to have inadvertently booked myself a flight to Melbourne. I need to cancel that flight. Urgently.’

  ‘Do you have a booking reference number, Miss Stanhope?’

  ‘It’s GCU9263—GCU probably stands for Giant Cock Up.’

  Mara laughed, which I took as a good sign. ‘I’m going to place you on hold for a minute, Miss Stanhope, while I pull up your booking.’ More Hugh. ‘Miss Stanhope, thank you for holding. Regrettably, as your flight is due to depart in less than twenty-four hours, I am afraid we’re unable to cancel the booking without it incurring a fee. Alternatively, you could postpone your booking, but this would also incur a fee.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Did I mention my Frequent Flyer number?’

  ‘No, Miss Stanhope, would you like me to attach it to the booking?’

  I read her the number.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Stanhope. Now, what would you like to do?’

  My hope was dwindling. ‘Is there no special…you know…is there anything that can be done given my… er…membership status?’

  ‘No, Miss Stanhope,’ Mara said politely. ‘You have booked an inflexible ticket. I am happy to offer you a cancellation with a fee or a postponement with a smaller fee.’

  ‘You see, Mara, I don’t even have a visa for Australia, so it’s simply impossible for me to board the flight.’ I bent down to collect runaway peas. ‘It’s probably better for everyone involved if it’s just cancelled. It was an administrative error anyway.’

  ‘I’m afraid our system requires customers to confirm that they have a visa before they proceed with the booking,’ she explained. ‘So we are unable to refund customers when they have, as you have, confirmed that they possess a visa for the destination, even if they booked under the influence of alcohol and didn’t intend to.’

  I wasn’t sure I liked Mara after all. ‘I see, but this was my first BUI offence and I really don’t want to go to Australia. It’s not that I don’t want to ever go there,’ I backtracked. ‘I’m sure it’s a lovely place. In fact my aunt lives there and she adores it. It’s just that I don’t want to go there right now because I have no job and I need to find another.’

  Mara was silent.

  ‘How much is the cancellation fee?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s £1,340, with a five per cent fee for credit card transactions,’ she said as if she hadn’t just asked me to pay more than twice the value of a Mulberry Bayswater bag. ‘Postponing your booking would cost £894.70, with a five per cent fee for credit card transactions as well as any additional cost for the new ticket, but you would have to make that booking for a flight departing London no later than the third of March.’

  ‘How much was the total booking?’

  ‘Actually, you managed to find an excellent deal,’ said Mara. ‘You paid a total of £1,864.45, which is very competitive as a last-minute booking.’

  ‘So essentially, my choices are: I can go to Australia without a visa tomorrow and be detained for unlawful entry, or I can pay a fraction more than £890 and do the same thing next week, or I can pay slightly more than £1,340 and pretend this never happened.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Mara, ‘but if you’re a citizen of the European Union, you can arrange an emergency visa online that can be processed in a matter o
f hours.’

  I took a moment to reflect. I couldn’t remember any of this so how was it possible that I’d been sufficiently lucid to complete an internet transaction?

  ‘Your return leg has more flexibility,’ Mara continued. ‘It’s in three weeks’ time, so you can make changes to your itinerary until a week beforehand.’

  ‘It looks like I’m going to Melbourne, doesn’t it, Mara?’

  ‘Well, Miss Stanhope, if it’s any consolation, I was chatting to my mum in Melbourne tonight. She said yesterday was a stinker, but today it’s cooled down to thirty-eight degrees. Is there anything else I can help you with?’

  ‘No thanks, Mara.’

  I returned to my bedroom, peas, phone and laptop in hand, and buried my head in the bed. The duvet muffled my scream. The events of last night returned in dribs and drabs. My passport number was scrawled across my palm in blue ink next to a smiley face. The huge suitcase next to my bed contained the items of my free box, alongside an old bikini, an array of footwear from Birkenstocks to Louboutins and the latest James Halliday Wine Companion.

  ‘Francesca speaking.’

  ‘Fran, it’s me,’ I yawned into the receiver. ‘I’m going to Australia.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be melodramatic, darling. Today’s papers line tomorrow’s litter trays.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Some North Umbrian will find a tarantula in his pantry today and you’ll be yesterday’s news.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘Hello, Aunty Wooby,’ said Darth Vader. ‘You wrote an email in the newspaper.’

  ‘Good grief.’

  ‘Hang up, please, Clementine,’ said Fran. ‘I’m so sorry, darling, I thought you knew. Look, it’s not that bad and it’s an excellent email.’

  ‘Which paper?’

  ‘The pink one and the rude one,’ puffed Darth.

  ‘I’m in the FT?’

  ‘Yes, there’s a mention of it in the diary pages and a larger piece in the Sun on page eight. Very positive, actually. “RUBY ’S REVENGE : LAID-OFF BANKER STINGS HR ‘NINCOMPOOPS ’.” Here it is. Blah, blah…“Stanhope’s email went viral in City circles yesterday. An estimated nine hundred thousand people had read it within two hours of it being sent. The bank declined to comment on its headcount control plans, but maintains its internal communications methods are in line with industry standards.” Only a small mention of Daddy.’