Fired, by email

By Jessica Rudd
It’s never easy getting the flick, writes Jessica Rudd in this extract from her new book.
An email popped into my inbox. There was no subject.
Received: Wednesday, 24 February, 9.15am.
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 17, 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
F . . . . A wave of rage swept over my body. How dare 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 E40 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 a door in the first place. 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 survivors’ 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 head count control phases.
Sebastian and George were nowhere to be seen. Once sworn adversaries, they were probably already at St Pauls 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 is 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, but George cocked his head. “Sorry about all this, old girl.”
“Old girl? 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, mouth agape.
“Scream,” said the white text on the crinkly black screen. Good idea. I stomped my feet and screamed, drowning out squawking macaws and ribbiting tree frogs.
At level 10, 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.”
Campaign Ruby by Jessica Rudd published by Text. RRP $32.95
Article from The Daily Telegraph, August 14, 2010.
