She paused.
‘On second thought your mother will. If I were you I might avoid the trouble by changing into something, you know – frilly.’
Ruby made a face – ‘frilly’ was neither in her vocabulary nor her wardrobe. As far as her attire went, she was more often than not dressed in jeans, sneakers, a T-shirt printed with either a somewhat hostile word: bozo, an interesting number: 1729, or some less than agreeable statement: bored beyond belief. But she knew what Mrs Digby meant and she knew she had a point.
The backstairs door opened and in walked a young woman followed by three large boxes of heirloom tomatoes balanced on a pair of skinny legs.
‘Hola Ruby, how are you?’ said the woman.
‘Bien gracias Consuela,’ replied Ruby. ‘Hey, is that you under there, Clance?’
‘I think so,’ muttered Clancy, struggling to heave the boxes onto the counter. He rolled his eyes. ‘I’ll just go and fetch the others.’ Clancy was a good-natured person – mostly he tended to like people, but he didn’t much like Consuela. Too bossy. Mrs Digby was no big fan either.
The trouble had begun when Sabina Redfort rather rashly decided that Mrs Digby’s cooking was too stodgy and that they should adopt a more olive oil and tomato based diet. This had led to the hiring of dietary expert Consuela Cruz. Consuela had been flown over from Seville, Spain, along with many suitcases and countless cooking utensils, and though her salary was eye-watering, Mrs Redfort considered her to be worth every penny.
The new diet, however, may have been helping maintain healthy hearts but it certainly wasn’t generating much love. Mrs Digby made a muttering sound deep in her throat and Consuela clucked her tongue and both women left the room by different doors. Ruby, now alone, piled several cookies on to a plate (ten to be exact) and went about making herself some more appealing drinks (two banana milks with strawberry ice-cream). The banana milk was imported from Europe, for though Brant Redfort had tried, it seemed impossible to find anywhere inside the USA.
Ruby popped straws in both drinks and carefully carried them out of the kitchen – sucking on one of the straws as she went. She was about to climb the stairs, when she caught sight of the little light on the answer phone flashing to indicate a message. She pressed play.
‘Hey there Redfort gang! It’s the Humberts here – Freddie and I were just saying how much we would like it if you all came over – and Quent would just adore to see darling Ruby! Call us back won’t you! Bye bye bye!’
This voice belonged to Marjorie Humbert, a family friend, wife of Freddie Humbert the Twinford City Bank manager and mother of Quent the dullest boy in town. Ruby automatically pressed ‘erase’ and continued on her way. She was followed by the large husky.
‘Hey there Bug,’ cooed Ruby, ‘wanna watch some TV?’
When she entered her room she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Mrs Digby was right: if she wanted to avoid a whole lot of grief she might want to put on a dress. She rummaged through her closet until she found an interesting red and white number she had picked up at a thrift store – if Ruby wore anything other than jeans and T-shirts, then it was usually second hand. She was one of those girls who people talked about as ‘having her own style,’ which was sometimes meant as a compliment and sometimes not. The hem of the dress was secured with sticky-tape, but one hardly noticed if one wasn’t looking too closely.
Ruby pulled on some black over the knee socks and a pair of Yellow Stripe sneakers. The dress still retained its thrift store odour, so Ruby sprayed herself with some perfume. (Oriental Rose: she had a sizeable collection of beautifully bottled fragrances which, when worn mingled with the odour of the bubblegum she so often chewed, creating a unique Ruby Redfort fragrance.)
Clancy had not yet reappeared so Ruby carried the tray of snacks up the open-tread staircase which connected her room to the rooftop. She liked to sit up here on warm evenings looking at the stars, writing in her notebook, reading and, more than occasionally, watching the portable TV. She settled down in the beanbag, in one hand a cookie and in the other a large green apple. She believed that the healthy attributes of the apple might counteract the bad effects of the cookie. (Ruby Redfort had a lot of theories like this one.)
She looked up when Clancy popped his head through the trapdoor. Clancy was a shortish, scrawny looking boy – not exactly your ‘yearbook kid’ but certainly one of the most engaging characters you were likely to talk to, if of course you bothered to talk to him – which a lot of people didn’t.
‘Oh boy! I had to make a dash for the stairs or she would have had me peeling tomatoes for the rest of my life – I wouldn’t mind but tomatoes give me hives.’
He slumped down next to Ruby, who was busy flipping through the channels. Ruby was a keen watcher of TV – she watched a lot. She loved sit-coms, dramas, news shows, quiz shows, documentaries, but it was the detective shows that were her TV passion, and Crazy Cops in particular. Crazy Cops was a police drama that Ruby and Clancy were practically addicted to – it was very informative while at the same time being extremely entertaining. They had both picked up a lot of knowledge about police investigations and human behaviour from watching Crazy Cops. ‘There’s a lot of truth in fiction,’ was something Ruby was fond of reminding her parents whenever they complained about her ‘TV habit’. Sunday night, however, was toon night, and they were just into a fourth episode of Grime Girl of the Crime World, when Ruby heard her parent’s car drawing into the driveway.
Clancy looked at his watch and groaned. ‘I guess I gotta go, my dad won’t exactly see the funny side if I’m late.’
‘That’s too bad Clance, but hey, don’t forget to smile.’
‘Yeah, yeah, some friend you are – I’ll call you later.’
He left by climbing from the roof onto a branch of the large tree handily positioned right next to the house – from there he could shimmy his way down to the yard. Ruby descended more conventionally, by way of the stairs.
Noticing that she had forgotten to tackle the large pile of shoes in the middle of the room, she fetched the beanbag and placed it on top. The room looked magazine-shoot tidy. She took one last look in the mirror, then adjusted the barrette securing her long dark hair in a firm side-part, giving her a look of utter composure.
Satisfied, Ruby sort of half walked, half hopped downstairs, followed silently by Bug.
‘Sounded like dessert’
‘HEY HONEY, HOW’S MY GIRL?’ said her father, lifting Ruby up over his shoulder and mussing her hair. It was a ‘welcome home’ ritual Brant Redfort had never grown out of.
‘Hey Dad, d’ya wanna cool it, you’re messing with my look!’ said Ruby in a somewhat strangled voice.
‘Oh Brant!’ said Sabina Redfort, pretending to disapprove. ‘For an intelligent man you really can behave like a total nut.’ No one but Sabina would ever describe Brant Redfort as intelligent. Ruby had been born to parents who would never be giving Einstein a run for his money.
In many ways nature had been generous to Brant and Sabina. They had been given an easy charm and likeability, good looks and generous personalities. But for all their fairytale-like graces, they had little going on upstairs in the smart department. However, you would be hard-pressed to meet a more popular couple, and for this reason they headed up just about every committee or fundraising benefit in Twinford – they were what’s known as ‘socialites’.
The Redfort family walked upstairs to the living room and settled down on one of the large white couches.