Campaign Ruby Part 1

Campaign Ruby Jessica Rudd.

Not quite the boot I wanted.

An email popped into my inbox. There was no subject.

Received: Wednesday, 24 February, 9.15 a.m.

To: Stanhope, Ruby (Emerging Markets).

From: HR Department.

Dear Stanhope, Ruby (ID: 521734EM).

You will be aware that the company recently entered into a consultation process with some of its Merger & Acquisition and Emerging Markets staff at a.n.a.lyst and Senior a.n.a.lyst level.

That consultation process is now complete. Regrettably, your position has been made redundant.

As such, attached is a detailed description of the redundancy package we would like to offer you. Please reply to this email, acknowledging receipt and confirming that the terms are acceptable to you.

There are two boxes labelled with your employee identification number in the staffroom on level seventeen:

the first for your personal possessions to a.s.sist with your homeward journey, and the second for company items provided to you during your employment. A full list of those items is set out in the attached doc.u.ment.

The second box should be left on your desk. You need not return the first box.

Thank you for your service to this company. You may leave the premises at your earliest convenience.

Regards.

HR Department.

f.u.c.k.

A wave of rage swept over my body. How dared they? In this climate I, more than any of my colleagues, had defied gravity. I had brought in thrice my annual worth in as many months. Yes, they were smaller deals than those before the economy fell a.r.s.e over t.i.t, but they were deals, and billions of kilojoules of my energy had been spent on making them happen. Missed opportunities flashed before my eyes. I'd left my sister's wedding reception before she did so that I could wake early for a conference call with Slovakia. I'd swapped a holiday in the Seych.e.l.les with my ex for a 40 million Kazak pipeline plan that required my input in Amati. Countless yoga cla.s.ses and family dinners had gone unattended, rays of sunlight unabsorbed by my pores. Vegetables had turned flaccid in the fridge. It was a life unlived.

I shut my eyes-partly out of exhaustion from not having left the office until two that morning, partly to conceal a tear. It was more the humiliation than the pain, similar to when I slammed face-first into a gla.s.s door during a party my parents threw in Bellagio last summer. Prada Wayfarers askew and dripping with Mojito, I was shocked and then mortified-I ought to have antic.i.p.ated the door. I should have seen it coming.

My phone rang. 'Delivery for you,' announced Sean from the level-three mailroom.

They had arrived. I'd ordered them online at Net-a-Porter to congratulate myself for sealing the Hungarian telecommunications deal. Downstairs, inside an elegant box adorned with ribbon, waited a pair of Mr Louboutin's tallest matt, black, leather ankle boots complete with signature red underbelly. They were meant to take me to my next performance review. Now they would prop me up in the queue at Job Centre Plus.

'Thanks, Sean. I'll be down shortly.'

I swivelled my high-backed leather chair in chorus with at least eight of my colleagues, all reeling from the same email.

Those spared had already formed a small coalition in the corner. Overcome with survivor's guilt they would forge new alliances with old enemies over takeaway macchiatos. I knew this because I used to be one of them, having been retained in the last three 'headcount control phases'. Sebastian and George were nowhere to be seen. Once sworn adversaries, they were probably already at St Paul's tavern enjoying a round of congratulatory backslapping over a cheeky pint and a bowl of deep-fried common interest. 'I'm not terribly surprised that Ruby's head's finally on the chopping block,' Sebastian would sneer. 'Quite,' George would reply. 'She's always a.s.sumed she's untouchable because of her father-that'll be a tense family dinner at the club next week.'

Slap, slap; chap, chap.

Stop wallowing and get your s.h.i.+t together, counselled my head, so I drafted a To Do list.

1. Pick up Louboutins from mailroom 2. Collect boxes from staffroom 3. Place in Company Items box: 3.1 BlackBerry 3.2 Swipe card 3.3 Company lanyard 3.4 Corporate credit card 3.5 Corporate umbrella 3.6 Laptop 3.7 Business cards 4. Place in Homeward Journey box: 4.1 Coffee mug 4.2 Yoga mat 4.3 Peace lily 4.4 Travelling Toolkit, including: 4.4.1 Spare pants 4.4.2 Spare bra (including One Cup Up enhancers) 4.4.3 Dental hygiene pack 4.4.4 Razor and shaving gel 4.4.5 Shower in a can 4.4.6 Plasters 4.4.7 Shoe cus.h.i.+ons 4.4.8 Kleenex 4.4.9 Tampons 4.4.10 Sewing kit 4.4.11 Double-sided tape 4.4.12 Spare phone battery 4.4.13 Make-up remover wipes 4.4.14 Industrial-strength concealer 4.4.15 Hand salve 4.4.16 Lavender refresher mist 4.4.17 Travel-sized moisturiser 4.4.18 Vitamin B 4.4.19 Whiteboard marker 5. Reply to email from HR 6. Get coat; leave.

I made my way to the lifts and hit the down b.u.t.ton. Ping. Out fell Sebastian and George as if I'd scripted it. w.a.n.kers. Sebastian sailed straight past me, but George c.o.c.ked his head. 'Sorry about all this, old girl.'

'Old girl?' I walked into the lift. 'What are you, an Edwardian vet about to put down a sick filly?'

Satisfied with my response, I was alone in the lift. I glanced up at the tiny television monitor. Today's entertainment was a Charlie Chaplin film set to a track from Birds of Paradise II: Sounds of the Amazon-p.o.r.n for ornithologists. The film cut to a sequence of Charlie with a hand on each cheek, his mouth agape. 'Scream,' said the white text on the crinkly black screen. Good idea, I thought. I stomped my feet and screamed, drowning out squawking macaws and ribbiting tree frogs. At level ten, I didn't hear the lift ping. The doors opened like curtains to reveal me harmonising with the howl of a lone spider monkey. My decrescendo wasn't fast enough. I cleared my throat. The tea lady readjusted her trolley.

'I might wait for the next one, love.'

You're already psychotic, said my head. You'll be a cat lady in days.

At level three, I drifted into the mailroom.

'That Mr A-Porter must be quite keen on you,' said Sean, presenting me with a long black box.

Tears spilled without warning. Poor Sean didn't know what to do. 'I didn't mean it like that. Someone's out there for you, poppet.'

I was crying too hard to explain that the problem wasn't my lack of man so much as my lack of employment. Then I began to laugh-cry. Sad sobs followed by short snorts then sobs again. I could barely breathe, but it felt good. 'Treasure,' he persevered, 'if I weren't a raving h.o.m.os.e.xual, I'd make pa.s.sionate love to you on this mail counter. Right here, right now.'

More snorts, more sobs.

He swept the mail off the counter onto the floor and growled. Yes, growled-like a camp tiger. 'I'll lock the door and get the lights. Why don't you slip into something a little more...' My legs failed me. I slid down the side of the counter onto the floor.

'I've lost my job,' I managed between snorts.

'c.o.c.k,' he said. 'You're f.u.c.king kidding me.'

'Nope.'

'But you never sleep. You just buy shoes and work.'

'Not helping,' I sniffed. More tears dripped as I told him the story. About the consultation, the deal, the endless hours, the missed opportunities, the Louboutins, the email and the boxes.

'Darling,' he said. 'I'm not sure how best to say this so I'm just going to come out with it: you're covered in snot.' I caught a glimpse of myself in the stainless-steel counter. He was right. My usual halo of shoulder-length, strawberry-blonde waves was now a limp slick covering each ear. My alabaster complexion was specked with hot, pink patches spanning brow to neck. The whites of my blue eyes looked like someone had scribbled on them in red pen. My long thin nose was the centrepiece, expelling snot like Vesuvius would lava. My unhelpfully pink collar was covered in foundation. Tears had dripped onto my pitiful excuse for a chest. I looked like a lactating man. The neat silver-grey Hugo Boss skirt suit which usually elongated my pet.i.te frame had crumpled and crept up: a casualty of the Amazonian mosh pit.

'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 G.o.dforsaken cesspit of a bank you must deflower these Louboutins. p.r.o.ntissimo.' 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 gla.s.s 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 antic.i.p.ation.

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 nincomp.o.o.ps 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 inst.i.tution 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 a.n.a.lyst (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 a.s.sured me that you sent them my CV,' he fumed, presumably to a recruiter. 'Do you have any idea how embarra.s.sing 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 embarra.s.sing 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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. s.h.i.+t. It wasn't my BlackBerry anymore. s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t-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 x.x.xx.x.xx Good grief.

Paris? Merde. I only copied in London and the board. Can you hack my account and hit recall? Pa.s.sword: 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 a.s.sociate 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 x.x.xx.x.x f.u.c.k.

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 s.h.i.+rt, ruined by was.h.i.+ng 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 G.o.d 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. n.o.body is home at lunchtime on a Wednesday, not even the old lady next door. It rang again. b.u.g.g.e.r off, I willed it. No such luck. I rinsed, wrapped myself in a towel and went to the intercom. 'h.e.l.lo?'

'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, b.u.t.toning 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.