Campaign Ruby

Campaign
Ruby

Jessica Rudd, 26, is a Canberra-born, Brisbane-raised ex-lawyer, ex-campaign worker, ex-PR consultant who lives with her husband in Beijing. She has written the occasional column, a host of legal letters, countless press releases and one novel. She hopes this one won't be her last.

Jessica Rudd

Campaign
Ruby

TEXT PUBLISHING MELBOURNE AUSTRALIA

The paper used in this book is manufactured only from wood grown in sustainable regrowth forests.

The Text Publishing Company
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Melbourne Victoria 3000
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textpublishing.com.au

Copyright © Jessica Rudd

‘Just You Wait' © 1956 (Renewed) Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe
Publication and Allied Rights Assigned to Chappell & Co
Print Rights For Australia & New Zealand
Alfred Publishing (Australia) Pty Ltd
All Rights Reserved. Used By Permission.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

First published in 2010 by The Text Publishing Company

Cover design by W.H. Chong
Text design by Susan Miller
Typeset by J&M Typesetting
Printed and bound by Griffin Press

National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

Rudd, Jessica.

Campaign Ruby / Jessica Rudd.

ISBN 9781921656576 (pbk.)

Australia--Politics and government--Fiction.

A823.4

While window-shopping on New Bond Street
during one of my career crises, Mum turned to me
with love in her eyes and said, ‘Just write something.'
So I did, and dedicate this book to her.

Contents

Not quite the boot I wanted

Drink a case, pack a case

Meet the family

The party's party

The morning after

Yarrawhatla?

Jackie oh no

The mother of all To Do lists

Oscar nomination

Fast food, fast policy

Bankers anonymous

Fish out of water

In the can

Catch Twenty-Loo

Felicia Lunardi

Territorial

Stuffed up

The Debate

Ex-PMS

Sailing blind over Cataract Gorge

Too late To Do

Crossed

Tug of war

Hallway of shame

The Launch

A dish best served with mini-pies

One more sleep

Desperate and voteless

This is it

Acknowledgments

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 Analyst and Senior Analyst 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 assist 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 document.

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

Fuck.

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 arse over tit, 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 Seychelles with my ex for a
40 million Kazak pipeline plan that required my input in Amati. Countless yoga classes 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 glass 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 anticipated 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 assumed 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 shit 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 cushions

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 button. Ping. Out fell Sebastian and George as if I'd scripted it. Wankers. Sebastian sailed straight past me, but George cocked 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
—porn 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 homosexual, I'd make passionate 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.

‘Cock,' he said. ‘You're fucking 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 petite frame had crumpled and crept up: a casualty of the Amazonian mosh pit.