Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista (7 page)

‘Must dash, anyway. Meeting friends for cocktails. Good luck with Nicholas. Don’t forget, just one shot in his latte in the morning or he gets very jittery.’ Ha. Bring Nicholas anything weaker than a triple-shot in the morning and your chances of making it to lunchtime alive were slim to none.

Feeling better about things already, I decided that an early exit was probably best, particularly since the three double G&Ts I’d consumed in under half an hour were making me feel a little woozy. Dan was sitting on the stool I had vacated, flirting with the Czech girl. Yes, he could be romantic sometimes, at others he could be a real shit. Still, determined to save face I went over and picked up my rather forlorn little box of belongings.

‘You not staying?’ he asked.

‘Not really in the mood right now,’ I said. ‘Think I’ll make it an early night.’

‘You sure?’ he asked, putting his arm around me, but I could tell he was relieved. ‘Sorry if I snapped at you earlier. We’re all just a bit on edge. And I’m sorry about the job, but I know you, Cass, you’ll have no trouble finding something else.’ He kissed me on the forehead. I hate it when he does that. It’s so dismissive, so un-boyfriend-like. It’s the kind of kiss you give a child, or an ageing aunt. Determined not to let him get to me, I smiled my breeziest, haven’t-got-a-care-in-the-world smile, turned on my heel and left the bar. When I glanced back over my shoulder to see if he was watching me leave, I saw that he was simultaneously
waving his mates over and dialling a number on his mobile phone.

By the time I got back to Clapham I was too distracted by concerns about Dan to worry about the fact that I had just lost my job. It wasn’t just the way he had acted that evening, it was his behaviour of the past few days, ever since I said I was going away on Friday night. I decided that he must be punishing me. I hadn’t been there for him in his hour of need; now he was repaying the favour. There was a kind of logic to it, I supposed, but it still seemed rather petty.

Jude was in the kitchen making something that smelt deliciously of lime and chillies. I dumped my cardboard box of belongings on the floor and slumped onto the sofa. She carried on stirring, oblivious to my distress.

‘I’m making aubergine and tofu satay,’ she called out. ‘Do you want some?’

‘Is there anything to drink in the fridge?’ I asked.

‘Not unless you bought something. There was about a glass of that white left from the bottle you opened last night, and that’s gone in the sauce.’

I groaned dramatically.

‘Cassie, what’s going on?’ she asked, and I recounted the whole sorry tale.

Jude, as ever, was full of practical advice. Over a surprisingly tasty dinner (Jude’s a good cook, but I’m always suspicious of anything containing tofu, quorn or any other weird meat substitutes), accompanied by
sparkling mineral water (‘So much better to make plans with a clear head,’ Jude said, a sentiment with which I strongly disagree), she came up with the
Recession Buster
, a Plan of Action which I was to follow over the next couple of weeks.

Recession-Busting Action Number One:
Register with morale-demolishing temp agencies.

When I tried to object she cut me off. ‘This is not an easy market, Cassie. I know you think that with your skills you should walk into another job, but I wouldn’t count on it. Things are tough out there.’

‘Jude, you’re a student,’ I pointed out. ‘How would you know?’

She tossed me a copy of the
Guardian
. ‘
Jobless Total Rises to Two Million
’, the headline read. I must stop reading
Metro
, it really is useless. All right then, Office Angels here I come.

Recession-Busting Action Number Two:
Start counting the pennies (and stop having any fun).

‘You could start keeping a money diary,’ she suggested, ‘write down everything you spend every day and see where you can make cutbacks.’

‘Mmm,’ I replied, non-committally, fishing around in my bag for my mobile. There was a message from Ali asking if I was OK. Nothing from Dan.

‘It’s a really useful way to identify areas where you’re overspending,’ she said.

‘Yeah, I really don’t think that’s going to be necessary, Jude. I’m getting a pay-off, and I’m paid for the next two weeks, so I’ll be fine. You don’t have
to worry about the rent.’

She opened her mouth to say something but thought better of it, instead spooning in a final mouthful of tofu.

Recession-Busting Action Number Three:
Come up with a five-year (yawn) plan.

‘This is starting to sound a bit Stalinist even by your standards, Jude,’ I said.

‘Nonsense. It’s just being sensible. It’s about time you figured out what you want to do with your life. After all, being a PA in the City wasn’t exactly your dream career, was it?’ she asked.

True, but then I didn’t really have a dream career. I’d never given it all that much thought.

‘This could be a blessing in disguise, Cassie. It might be the ideal opportunity to move into a field which really inspires you.’ There was a long pause. ‘What does really inspire you?’

Now there’s a question. I have never had a career plan. Beyond getting the hell out of Kettering and coming to London (or going to New York, I didn’t have particularly strong feelings either way) and earning enough money to keep me in shoes, cocktails and the occasional weekend in Paris or Rome, I really didn’t mind that much what I did. Unlike Jude, who was taking an MA in Cultural Studies at Goldsmith as a prelude to working for some anti-capitalist think tank whose name I forget, or Ali, who did maths at Cambridge in order to pave the way for making a lot of money in the City, I had never come up with a game
plan. I did a degree in business administration, mostly because my father insisted that people with degrees in business administration would never be out of work for long (about to test that theory, Dad), but I had never really pictured myself with a career. A job, yes, but not a career.

‘There must be something, Cassie,’ Jude prompted, fidgeting with the worry beads she wears around her neck, a sure sign that she was getting impatient.

‘Well, I’ve always fancied the idea of doing something in the media,’ I said, ‘or fashion, maybe. Or design. I like interior design. But then again, I think I might have a good head for business. And I like food, of course … and booze, obviously, so anything in those fields, I guess. Or, come to think of it, I could do something in events organising. I reckon I’d probably be quite good at that. Perhaps I could try out for the
X Factor …
’

Jude fidgeted more frantically. ‘OK, lots of ideas there, but I think you probably need to shorten the list a bit … And will you stop looking at your phone all the time, Cassie? You need to focus.’

All of a sudden, tears sprang to my eyes. ‘I lost my job this afternoon, Jude – I really don’t think it’s the end of the world if I haven’t found full employment within five hours of being made redundant, is it? I can’t think about jobs now, OK? I’m worried about Dan.’

She sighed heavily and got up to clear the plates.

‘Yes, I know,’ I snapped at her, ‘you don’t like him! You’ve told me a million bloody times. I get it, you
don’t like Dan. But I do, and he’s going through something, and I’m worried about him and about us …’ I grabbed a Kleenex and blew my nose. Jude sat down next to me and wrapped her arm around my shoulder and made soothing noises.

‘It’ll be OK, Cass. He’ll be OK. How about we go to the Rose & Crown and have a drink? I’m buying.’

I perked up a little. Jude almost never offers to get the drinks in.

I awoke the following day with a raging hangover. It turns out that one of the barmen in the Rose has a serious crush on Jude and as a result was keen to ply us with free drinks all night. For a second when I woke, all, with the exception of my aching head, was well with the world. For just a moment I forgot that I was unemployed. I even had a split second of panic when I looked at my alarm clock and realised it was almost eleven – I was late for work! Except that I wasn’t. No work to be late for. I checked my phone (no missed calls), rolled over and went back to sleep.

At about half twelve, my phone buzzed.
Private number calling
.

‘Hello?’ I croaked.

‘Cass, it’s me.’ Ali, calling from work. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yeah, fine. Pissed off. Hungover. How are things there? Nicholas had a nervous breakdown yet?’

There was a long, ominous pause.

‘Shit, are you OK, Al? They’re not getting rid of you too, are they?’

‘Not me, but they’ve already called in six or seven guys this morning. Dan was one of them. I’m sorry, Cass. Seems like that big trading loss on Friday just came at the worst possible time.’

‘Oh, my God! Where is he? Is he still there? Can you put me through?’

‘No, he and Mick Knight – he’s also got the sack – left as soon as they were told, about an hour ago. They’re probably in the Beluga. I just thought I ought to let you know. He looked pretty awful when he came out.’

I couldn’t believe he hadn’t called me. I hauled myself out of bed and into the shower, made a strong pot of coffee and called Dan’s mobile. No answer. Scrolling down through my contacts, I found Mick’s number. I knew it wasn’t a great idea to try to trace one’s boyfriend through his mates (particularly through his recently sacked mates), but it felt as though Dan hadn’t been answering my calls for days. I was starting to wonder whether there was something up with his phone. On the third ring, Mick answered.

‘Oh, hi Cassie. No, he’s not here, he came for one, then he buggered off. Not really in the mood for a session, I think.’

We shared condolences and I hung up.

Turning up at one’s boyfriend’s flat unannounced is probably an even worse idea than ringing around his mates to track him down, but I was determined to see Dan. I knew that if I could just get to talk to him he’d
feel better. I could spoil him for a day or two and, after a suitable mourning period, we could figure out what he could do next. Dressed in skinny jeans, the Chloé boots I’d got on sale last spring and a little fake-fur coat over the halter-neck top he likes me in, I hopped on the tube and made my way to Farringdon and up to Rosebery Avenue. I buzzed the intercom and waited. No answer. I buzzed again. No one came. Up on the second floor, where Dan’s bedroom is, I thought for a moment that I saw the blinds move, though I couldn’t be sure. I rang his mobile. I left a message.

‘Dan, it’s me. I’ve come to see you. Please ring me back. I’m going to go to the Ambassador and wait for an hour or so, so please come and find me. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry about the job, about everything. Please come and find me, I really want to talk to you.’

Eventually I gave up standing around in the street like a lovesick puppy and headed for the pub. I ordered an orange juice. Half an hour later, I ordered a coffee. Half an hour after that, I thought, oh fuck it, and went for a gin and tonic. Hair of the dog. No sign of Dan, no texts and no missed calls. Eventually, at around three, I gave up and started to wend my weary way home. The prospect of going back to an empty flat (or worse, a flat occupied by Jude, who would have me making lists and fine-tuning the Plan of Action), was too depressing to contemplate, so instead of changing to the Northern Line at Embankment, I just kept going, all the way round to South Ken. I got out of the tube, hopped on a bus, and within minutes was standing
outside the gloriously dramatic window display at Harvey Nichols.

Some people drink, some people take drugs. I shop. I realise that it is incomprehensible to many people (most of them straight men), but there is something incredibly
hopeful
about buying new clothes. Yes, it is ridiculous to imagine that a garment can change your life, but there can be no doubting the mood-enhancing, confidence-boosting power of a beautiful new coat, or a killer pair of heels, or, as turned out to be the case that afternoon, an incredibly flattering pair of size eight jeans. Size eight! My heart soared. All the stress of the past couple of weeks must have been taking its toll. They weren’t cheap. 7 For All Mankind jeans do not come cheap – but it could have been worse. I could have gone for the McQueen ones which were around three times the price.

I was standing in the changing room, admiring my form and congratulating myself on my thrift, when my mobile rang. At long last! It was Dan.

‘Hey baby,’ I said, ‘how are you? Where are you? I want to see you.’

‘Hi, Cass,’ he said, his voice sounding small and far away. ‘I’m OK. I’m just … out and about, you know.’

It didn’t sound like he was out and about. I couldn’t hear any background noise, no pub hubbub, no traffic.

‘Are you going home soon? Can I meet you there? Or you could come round to mine?’

There was a long pause, so long I thought we might have been cut off.

‘Dan? Are you still there?’

‘Cassie, it’s just been a really shit day.’

‘I know, I know it has, it’s awful. I just want to see you.’

Another long pause.

‘Cassie. I’m really sorry.’

‘Tomorrow then?’

‘No, Cassie …’ he gave a long, heartfelt sigh. ‘I can’t … do this at the moment.’

‘You can’t do what?’ A lump rose to my throat.