Campaign Ruby

by Jessica Rudd

  I wasn’t prepared for what I saw there. Pansy, a white bull-terrier with a black eye-patch, shivered, shook and gasped for breath, her stomach swollen and writhing. The polished floorboards were slick with thick, kelp-green slime. Pansy was using her front paws to slide around the four-poster bed. Daphne, sitting on the floor, seemed to be facilitating a Lamaze class for her pet. It looked like a House & Garden Halloween shoot.

  ‘Ruby,’ said Daphne, panting in unison with Pansy. ‘Thank God you’re here. Debs is as useless as tits on a bull. Be a dear. Go to the computer in the study down the hall and find out from the internet if there’s anything I need to do to assist Pansy with the delivery.’

  ‘Tits on a bull?’

  ‘I’ll get the wine,’ said Debs.

  Relieved that she hadn’t asked me to mop up, I ran to the room at the end of the hall and Googled ‘my dog is in labour what should I do?’

  ‘Go to the vet, you moron’ was the first result. Then I found something useful. ‘Okay,’ I yelled, ‘the green slime means the placenta has detached and the puppies are about to be born.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Puppies are usually born within twenty minutes of each other but bitches can have a bit of a break between deliveries.’

  ‘It seems wrong to call a pregnant lady a bitch,’ Debs interjected, joining me in the study with two glasses of chardonnay.

  ‘Shut up, Deborah,’ called Daphne, ‘you’re not helping. Go on, Ruby.’

  ‘Apparently,’ I continued yelling, ‘the pups will probably come out tail-first, so you should cut your nails and make sure they’re filed in case you’ve got to help pull one out.’

  Debs groaned, gulping her wine on the recliner beside me.

  ‘The house is lovely, Debs. How many bedrooms are there?’ I had just read a paragraph about the importance of leaving the bitch and her litter undisturbed in their whelping room.

  ‘Just the two,’ she said. ‘Daph’s and mine, and yours and Pansy’s.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I think the first pup is coming,’ squealed Daphne.

  Debs and I scampered back to my bedroom, spilling wine on the way.

  ‘That was a bit of an ordeal,’ yawned Debs an hour later. She helped Daphne off the floor, where Pansy was licking three fairy-floss-pink pups in her makeshift nest. We tiptoed out of the birthing suite and onto the vast deck, where we topped up our wineglasses and watched the sun sinking into the Yarra Valley.

  Debs’ house topped a hill dwarfed by faraway mountains. I could see the undulating ground for miles around us, the landscape dotted with houses, vineyards and the occasional distant steeple. As the light dimmed to a yellower hue, kangaroos sprang like shadow puppets from the darkness, bounding in time, a trio of silhouettes across a distant ridge. ‘Look,’ I pointed, and my hosts smiled at me the way parents do when their children show them planes in the sky. Over smaller hills to my left, the remaining light formed pathways between symmetrical rows of vines, like a catwalk for the grapes. The sunset collaborated with the sprinkler system to create peach fairy lights in the mist above the garden bed. Then, for the finale, the sky reddened before settling into twilight.

  An intoxicating smell pulled me out of my trance. I inhaled. ‘What is that?’

  ‘Bread,’ said Daphne, breaking its crust against the wooden chopping block she had just carried from the kitchen. ‘It’s a new sourdough recipe I’m trialling.’

  ‘Smells fucking incredible,’ said Debs, kissing my aunt’s cheek.

  More people should have bakers for aunts, I thought as I sank my teeth into warm bread dunked in extra virgin olive oil.

  ‘Shit.’ Debs broke the peace. ‘We forgot about Benny’s party.’

  ‘He’ll understand,’ said Daphne. ‘It’s not every day your dog gives birth.’

  ‘Benny?’ I asked.

  ‘Benedict Jones,’ said Daphne. ‘A local winemaker.’

  Debs checked her watch. ‘I said at least one of us would be there, but with Pansy imploding I completely forgot. I don’t feel like going, do you?’

  My aunt shook her head. ‘Ruby could go in our place,’ she suggested.

  They both turned to me.

  ‘I’d love to,’ I lied, ‘but I was thinking about getting some shut-eye, what with the jet lag.’ My eyes were having a hard time staying open.

  ‘Great idea.’ Debs didn’t seem to have listened. ‘You’re into wines? This guy runs a boutique joint. Bit of a pants man, but not a bad bloke. He’ll show you around—might even take you to the vines if you’re interested.’

  ‘What does he make?’

  ‘Pinot, mainly,’ said Debs. ‘Good stuff.’

  Don’t even think about it, cautioned my head.

  ‘You mustn’t think you have to go,’ said Daphne, slicing more bread, ‘but if you do want to take a nap, the only place is the couch now that Pansy and her brood have taken over your room.’

  I squeezed my eyes shut. ‘Count me in,’ I said in the spirit of spontaneity, my head’s disapproval palpable.

  ‘Great,’ said Debs. ‘I’ve got a bloody work call, but I can easily do it in the car. Let’s leave in half an hour. Suit you, Ruby?’

  I nodded and hurried to the shower, wondering why they bothered installing a hot tap when the cold alone was so balmy. As I towelled off, I saw a new text message on my phone.

  Glad you’re safe. C has new fascination with Tooth Fairy. Wants me to assess wobbliness of each fang before bed. D got a call from chairman about The Email—M & D send their love. Channel 4 wants an interview.

  Miss u. Fran x

  Bollocks. Putting my face on in the bathroom, I called Fran on loudspeaker.

  ‘Good morning, this is Clementine, how may I erect your call?’

  As I laughed I drew a charcoal stroke from left nostril to earlobe in eye-pencil. ‘Shit.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ demanded Clem.

  ‘Clem, it’s Aunty Ruby, sorry—I just accidentally drew on my face.’

  ‘Well, hello, Aunty Wooby, I am sorry about your face but that is no reason to say square words.’

  ‘Sorry, Clem. Is Mummy there?’

  ‘MUMMY! AUNTY WOOBY IS ON THE PHONE AND SHE SAID “SHIT”!>’

  ‘Ruby, you didn’t,’ said Fran, on the bedroom extension. ‘Clem said “erect”,’ I defended myself, dabbing at my calligraphy with make-up remover.

  ‘Hang up now, please, Clementine.’ Clunk.

  ‘I should thank you, I guess,’ said Fran. ‘Perhaps a new love for profanities will replace her obsession with the Tooth Fairy.’

  ‘Surely it’s just a little bit sweet,’ I said, imagining my niece standing on ‘tipsy toes’ at the bathroom sink, watching for wiggles in the mirror.

  ‘Sweet? No. Annoying? Yes. We’re off to the dentist this morning. Poor man. I’m a bad mother if I don’t constantly check for loose teeth and I’m a bad mother for propagating the fallacy that a small, very generous lady is known to spend her evenings breaking into homes to look beneath children’s pillows, taking discarded bodily items for a few quid. Why do we do it? She’s going to hate me when she discovers the truth.’

  ‘She’ll hate you if she’s the only little girl at school who doesn’t get money from the Tooth Fairy,’ I said. ‘Is Daddy very upset?’

  ‘No, not about the email. In fact, Mummy forwarded it to her colleagues on the bench. She couldn’t be prouder. Daddy’s furious with the bank. They are understandably hurt that you didn’t call them to say you’d lost your job and absconded to Australia.’

  ‘I just haven’t had time,’ I said, ‘and besides, they’re in Paraguay.’

  ‘Uruguay.’

  ‘I get my guays confused.’

  ‘You are staying with Mummy’s sister, Ruby. The least you could do is send her a text. They said they emailed but you didn’t reply.’

  ‘That’s because my email address belongs to my former employer. I’ll call them tonight. When are they due back?’ ‘Next week. Tell
me, how’s Australia?’

  ‘Lovely. Flight was great. I slept all the way. Quite sure I drooled on the man next to me. I don’t have a room here because Pansy used it to deliver her pups. Very sweet little pink fluff-balls. I’ll take a photo for Clem. The Yarra Valley is breathtaking.’ I took her off loudspeaker. ‘Aunt Daphne seems very happy with Debs.’

  ‘What’s she like?’ I could hear her filing her nails in the background and felt homesick.

  ‘Debs is about as graceful as a Hummer but looks like Cleopatra on a date night,’ I whispered, vigorously brushing the knots from my hair. ‘Daphne’s like a relaxed, younger version of Mummy and clearly loves being a baker. We had fresh sourdough for supper. How’s Mark?’

  ‘Fine.’ The filing accelerated. ‘If you like that sort of thing.’

  I stopped brushing and put her back on loudspeaker. ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘Absenteeism,’ she sighed. ‘Clem hardly sees him. He’s always “in conference” according to his PA. Last night he got home at half three and left at seven. When do you think you’ll be home?’

  ‘I only ’ust ’ot ’ere,’ I said, blotting my lipstick. ‘I’m going to a party tonight at a local winery. The Immigration man wasn’t particularly pleased by the idea of me overstaying my visa.’

  ‘Nor am I.’ It hadn’t occurred to me that she might miss me, but a blip in her voice told me she did. ‘Make sure you stay away from that peanut noise tonight,’ she joked.

  ‘Talk soon.’

  I pulled on the sky-blue maxi-dress I bought during the Net-A-Porter sale last year and left the bathroom feeling refreshed. A hint of sunlight had already kissed my cheeks and the in-flight sleep had erased the grey circles beneath my eyes. The dress, which I had only just cut the tags off, made my irises appear bluer and whites whiter. It also made the molehills on my chest appear even smaller, so I rifled through my Toolkit for the One Cup Ups and made mountains of them, even if they were day-hike mountains as opposed to the more exotic altitude-sickness-inducing ones my ex used to climb for fun. It might have worked if he’d spent more time mounting me. I stepped into tan Miu Miu wedges—the open toe freeing my still-swollen digit—and fastened the clasps on the coral earrings Daddy had bought me in Positano.

  In the fogged-up corner of the bathroom mirror, I wrote:

  1. Call parents

  2. Check email

  3. Buy bronzer

  4. Stop writing To Do lists—you’re on holiday.

  The party’s party

  A gunmetal-grey Aston Martin grumbled as it pulled up in front of the house. Its mechanical roof lowered, revealing Debs. ‘Shit, you scrub up all right,’ she said. ‘Jump in. I’ve just muted this conference call—client wants to embark on an IP dispute with a Chinese JV partner—mind if I do this on speaker while we drive?’

  ‘By all means.’ I knew she was a successful lawyer, but her personality lent itself more to hard hat than wig.

  The sound of an under-populated boardroom on speaker-phone was familiar to me. Debs cut in across a distressed middle-aged man. ‘Listen guys, I could spin you a whole lot of bullshit about how we could stop these fuckers, but I’d be lying. Bottom line is this: Australia doesn’t have a reciprocal enforcement of judgment treaty with China, so even if we took ’em to court here and won, which would take time and cost millions, we’d end up with a bit of paper worth less than a square of loo roll in China. The Chinese have got a billion people to think about, so they couldn’t give a flying fuck about a bunch of Aussie lawyers with their undies in a twist. Here’s my advice: hang up, go forth and enjoy the rest of your weekend. Let bygones be bygones, gentlemen.’

  They took her advice. It was poetic: the best counsel I’d ever heard.

  ‘When I was a banker, working on big deals,’ I said, hating the past tense, ‘I’d have called the lawyers every day if they gave commercial advice like that.’

  ‘That’s the general idea,’ said Debs, plugging her iPod into the car and selecting some opera. ‘I love my clients and my clients love me cos I don’t bullshit them.’

  We zoomed around the valley, the high beams spotlighting a host of hand-painted signs pointing to tiny wineries. We stopped at one.

  ‘Call us when you’re ready to be picked up.’

  ‘Aren’t you coming in?’ I was suddenly nervous.

  ‘Nah,’ Debs said, ‘you’ll be right—just find Benedict Jones.’

  I walked up the drive and was greeted by a gentleman wearing a hideous pinstripe suit.

  ‘Finally,’ he said. ‘There’s a delivery drop-off point at the back of the building. Leave it there.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘The raffle prize.’

  ‘I’m not a courier.’

  He held his hand up to silence me and pointed to a tiny bluetooth headset in his left ear.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said, ‘we’ve been waiting on a delivery.’

  ‘I’m looking for Benedict Jones.’

  ‘You’re here for the fundraiser?’

  I wondered whether my Miu Mius would take me back down the drive fast enough to catch up with Debs.

  ‘Miss…’

  ‘Stanhope. Ruby Stanhope.’

  ‘I don’t have you on my list—who are you with?’

  ‘Myself,’ I said. ‘I was to be here with my aunt Daphne Partridge, and her partner Debs, Deborah…’ I didn’t know her last name.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t have you here.’

  ‘Look, Pansy had puppies today, which was unexpected, and neither Aunt Daphne nor Debs was able to make tonight’s party so I’ve come instead. They said to speak with Benedict Jones, so if you could show me to him I’d very much appreciate it.’

  He pointed to his headset. I fantasised about ripping it from his ear and crushing it under a Miu.

  ‘Hi,’ said a voice behind me.

  I swivelled and another unsuitably suited man extended his hand to shake mine. ‘Hi,’ I said, ‘Ruby Stanhope.’

  ‘Luke Harley. You’ll have to excuse my colleague, Ruby; he was just checking you’re not press, which you’re not, are you?’

  ‘No. Recovering investment banker, actually.’

  ‘Good.’ Luke walked me under an arch crawling with star jasmine and along a candlelit path towards a suited congregation in the vineyard. It looked like a vine-side funeral.

  ‘Nobody told me the dress code was lounge suit,’ I said, embarrassed by my tropical goddess outfit.

  ‘It’s not supposed to be,’ said Luke. ‘It’s just that most of us don’t own anything else.’

  ‘The man at the door said this is a fundraiser. What’s the charity?’

  He laughed; then his phone rang. He gestured towards a Clooneyesque man, with substantially more salt than pepper, and centurion pecs. ‘GI Joe senior over there is Jones. I’ll be back in a minute.’

  The only other person at the function in civilian clothes wove through the vines towards me.

  ‘I don’t think we’ve met.’ Benedict Jones extended his hand.

  Pants man plus jet lag equals regret, my head reminded me.

  ‘I’m Daphne Partridge’s niece, Ruby.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ He shook my hand. ‘Welcome to Benedict Estate.’

  ‘Thank you, it’s lovely to be here.’

  ‘Your accent is cute,’ he said. ‘Let me guess—English?’

  Psychic, groaned my head.

  ‘Yes, I’m from London.’

  ‘I’m told I have a very good ear.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Shall I show you my vines?’

  I tried to keep my eyes from rolling and accepted his arm. ‘So what do you grow here?’ I glanced around at the tailored monochrome and wished I didn’t look like a big blue parrot.

  ‘Pinot,’ he said, ‘and a little chardonnay.’

  ‘I hear pinot’s plagued with problems. Or is that just a vinicultural legend?’

  ‘It is tougher to grow than any other grape,’ he said, ‘but it’s worth the chase.’
/>
  Groan.

  He picked a single grape for me from a perfect bunch. ‘Eat it,’ he directed, dropping it into my mouth. It didn’t taste like I’d imagined. I could taste the spices, but not the fruit.

  I unhooked myself from his arm. ‘Tell me, do you often have parties like this?’

  ‘Just for Max. We go way back.’

  ‘Is it his birthday?’

  ‘You’re charming, Ruby,’ he chuckled, until he realised my question was genuine. ‘Max Masters is the Leader of the Opposition.’

  ‘As in a politician?’

  I felt like a dill. There I was assuming I would meet a bunch of grape-lovers. Instead, I would spend the evening with a bunch of apes in suits expecting me to know who they were. The only politicians I knew were the ones I detested for taxing luxury goods and capping bankers’ bonuses.

  ‘Mingle!’ directed Benedict, looking over my shoulder at a short-skirt suit. I found the bar in the marquee and mingled with the wines, where I was rudely interrupted by a woman sporting big teeth and a too-tight ponytail— think rabbit with an up-do.

  ‘Christine,’ she announced, thrusting her hand into mine.

  ‘Ruby.’ I felt her hand deftly deal me a business card.

  ‘I work for the property development industry.’

  ‘I see.’ I skimmed her card. ‘In what capacity?’

  ‘Well, you know, helping them out here and there with a few bits and pieces.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t know. What kinds of bits and pieces?’

  ‘Well, when there’s an issue that is dear to the industry, I represent its viewpoint.’

  ‘So you’re their lobbyist?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ she said impatiently. ‘Tell me about you, Ruby. What do you do?’

  ‘I’m an astronaut.’

  ‘Aviation, then?’

  ‘No, that was a joke.’

  She cocked her head to one side and scrambled for the abort button. ‘It was lovely meeting you, Ruby.’

  ‘And you, Christine.’ One down, seventy to go. I went back to a fresh and zesty sauvignon blanc, hoping it might wake me up a bit, but the hum of dull conversation lulled me. My body slumped against the cushioned bar.