Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista (22 page)

‘Well said, Cassie,’ Bill said. ‘It’s very easy to oversimplify these things, isn’t it?’

By ten o’clock the party was winding down and I decided to make my exit while things were still going well. I kissed Gabriella and Bill goodbye, thanking them for a lovely evening, and had almost made it out the front door when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

‘Not so fast, young lady,’ Nicholas slurred at me, a lascivious grin on his face.

Oh, Christ, I thought, he isn’t going to make a pass, is he?

Fortunately, he was not.

‘Friend of mine just started up a wine business,’ he
said, thrusting a card into my hand. ‘He’s looking for someone to answer the phones, do the office admin, that sort of thing. Pay wouldn’t be top-notch, but you never know. Give him a call. Might be fun. Keep you in high heels, or whatever.’ Some things never change.

Cassie Cavanagh
is making a comeback

I rang Milena on Monday morning.

‘Of course I remember you,’ she said when I introduced myself. ‘And what perfect timing you have! Tom, our office manager, has just phoned me up telling me he has food poisoning – I think that is English code for hangover, no? – and I desperately need someone to come in and answer the phones for me. Could you come?’

‘Right now?’

‘Right now.’

By eleven o’clock I was sitting behind a desk in the rather chaotic offices of Appetite, Milena’s catering company, feeling completely overdressed. The pain of the jumper-wearing incident at Simmons & Blaythe still fresh in my mind, that morning I’d put on my sharpest suit. How was I to know that here in unfashionable Southwark, separated from the City only by the River Thames but feeling worlds apart,
jeans and trainers seemed to be the accepted uniform? But if I felt self-conscious at first, I didn’t have a lot of time to think about it. The day sped by, a blur of orders were taken, invoices issued, payments made to suppliers and coffee fetched for superiors. It was seven o’clock by the time I left the office and I realised that that was the first time all day I had looked at my watch.

‘We may need you again tomorrow,’ Milena said to me, ‘depends how much Tom had to drink over the weekend. Would you be free again?’

I worked for Milena for three days. The money I earned, combined with the latest dog walking dues and the money I’d got from the few days’ temping at Simmons & Blaythe meant that I could just about cover the month’s rent, though there was precious little left over. Looked like my family and friends would be getting home-made Christmas presents this year. I was sure that
Less is More!
would have plenty of handy hints. Baked Christmas tree decorations, anyone?

‘What would you think if I gave you a jar of homemade marmalade for Christmas?’ I asked Ali when she rang me that evening.

‘I’d probably throw it at you,’ she replied. ‘Mind you, you could buy me a Prada handbag right now and it wouldn’t cheer me up.’

‘You not feeling so good?’

‘I feel horrible. Allegedly the morning sickness, which ought to be called all-day-every-day sickness, is supposed to go away around now, but it’s not
showing any signs of letting up. I spend more time in the loos puking than I do at my desk these days. People are starting to talk.’

‘You haven’t let on yet?’

‘No, I think they just think I’ve developed a drug habit. Can’t be bulimia, obviously, given how fat I am.’

‘Is there anything I can do? Maybe we could get together over the weekend, watch DVDs, stuff our faces with pickles and ice cream or whatever it is you pregnant ladies crave? I can get fat with you.’

‘That sounds like a plan, Cass. But I was actually going to ask you another favour.’

‘Anything.’

‘Would you come to the doctor with me tomorrow? It’s the scan.’

I met Ali outside the Royal Free Hospital the following morning. I held her hair back for her while she threw up into a bin in the car park. That done, we went in for the appointment, which was over in no time at all. The technician smeared gel on her tummy, and then pointed to a blob on the screen which she claimed was the baby.

‘There,’ she said, ‘you can make out the head … and oh, there’s the arm.’ I was amazed to see that tears were running down Ali’s face. It must be the hormones, I thought. She’s never usually this sappy.

‘Can you see it, Cass?’ she asked.

‘Yes … it’s lovely,’ I lied, peering at the monitor trying desperately to make out what it was I was
supposed to be looking at. Afterwards we ordered prints (one for her, one for me) and then went for a cup of tea in a café down the road. Ali gazed lovingly at the picture.

‘It’s like an alien,’ she said with a smile.

‘Mmm,’ I murmured, still not quite sure I was actually looking at the right blob. ‘A parasitic, puke-inducing alien. Adorable.’

‘No going back now,’ she said, squeezing my hand. ‘God, I’m going to have to tell them at work soon. That’s not something I’m looking forward to. Nicholas is not going to be impressed.’

‘You never know,’ I said. ‘After all, he’s a father. And sometimes I think he’s not as bad as he likes to make out.’

She looked at me quizzically, sipping her tea. ‘You’re defending Nicholas? Have you been drinking?’

I told her about the party, about how Nicholas had given me a contact for a possible job.

‘And?’

‘And I haven’t rung them yet.’

‘Cassie!’

‘Well, I feel a bit weird cold-calling people asking for jobs. Particularly as Nicholas was quite pissed when he gave me this guy’s card. He probably forgot all about it, so I’ll just be ringing this guy up out of the blue.’

‘Doesn’t matter, you can’t ignore opportunities like this,’ Ali said, waving at the waitress to bring over
another muffin. ‘Even if Nicholas didn’t tell him about you, it doesn’t matter. You can sweet talk him into giving you an interview. You could charm snakes when you’re in the mood, Cassie.’

Back at home I decided to bite the bullet. I fished the business card out of my purse and dialled the number.

‘Yes?’ a man’s voice snapped at the other end of the line. For a millisecond I toyed with the idea of putting the phone down.

‘Is that Rupert Forsythe?’ I asked nervously.

‘Speaking.’

‘My name is Cassie Cavanagh,’ I started out. ‘I was given your number—’

‘Cassie!’ he boomed at me. ‘Nick said you were going to ring. How are you today?’

‘I’m … uh … very well, thank you …’

‘When can you come in and see us?’ he asked.

‘Whenever is convenient for you,’ I replied.

‘Why don’t you meet me tomorrow morning at Tapas Brindisa? Do you know it? Spanish place in Borough Market. Just round the corner from our offices. See you there at ten?’

I never thought I’d hear myself say it, but thank God for Nicholas Hawksworth.

The following day I turned up at Brindisa clad in jeans and a dark green Paul & Joe coat (two seasons old but still fabulous). I realised that I had no idea what Rupert Forsythe looked like. I hovered in the doorway, slightly panicked, realising that I had left his
card at home and would not be able to ring him on his mobile. Damn. The café was busy, packed with what looked like a mixture of market traders getting a quick caffeine fix and creative types taking their sweet time over their lattes. Did any of them look like a Rupert Forsythe? I was just about to call home in the hopes of catching Jude before she left and getting her to search for the number when a very tanned forty-something man approached me, holding out his hand.

‘Cassie?’ he ventured. Thank God.

He ushered me to a table at the back of the café where he was sitting with a younger, equally tanned man who turned out to be his brother and business partner, Oliver (‘Call me Olly’). They were posh, jovial and somewhat excitable – like a pair of pedigree Labrador puppies.

‘We’re terribly excited about the new venture,’ Rupert said, shifting around in his seat and spilling coffee onto his trousers. ‘Difficult market to start things going, but we think we’ve nailed the business model.’ They asked me about my background and I handed them a CV which Olly scanned briefly before handing it back to me.

‘Oh, that’s for you,’ I said.

‘No need, no need,’ Rupert said. ‘Nick’s told us awfully good things about you. And to be perfectly honest with you, we’re in a bit of a jam. Last girl we got in was bloody useless. Do you think you could start next week? Three-month trial, four hundred quid a week. Not great, I know, but it’s the best I can do at the
moment. If it all works out, we can renegotiate in a few months’ time. What do you say?’

I was stunned. I’d only been here five minutes and they had already offered me a job. I hadn’t had to answer a single question yet, unless you count whether I’d prefer a latte or an espresso. When I eventually regained the power of speech, I said, ‘I say yes! That would be fantastic. Thank you so much.’ The money was not particularly good, but who cared? Working for a wine company for minimum wage would be better than dragging a pack of hounds around Clapham Common in December for seven pounds an hour. I would be working for a wine company! There would be tastings and free booze and – oh, my God, the excitement, the glamour – trips to check out vineyards in exotic locales.

‘Excellent!’ Rupert said, and he and his brother took turns in shaking me warmly by the hand.

‘I think that calls for a celebration, don’t you?’ Olly asked. ‘Fancy a sneaky glass of Villa Anita? Lovely stuff.’

‘It’s a bit early for me,’ I said, glancing nervously at my watch. It was ten thirty in the morning.

‘Nonsense!’ Rupert said and ordered three glasses of wine.

This was going to be a fantastic job.

Rupert and Olly sent me on my way with a folder full of bumf on the company as well as a brief job description typed up on a sheet of A4 which appeared to have been written by either a dyslexic or a very poor
typist. I counted three spelling errors in the first paragraph. They certainly were in need of a secretary. The official title of the post was ‘
office administrator
’: I would be ‘
responsible for maintaining the smooth running of the office, including managment
[sic]
of administration, office supplies, maintenance, invoicing and reciepting
[sic]
payments, IT support systems and recruitment
’. I would need to be able to ‘
work independantly
[sic]
and take responsibility for a wide variety of tasks
’ etc. etc. In other words, I would have to do a bit of everything.

On the tube on the way home I read through the company information.

Vintage Organics was set up in October 2008 by Rupert and Oliver Forsythe with the aim of bringing the finest in organically grown wines from across the globe to the British consumer. Our staff have travelled the world to select the best wines made from the finest grapes. We have visited vineyards in France, Italy, Spain, Portugal, California, New Zealand, South Africa, Argentina and Chile; buying only from environmentally and socially responsible producers
.

The Forsythe brothers have wine in their blood. Their maternal grandfather, Nicolas Leroy, is the proprietor of Chateau Saint Chinian in the Corbiere region of the Languedoc. He is a pioneer of organic wine production in France and is renowned as one of the region’s finest viticulteurs. ‘My fondest memories of childhood are of holidays spent at the chateau with my grandfather, playing hide-and-seek among the vines with my brother, helping with the harvest and being allowed to taste a drop of the
new wines when they were ready to drink,’ Rupert Forsythe says
.

Having spent the first part of his career working in the City, Rupert decided that he wanted to return to his wine-making roots. ‘Although both Olly and I have always had a passion for wine, it has taken us many years to realise that wine for us is more than a simple pleasure, it is a calling
.’

Rupert Forsythe has an impressive business pedigree: he has worked in the corporate finance departments of some of the world’s largest financial institutions, including Barclays, HSBC, Grant & Waters and Hamilton Churchill
.

Oliver Forsythe trained as a solicitor before joining the Civil Service, where he worked in the Department of Agriculture, Fisheries and Foods. He is the Liberal Democrats’ parliamentary candidate for the Borough of Kensington and Chelsea
.

The more I found out about the firm, and about the brothers Forsythe, the more excited I became. Rupert had told me that, at present, they had a staff of just six people: himself and Oliver, Melanie, who covered marketing, Peter and Fabio who took care of research and purchasing and Aidan who dealt with all the IT. The fact that it was such a small team boded well: opportunities to rise up through the ranks – and to break out of the assistant mould – were far more likely to present themselves in a team of seven than in a team of seven hundred.

I arrived back at the flat ready to open the bottle of Moët which I’d bought to replace Jude’s offering.
Drinking before midday is not something I usually do, but since I’d already started, it seemed reasonable enough to carry on. In any case, that day I felt as though I’d been given a reprieve; I’d been flat on my back, strapped to the gurney, waiting for the lethal injection and at five minutes to midnight the Governor had called. A bit melodramatic, perhaps, but I was days away from defaulting on my many debts. In any case, I burst through the front door, yelling, ‘Jude! Crack out the champagne! I’m no longer unemployed!’