Campaign Ruby (3 page)

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: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

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 of 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.'

‘Fuck.' I plugged my dead mobile phone into its charger and switched it on. Forty-three text messages. Nineteen missed calls. ‘Well, it's a very good thing I'm going to Melbourne tonight.'

‘Sorry?'

‘I got wankered on wine last night, woke up and discovered I'd booked and partly packed for a trip to Melbourne leaving at about midnight.'

‘As in
Ramsay
Street?'

I held the phone away from my throbbing head. ‘Yes, as in Ramsay Street.'

‘Cancel it, Ruby.'

‘I can't. Well…I can, but there's an exorbitant fee attached to the privilege. I haven't had a holiday in…' I couldn't remember my last holiday.

‘You don't take holidays, darling. You couldn't even come to our wedding without feeling the need to return to work,' said Fran, with an ounce or two of resentment. ‘We're coming over with cupcakes. Is there anything you need me to do?'

‘Could you put on your lawyer hat and determine whether I'm eligible for one of those online visas?'

‘I'll do that. Call Aunt Daphne, darling. I think she lives near Melbourne or Sydney or something. She'll be able to recommend somewhere to stay. See you soon.'

I hobbled around my stinking flat in search of a pen to jot down a To Do list. On the back of a gas bill, I wrote:

1. Call Daphne

2. Shower

3. Ice toe

4. Dispose of empties; spray Air Wick

5. Confirm visa

6. Pack

6.1 Pack Toolkit

7. Go to airport

8. Buy newspaper

9. Inform parents.

My mother's sister, Daphne, is our family's black sheep. Mummy, the eldest of their clan, is a judge. Her brother, Benjamin, is in private practice. My late grandfather, who was a silk, was the son of an attorney-general.

Daphne ‘owns a bakery in the colonies' (according to Grandma) and is a lesbian to boot. At Christmas, hers are the purple tissue-wrapped parcels adorned with koala gift tags, clashing with the cream and gold theme of my grandmother's eight-foot fir. Mummy has long phone calls with Daphne where they laugh and reminisce like Fran and I do, but the rest of the family whisper her name as if she's deceased.

A barking dog answered Daphne's phone. ‘Shut up, Pansy!' said a harsh Australian accent. ‘Hello?'

‘Daphne?'

‘Who's calling?'

‘Ruby.'

‘Hold on a minute.' Stomp, stomp, stomp. ‘Daph, phone. If it's a telemarketer tell them to fuck off or I'll report them. It's almost midnight.'

‘Daphne speaking,' sang a voice that could easily have been my mother's.

‘Hello, Daphne,' I said, ‘I'm sorry for calling so late. It's Ruby…your niece.'

‘Ruby? How lovely to—' The barking continued. ‘Shoosh, Pansy!' Silence. ‘Sorry about that. My dog's pregnant. The vet says it's normal for her to bark at imaginary things. Ruby, how are you? Is Charlotte all right?'

‘Mummy's fine. She and Daddy are at a human rights forum in Paraguay, I think.'

‘She's wonderful, your mum. Now tell me about you, Ruby. I think the last time I saw you was when you reversed into the letterbox at Daddy's wake. Or was it Francesca?'

‘It was Fran,' I said, recalling the look on my grandmother's face. I was sixteen and in the passenger seat. That was eleven years ago, when I was full of promise, not a notorious unemployed alcoholic banker.

‘Your mother tells me you're doing very well at the bank. Your father must be very proud. How are you finding it?'