Ruby’s father was in advertising – the public relations, meet ’n’ greet, shake-you-by-the-hand side of the business. Being friendly to the big important clients was an important job and Brant Redfort was very good at it. Typically, therefore, Brant searched for a tie that might appeal to the client – in this instance, Barnaby Cleethorps, a conservative fellow but a jolly sort. Brant had picked out one that was patterned a little like a red and white chequered tablecloth, scattered with tiny picnic things. Just the ticket, he had winked at himself in the mirror.
As Brant came down for breakfast that morning, he caught sight of his daughter, lounging on the patio table, banana milk in one hand, zombie comic in the other, her T-shirt bearing the words what are you looking at duhbrain?
He sighed. It seemed unlikely that Ruby would be following him into a career in public relations.
‘Now be careful Ruby,’ warned her mother. ‘There are some unsavoury types downtown.’
‘You do know I’m going to Dad’s client’s office, don’tcha?’ said Ruby, sucking down the dregs of her banana milk.
‘Say no more,’ muttered Mrs Digby, who had a notion that the advertising business was rife with unsavoury types.
Brant kissed his wife on the cheek, ‘I’ll keep an eye on her, honey, never fear. What possible harm can come to her in the Barnaby Cleethorps offices?’
Sabina kissed her daughter and hugged her as if a month might pass before seeing her again.
‘Mom, you gotta chill,’ said Ruby, disentangling herself from her mother’s embrace and stepping into the chauffeur-driven, air-conditioned car.
They arrived on 3rd Avenue and took the elevator up to the seventy–second floor. Mr Cleethorps greeted them – ‘nice to meet you young Ruby’ – and he pumped Ruby’s good hand so hard she thought it might come loose from its socket. ‘I see you have been in the wars, but I understand from your father that you’re quite the brave little lady.’
Ruby smiled the smile of a five-year-old, which was obviously what Mr Cleethorps had mistaken her for. ‘How about a drink for our small guest,’ he said. He turned to his assistant, who nodded and smiled and went off to find something suitable – Ruby suspected milk.
As it turned out she was right. She rolled her eyes. Ruby was not a fan of milk, unless flavoured with strawberry, chocolate or her particular favourite, banana.
Once alone Ruby set about finding a good place to dispose of her beverage. There were no plants in the reception area and it didn’t seem good manners to tip it into one of the ornamental glass vases. She scanned the room further and that’s when she noticed that a section of the window in the waiting area could be opened. She stood on a stool, reached up and pulled on the latch. She pushed the window open and a fresh breeze blew in and Ruby couldn’t help wondering how nice it might feel to sit out in that pollution-free air . . .
And that’s how Ruby came to be sitting on the ledge of a very tall building, six hundred feet above street level, wiggling her toes and contemplating the whole big picture. She felt truly calm sitting here on the edge of nowhere. Ruby Redfort had no issue with heights; she’d never suffered vertigo, never felt that strange desire to let herself fall. Fear had never dominated Ruby’s actions, but now fear wasn’t even playing a part. It seemed she had reached a state of fearlessness.
Ruby picked up the glass and flung the milk from it, watching it disperse into tiny droplets that disappeared into the air. She placed the empty glass carefully on the ledge and decided she wouldn’t mind taking a little wander round the building, see her dad schmoozing Barnaby Cleethorps – why not?
The ledge was relatively wide and it was easy to walk to the south corner window and peek into Mr Cleethorp’s office. A slide presentation was obviously in progress, since the slatted blinds were all pulled down, and Ruby could only observe what was going on by peeking through the gaps. A number of the Barnaby Cleethorps team were gathered round looking at designs prepared by the creatives at her father’s agency. There, projected onto the screen, was the slogan the ad agency had spent weeks fine-tuning: “You Have to Feel it To Believe It!”
Ruby could see Mr Barnaby Cleethorps’ face and it was not a happy one. She adjusted her position on the ledge so she could see her father’s expression. As always, he looked remarkably cool, not in any way flustered, but she knew he must be feeling the strain because he was heading towards the window, and when her father was feeling tense his response was usually to let in some air. Tension brought on a sort of claustrophobia – too much stress in one room made it difficult for him to breathe.
Ruby ducked down, making herself as small as she could. Not that Brant could have seen her through the Venetian blind, but she didn’t want to take any chances.
The opening of the seventy-second-floor window might have helped Brant Redfort regain his calm, but for his daughter it had entirely the opposite effect. The problem was that Ruby had not anticipated how the window might open; she was expecting it to hinge in the middle when in fact this huge window was of the pivoting variety, and as her father yanked it open Ruby was flung out into thin air. She landed in – or, more accurately, dangled from – one of those window-cleaning cradles that travels the length and breadth of skyscrapers, allowing maintenance guys to squeegee the acres of glass. Luckily there were no maintenance guys in it now, though unluckily it meant there was no one to pull Ruby back in.
Now, suspended six hundred feet above the downtown traffic which crawled and tooted beneath her, she could see the irony of the situation – her father, intent on keeping her safe, had almost brought about her demise.
But at this precise moment she was struggling to see the funny side.
HANGING THERE BY HER FINGERTIPS, Ruby looked down at the map of streets. She could see the city’s famous old movie theatre, the Scarlet Pagoda; the Japanese garden in front of it, the lampposts decked in bunting and lights to celebrate this year’s Twinford Film Festival: A Date with Thrills.
The festival was to be a celebration of romantic thriller movies of the kind that she and Mrs Digby loved, and the situation Ruby currently found herself in was no doubt one seen in many of these pictures.
Only for Ruby this was no stunt, there was no safety net, and she needed to get a grip before someone raised the alarm. She heaved herself into the window-cleaning cradle and found the controls that would carry her back to her original window. She knew which one it was because it had an empty milk glass sitting in front of it.
She was just clambering out of the cradle when she heard a voice.
‘Hey kid, would you come in from there?’
Ruby looked up to see a tall, well-groomed man in a well-cut suit standing in the room. He appeared moderately anxious.
‘Am I making you nervous?’ asked Ruby.
‘The only person making me nervous is the meter maid on 3rd Avenue where I’m double-parked.’
‘Geez Hitch, why don’t you just find a parking spot like a normal person?’
‘You think it’s easy parking in this city?’ Hitch replied.
Ruby sighed, swivelled herself round and dropped back in through the window. She landed on the long elegant coffee table, the main feature of the sleek reception room. Pens went skidding across its surface and a bowl of marbles upturned, contents spinning in all directions and disappearing under furniture.
Hitch rolled his eyes. ‘Good going kid.’
‘OK,