Brake Failure

by Alison Brodie

  ‘I don’t care what happens as long as my PalmPilot doesn’t erase the two thousand names in my address book.’

  Ruby knew it was pointless talking to her stepsister. Claire probably thought Y2K was something you climbed. ‘Claire, I must go, or the boeuf bourguignon will burn.’

  After the call, Ruby immediately phoned Vanessa. ‘This Millennium Bug? Tell me, honestly: is there anything to worry about?’

  ‘You’re being silly.’

  ‘I’m not! The Hong Kong government is stockpiling food. Washington has a Y2K command centre and the Federal Reserve is printing up an extra fifty-billion dollars-’

  ‘Believe me, Ruby. This New Year will be exactly the same as every New Year you’ve ever had.’

  Ruby was no longer listening. Edward had just arrived from work and was now leaning against the fridge with his hands over his face. Was he crying? Ruby was alarmed. This was bad. Edward never allowed himself to show weakness.

  ‘Got to go, Mum, I’ll phone you tomorrow.’ Ruby hurried over to him. ‘Darling, what’s the matter?’

  He lifted a dry, pale face. ‘It’s impossible. I’m never going to win the Purdy’s account.’

  She knew, as a loyal wife, she should share his despondency, but she couldn’t. Now, thankfully, they would be sent elsewhere. ‘You tried, sweetheart,’ she said gently. ‘That’s the main thing.’ She kissed his cheek, turned and pulled on her oven gloves. ‘So, where will you go from here?’

  ‘Smuckers.’

  She turned from the oven, the dish of poached salmon in her gloved hands. ‘Where dear?’

  ‘Smuckers Jam on the third floor.’

  ‘Oh.’ She dumped the dish on the hob. Of course, she felt sorry for Edward; but what about her? How would she explain this to Claire? Purdy’s had been bad enough but … Smuckers?’

  ‘The CEO told me today. If I was to win Purdy’s, I would have to take the product to Europe, which means we would be re-located to Paris.’

  She felt a sudden breathlessness. She removed her oven gloves. ‘Let me understand this. You finish off your two-year contract, here, and then we move to Paris?’

  ‘It would happen sooner than that. He mentioned April.’

  Ruby felt a surge of euphoria followed by heart-thudding dread. She’d been bitterly disappointed before and couldn’t go through that again. She took a calming breath.

  ‘So, if you do win the Purdy’s account, we will go to Paris in April?’

  ‘But I’m not going to win it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Edward sighed. ‘It’s everything …’

  Ruby resisted the urge to grab him by the lapels. ‘Just tell me, darling.’

  ‘It’s the client, Dwight Huffaker. He’s a billionaire but he still identifies with the Midwest. He’s proud of his roots, proud his father was a sharecropper. Talks about God-fearing prairie-folk. Says the Brits - me! - can’t relate to his customers.’

  She had to admit: Dwight Huffaker was right. Edward was too English, too stiff, too reserved; and without the mid-Western knack of making bosom buddies within three seconds flat, he would do as much for the sales of Purdy’s as a Bolivian drug-mule in Fortnum and Masons.

  Edward continued. ‘I have some great ideas but he won’t even listen to them. He asked if I’d had dogs back in England and when I said no, he seemed disappointed. He told me he’d always had dogs – that’s the reason he started Purdy’s.’

  She drummed her fingers on the table. Edward wasn’t being ruthless enough, or imaginative. For starters, he should have lied about the dogs.

  Dogs?

  Slowly, an idea was taking shape. ‘Why don’t we invite him here?’ she said excitedly. ‘We’ll give him a real sharecropper’s dinner. That way he’ll feel more at home, more at ease, more open to all your wonderful ideas.’

  ‘But-’

  ‘That’s it!’ Like a soufflé, the idea was expanding so rapidly, she didn’t have time to be interrupted. ‘You said you didn’t have a dog in England, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t got one, now.’ She spun away and began to pace the floor. ‘We’ll just borrow a dog from a neighbour. Then I’ll set out a bowl of Purdy’s Beef Crunchies. And a chewed slipper.’

  Chewed slipper? I’ll have to think about that one.

  Edward folded his arms. ‘But I don’t like dogs.’

  Sometimes she saw straight through Edward to the frightened little boy clutching his teddy on the doorstep of a Dickensian boarding school. ‘Well, darling,’ she said patiently. ‘If you want to win this account, you will have to give the impression that you do.’ She picked up a pen ready to make a list. ‘He identifies with his roots, so I’ll cook grits and hopping johns.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s what they eat. I know ‘cos I do the ironing in front of the afternoon Western. Naturally, I have no idea how to prepare it, but I can find out.’ Ruby pointed her pen at Edward. ‘You mustn’t wear a suit and tie. This is your chance to show Mr Huffaker that you are prepared to integrate. That you’re not some high-falutin’ city-slicker with balls for brains.’ My goodness, she thought in alarm. Where on earth did that come from? She saw Edward’s expression. ‘Which, of course, you’re not,’ she added swiftly.

  ‘So what do I wear?’ he enquired. ‘Dungarees?’

  He was being sarcastic, but she didn’t care. Her idea was going to work.

  *

  Dwight Huffaker was due in forty minutes.

  Edward was still getting ready. ‘No aftershave,’ Ruby shouted up the stairs. Ruby wore a check shirt and calf-length black skirt. Country and Western music played on the CD while, in the kitchen, an assortment of sharecropper food bubbled on the stove. On the floor was an empty dog bowl.

  All they needed now was a dog.

  During the week Ruby had asked Karis if she knew someone with a dog they could borrow for the evening because Edward needed to try out a new line of pet food. ‘No problem,’ Karis had said. ‘My sister’s got one.’

  I should have been more specific, Ruby thought now, throwing a look at the delicate creature on the stairs scratching a shell-like ear. Who had ever heard of God-fearing prairie-folk owning a pedigree Chihuahua named Lola? Ruby had taken it with good grace, though, and immediately phoned Echo leaving a message on her answer-phone, begging her to find a dog, any dog, as long as it wasn’t the type that belonged in Paris Hilton’s clutch bag.

  That was forty minutes ago. And, still, no response.

  Hearing footsteps on wood, Ruby hurriedly opened the front door. There, in the light of the porch stood two bloodhounds. Their owner was a gorgeous, curvy blonde in a tight white pantsuit. ‘Hi,’ the woman breathed. ‘I’m Rocky. I live next door to Echo. She said yer wanting to borrow a hungry puppy dog?’

  Ruby’s beatific gaze settled upon the animals. These were no “puppies”. These were fully-grown Bible-Belt hounds seen in every fugitive film of the Deep South, their big noses quivering with the aroma of stewing meat. Rocky introduced them. ‘This here’s Daisy and this here’s Sniffles.’ She turned to go. ‘Just drop ’em back when you’re finished.’

  Ruby, who had wanted only one dog, found she was holding two leashes. One extra didn’t matter, she thought complacently, unclipping them. The hounds, sniffing on the scent of food, went straight to the kitchen - but it was too early to put them out of their misery. To get the full impact, Mr Huffaker had to see his precious Purdy’s wolfed down.

  Determined to give Edward’s slipper a “chewed” look, she offered it to one hound and then the other, but they were completely uninterested in a Harvey Nichols “Handmade in Cornwall” sheepskin-lined leather moccasin. She tentatively fed the toe of the slipper into the garbage disposal machine, which promptly swallowed it. Above the sound of complaining metal, she heard the buzzing of the doorbell. She glanced at the wall clock. Still too early for Mr Huffaker.

  It was Mary-Jo. With a black Labrador. Bright-eyed and eager, it strained to get into the house. ‘He’s pulled m
e all the way here,’ Mary-Jo gasped. ‘This is Digger from Lakeview Estate. My friend couldn’t drive him because he gets car-sick.’

  ‘But, um, I don’t-’ Ruby hesitated. The dog was surplus to her needs but how could she explain this to Mary-Jo, who was five stone overweight and had been forced to run a mile?

  Mary-Jo was beginning to frown. ‘Echo said you wanted to borrow a dog,’ she wheezed. ‘Or did I get that wrong?’

  ‘Yes, no, absolutely!’

  Ruby watched helplessly as the animal galloped past her and into the house. ‘I’ll bring him back later,’ she called, watching Mary-Jo stagger into the night.

  Ruby now had too many dogs but there was no reason to panic. She would simply choose the best one and leave the others in the basement for the evening. She was closing the door when Echo emerged out of the night.

  With a dog.

  ‘Echo, listen-’

  ‘Yer feeding him, right? ’Cos we ain’t got nuthin’ for him ’cept chilli pizza. My cousin, Ethan, found him wandering I-70 half hour ago. He christened him Rowdy. He’s house-trained.’ She laughed. ‘Rowdy is, Ethan ain’t.’

  The animal was a drab yellow-coloured mongrel with a hairless coat tight over protruding ribs. Admittedly, this was exactly what Ruby had in mind when she first came up with this idea - a genuine Huckleberry-Finn-type mutt - but she didn’t like the look in its eyes - and with the sound of tiny paws scrabbling up the stairs behind her, she presumed Lola had had the same thought.

  ‘Thanks Echo.’ Ruby took the string that served as a leash. ‘I’ll bring him back before midnight.’

  ‘Keep him.’

  ‘NO! Sorry, I mean … thank you, but no.’

  ‘Ethan’s driving him to the animal shelter tomorrow so you’ve got tonight to change yer mind.’ Echo bounced down the steps, calling back: ‘Oh, yeah, and Ethan says to tell you Rowdy is reeel hungry.’

  Ruby found the four dogs sniffing feverishly over the kitchen floor on the scent of food. It was chaos. She couldn’t even get to the cooker. She would put them in the basement until she’d made her choice.

  ‘Come on, chaps,’ she called, patting her knees. They ignored her. She pulled the Labrador by his collar but he immediately went rigid, making himself as heavy as a bag of bolts. With a flash of inspiration she waved a wedge of brie over their heads, and within seconds she had them locked in the basement.

  Back in the kitchen, she was dragging the bag of Purdy’s Beef Crunchies out of the cupboard when Edward appeared, seeming stiff and uncomfortable; although he did look surprisingly macho.

  ‘I feel ridiculous.’ He wore a check shirt, a waistcoat, jeans with silver buckled belt, and longhorn boots. He glanced at the food bubbling on the cooker. He looked down at his boots. ‘I feel like a complete idiot.’

  She took a calming breath. Edward needed to loosen up – and fast.

  She poured him a glass of “moonshine” - compliments of Echo - and handed it over: ‘Paint your tonsils, sweet pea.’ Edward gazed at her as if trying to remember where he’d seen her before. ‘Go on,’ she coaxed.

  He sniffed the glass as if it were a urine sample and grimaced.

  ‘What do you expect?’ she demanded. ‘Gin and tonic?’

  She was beginning to wonder if he actually wanted this account. Knowing how sensitive he was, she softened and wrapped an arm around his waist. ‘Listen, darling, the problem is, you’re a little too English. You need to relax, get on Mr Huffaker’s wavelength. That way he will be open to your ideas.’ She nodded to Edward’s glass. ‘Now, drink up.’

  All at once, a chorus of barking dogs erupted from beneath them. Edward stared down at his feet in horror. ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘They’re the dogs,’ she said evenly, feeling herself spiralling into panic. This shouldn’t be happening.

  ‘Dogs?’ he echoed. He pointed up at the ceiling. ‘So what about him?’

  She had no idea what he was talking about. ‘Who?’

  ‘The Chihuahua cowering under the bed?’

  ‘We can’t use him! Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Ridiculous? Me?’ He pointed to the floor. ‘How many have you got down there?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘Four?’

  ‘I was just going to choose one, and keep the others down there. I didn’t think they’d make a noise.’ The barking had turned to howling. ‘Now, they’ll all have to come up.’

  Edward sprang back. ‘Are you insane? Listen to them!’

  ‘Don’t scream, Edward.’ She clenched her fists. Admittedly, he did have a fear of dogs, but even so, he didn’t need to react so childishly. ‘It’s not their fault. They’re just ravenous.’

  ‘Ravenous!’

  Her nerves were strung tight. Edward’s expression strung them tighter until they snapped. ‘Why am I the one jumping through hoops? I’m only trying to-!’

  The doorbell rang.

  Mr Huffaker.

  Ruby and Edward glanced nervously at each other.

  They walked down the hallway to the front door.

  ‘Look at us,’ Edward muttered. ‘Mr Huffaker is going to think we’re taking the piss, especially when he hears the Hounds of the Baskervilles.’

  Ruby realised Edward was right. This was going to be a disaster. Yet she’d had Paris, there, in her hands, but like sand, it was slipping through her fingers. How could she have believed she had the power to change her destiny? She wasn’t Claire: a fairy princess who could wave her wand and magically get what she wanted.

  Dwight Huffaker stood on the porch, a rotund miniature cowboy. Between each button of his check shirt was a roll of body fat straining to escape, and around his waist a silver buckled belt held him in like string around a haggis. His comical appearance, though, belied an air of success and authority.

  ‘Howdo, folks,’ he greeted, shaking their hands. Ruby liked him immediately. She didn’t want him to be embarrassed by this charade. She didn’t want him to think they were taking the piss. Perhaps they should just turn him round on the spot and take him to Dixons Diner.

  ‘I’ve arranged a Western evening,’ she said cautiously, taking his Stetson hat. ‘With all the bells and whistles. I do hope you’ll enjoy it.’

  ‘Heck, I know I will.’ He winked. ‘’Cos I can smell it.’

  She led the way into the kitchen. The Country and Western music was barely audible above the howling and barking beneath their feet. Mr Huffaker cocked his head, frowning in confusion at Edward. ‘Thought you told me you got no dogs?’

  Ruby cut in. ‘To be honest, I had this crazy idea-’

  ‘Hey!’ their visitor thundered. ‘Git those varmits up here.’

  Edward cleared his throat. ‘Mr Huffaker, as you can hear, there’s quite a lot of them. Are you sure-?’

  ‘’Course I’m sure.’ Mr Huffaker prodded Edward in the chest. ‘And no more Mr Huffaker. It’s Dwight to you. Well, where are they?’

  With a burst of optimism, Ruby leapt to the door.

  Pooch time.

  She hurried down to the basement and stood back as the dogs stampeded up the stairs. In the kitchen, she found Mr Huffaker patting the two bloodhounds. ‘Mighty fine specimens,’ he was saying. When he saw Rowdy, he chuckled. ‘Well, I’ll be dang!’ He bent and scratched the dog’s spine. ‘I had a bird dog jes like this when I waz a young’un. Yella his name was.’ He grinned up at Ruby, the happy glow on his face making him look years younger.

  She, too, scratched Rowdy’s spine. ‘Well, this varmit is called Rowdy.’ She pointed to the Labrador. ‘And he’s called …’ Gosh! She’d forgotten their names. She would just have to improvise. ‘Um … Rudi. This one is Randy. And that one is … Rusty.’

  ‘Let me get this straight.’ Mr Huffaker got to his feet. ‘Rowdy, Rudi, Randy and Rusty.’ He gazed at her in awe. ‘Don’t you git confused?’

  First mistake. ‘N-a-a.’ She waved this off and began to prepare the dogs’ dinner. Since she only had one dog bowl, she took out three cake-
mixing bowls and filled them with Beef Crunchies before pouring over hot duck fat. It seemed an awful lot of food. Was it too much? She’d never had a dog, so she didn’t know. She put the bowls on the floor. The effect was more than she could have hoped for. Four starving dogs lunged for the food. Even Mr Huffaker looked impressed.

  ‘Don’t they just love Purdy’s!’ she trilled. She sounded like the lady on the home shopping channel. Her thoughts moved on to the next stage of her plan.

  Dinner.

  ‘Let’s pull on the feedbag.’ She turned to the stove. ‘You men go through to the dining room.’ Five minutes later she carried in a tray of corn poke, turnip green, hoppin’ johns and duck gizzards. The men were chatting like old friends. The whisky had done the trick: Edward was flushed and animated; he even had his elbow on the table.

  ‘Jes like the good ol’ days,’ Dwight exclaimed, seeing the tray of food. ‘I ain’t eaten vittels like this since I bin married to ma second wife. She’s an ex-Vegas showgirl. Burns the toast. Thinks the microwave is God’s gift.’

  ‘Ruby never uses the microwave,’ Edward said proudly. ‘It’s all home-cooking in this establishment.’

  ‘I’m impressed.’ Mr Huffaker saluted Ruby with his glass. ‘Come on Ruby, pour yourself a whisky.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t really drink alcohol.’

  ‘No need to apologise, Ruby. Heck, I wish I didn’t.’

  Ruby set the hot dishes on the table, listening while Dwight explained to Edward that Purdy’s was losing money because of all the new competitors flooding the market. Four of his children worked for the main company and did a good job, but the two in promotion and advertising were inexperienced and unable to cope.

  That means Purdy’s needs a first-class advertising agency, Ruby thought decisively: Edward’s agency. She just wished she could cut to the chase and blurt out: “Take Edward, he’s the best”. And it wouldn’t be a lie. Edward was the best, if only they could make Mr Huffaker realise it.

  But, perhaps, Mr Huffaker was already realising it? He was now listening keenly to what Edward was saying, while nodding in agreement.