Part 1 (1/2)

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.