Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista (6 page)

‘All right then, we’d best get over to the Holiday Inn and start getting everything ready,’ Celia said as we drove off, waving goodbye to a tearful Rosie who isn’t used to spending quite so much time apart from Mummy.

‘Yeah,’ I said slowly, wondering if I should have broken the news about the present to Celia when she wasn’t behind the wheel of a large, fast-moving vehicle. ‘The thing is, Cee, I sort of forgot, you know, there was so much going on at work this week and worries with Dan and everything and …’

‘You forgot what?’

‘The present.’

After several minutes of screeched expressions of disbelief, Celia finally executed a furious and dangerous U-turn and we headed back into town to Peacocks, the local department store.

‘You have twenty minutes,’ Celia hissed at me, ‘to find something decent and pay for it. I cannot believe you have done this, Cassandra. Today of all days.’ Shopping, needless to say, was a fraught experience, made all the worse by the fact that everything I selected was dismissed by my sister as overpriced and useless.

‘What on earth would they do with a hurricane lamp? We don’t get many hurricanes around here, and in any case, they never burn candles except on birthdays.’ The set of Georg Jensen silver leaf bowls was also rejected out of hand, as was a beautiful purple and turquoise glass platter. Eventually, much
against my will, I was persuaded to purchase a Mini Chopper food processor which, Celia insisted, Mum had been hankering after for some time.

‘Not much of a gift for Dad though, is it?’ I objected.

‘Of course it is,’ she said crossly. ‘Mum makes the food and Dad eats it, so they both benefit.’ Too cowed to argue, I got out my credit card and went to the till. Fortunately they offered a gift-wrapping service in-store, so all I needed then was a card. I picked out something bland and unmemorable from the stationery shop next door.

By the time we got to the Holiday Inn, Celia was in a vile temper.

‘We’re an hour behind schedule,’ she snapped at me as she slammed the door of the car and marched around to the boot. ‘By now we should have …’ she fished a list out of her handbag, ‘… arranged and set tables, put up the “Congratulations” banner and decorated the memory tree.’

‘The what tree?’ I asked as she shoved a box full of baubles into my arms.

‘Memory tree. It’s like a Christmas tree, only decorated with mementoes from Mum and Dad’s past. Their wedding invitation, honeymoon pictures, stuff like that.’

Despite myself, I raised my eyes to the heavens. Big mistake.

‘Don’t roll your eyes at me, Cassandra,’ she screeched at me. ‘It’s a lovely idea. And if it doesn’t
turn out perfectly it will be all your fault.’

The decorating went relatively smoothly, but unfortunately, final preparations for my parents’ arrival were marred ever so slightly by me knocking over a table laden with canapés just as Mum and Dad were due to show up. In front of the assembled guests, Celia went into apoplexy.

‘Cassie!’ she hissed at me as I crawled around on the carpet, picking up sausage rolls. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I huffed back at her. ‘It wasn’t like I did it on purpose.’ Tom and Rosie, who had just arrived with their dad, had joined me on the carpet. Tom grabbed a handful of mini chicken kievs and lobbed them at his sister, who shrieked with delight, prompting their irate mother to grab each child by an arm and drag them to their feet.

‘I told you not to have that second glass of wine,’ Celia snapped at me. ‘You’re drunk already. Honestly.’

I was just about to launch into a riposte about my legendary capacity to hold my liquor when my parents marched proudly through the door to be greeted by the sight of their warring daughters and howling grandchildren. It wasn’t quite the welcome Celia had planned.

Fortunately, that was the low point of the evening. Things got a great deal better from then on. My parents, decked out in what my mother might term their Sunday best (Dad in a dark blue suit, Mum in a purple dress which almost certainly came from Marks &
Spencer) seemed to enjoy themselves tremendously. Mum was obviously very touched that so many people had made it (there were about sixty people which is pretty good going for a twenty-eighth, if you ask me), and she seemed absolutely delighted with my gift.

‘I owe you one, Cee,’ I said to my sister as my mother oohed and aaahed over the range of Mini Chopper features.

‘Just one? You think so?’ Celia replied, giving me a dark look.

After everyone had helped themselves to a surfeit of sausage rolls and mini quiches from the buffet, Dad gave a lovely speech at the end of which he thanked his ‘beautiful daughters for organising such a wonderful party’.

Celia shot daggers at me. Guilt welled up in my chest. Bad daughter, bad sister.

‘I’ll tell him it had nothing to do with me,’ I whispered to Celia, who was smiling through gritted teeth.

‘Oh, don’t bother, Cassie. Why don’t you run off and ring your boyfriend? Again.’

It was true that I had absented myself from the party on more than one occasion to ring Dan, but his phone had been turned off all night. Eventually, just we were leaving, I got a text, saying:

Am fine Cass, stop hassling. Cu when u get back
.

My sister dropped me off at the station after lunch on Sunday. She gave me a perfunctory peck on the
cheek as I slipped out of the car.

‘Oh, I forgot to say,’ she said with a smile, ‘there’s engineering works on the line today. You’ll have to get the replacement bus service from St Albans to Bedford.’ Then she slammed the door and drove off. Door to door, it took me four hours to get home.

When I did finally make it back to an empty flat, I collapsed on the sofa and opened my laptop, logging onto my Facebook page to see if anyone else had done anything interesting that weekend. There was a message from Ali.

Hey Cass, just tried your mobile but it went straight to voicemail. You’re probably on the train. Just wanted to warn you – there’s a piece in the
Telegraph
today about Hamilton, no source but they’re predicting hundreds of redundancies. I fear bloodshed on the floor. Hope the family gathering was not as hellish as predicted. See you tomorrow xx A

I opened a bottle of wine and fought the urge to ring Dan. I lost the battle on the third glass, but just as I had feared, he wasn’t picking up. I tried to watch Sky-plussed episodes of
Grey’s Anatomy
but even McSteamy couldn’t hold my concentration for more than a few minutes at a time. I was filled with Sunday-evening unease, that vague feeling of foreboding so reminiscent of unfinished homework and maths tests on a Monday. For once, I was disappointed that Jude wasn’t in – she’s very good at pep talks, whereas talking to Ali, I was convinced,
would only make me feel more nervous about the very real prospect that Dan was on the verge of losing his job.

Cassie Cavanagh
is unemployed

I wasn’t expecting it. That Monday when I arrived in the office, business carried on as usual. The atmosphere was a little subdued, but it was not as bad as I had been led to expect by Ali’s rather alarming message the night before. To be fair to her, the piece in the
Sunday Telegraph
, which I called up on my computer that morning, did give serious cause for concern. It claimed that Hamilton had suffered heavy losses in recent weeks and up to a third of traders and analysts could go, as well as around a fifth of the support staff. I still didn’t expect it. Dan might have had a bad day on Friday but he was known as one of the best traders on the floor and he’d made a ton of money for the company over the past year.

Now I can’t believe how deluded I was. When Nicholas called me into his office that afternoon, for one ridiculous moment I thought he was going to heap more praise on me for the party success. When he told
me to close the door I imagined perhaps that he was going to explain how, in the light of forthcoming cutbacks, my job might have to change. Perhaps I’d be looking at a heavier workload. Perhaps, I thought, I might even see a bit more money as a result.

I suppose the best you can say is that it didn’t last long. It was over within minutes. Senior staff were now going to have to share assistants, he told me, they could no longer afford to keep one each. It had been decided that on the basis of her superior experience Christa Freeman would stay on to cover the UK equities desk. I would be paid until the end of the month, plus a ‘generous’ redundancy package, but I could leave straight away. My services, Nicholas said, without looking up from his computer screen, were no longer required.

I just stood there. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t move. For what seemed like an age, a perfect silence descended over his office. Eventually, he looked up at me.

‘I’m very sorry, Cassie. That’ll be all.’

And just like that, I was dismissed.

I could feel them watching me. Everyone was watching me as I emerged from his office, my face burning, desperate not to cry. They knew, I thought. They all knew. Looking back on it, they probably weren’t watching me; they almost certainly didn’t know. Why on earth would they care if Nicholas Hawksworth’s PA got sacked? Most of them would struggle to remember my name, they wouldn’t be
concerned about me losing my job. But Christa bloody smug Freeman certainly knew – she gave me the sickliest of saccharine smiles and then went back to her typing.
I still have work to do
, was the subtext.

I looked for Dan but couldn’t see him. I searched for Ali and caught her eye. Seeing the expression on my face she ended her call and came straight over to me – committing the punishable-by-sacking crime of leaving her desk during trading hours.

‘He didn’t, did he?’

‘He bloody well did,’ I said. ‘Did you know this was going to happen?’

‘Of course not, Cassie. I knew all our jobs were on the line, though. I told you that. I warned you.’

‘I didn’t realise you meant mine,’ I said, tears welling up in my eyes.

‘Don’t cry,’ she said, slipping her hand into mine and squeezing it. ‘Cry later. Don’t cry here.’ She went back to her desk and I started to pack my things. Someone (that bitch Christa probably) had thoughtfully placed a couple of cardboard boxes next to my desk while I had been in Nicholas’s office.

Ten minutes later I was perched on a stool in a corner of the Beluga Bar having just ordered a large gin and tonic from the beautiful Czech girl behind the bar, a favourite among the Hamilton traders. I took a gulp of my drink. I couldn’t believe it. This could not be happening to me. Cast aside. Redundant. Just a few days after lauding my incomparable organisational skills, they were sacking me. I had
been dumped, deemed the lesser assistant, labelled dispensable.

About halfway through my second drink, denial was replaced with rage. By the time Dan turned up, a couple of friends in tow, I was simmering with fury. Dan took one look at me and carefully steered his friends to the other side of the room before eventually coming over. He ordered a beer and another G&T for me, but only after making small talk with the pretty Czech girl. By the time he turned to talk to me I was just about ready to explode.

‘I’m sorry, Cass,’ he said, enveloping me in his arms. ‘It’s a totally shit thing to happen. Nicholas is such a prick.’

‘It’s unbelievable,’ I hissed at him. ‘I can’t believe they chose to keep Christa on and they’re sacking me. I’m fucking indispensable! Do they not realise that?’

‘Cassie, you’re not indispensable, you’re a secretary,’ Dan said in an unhelpfully condescending tone. I burst into tears. An expression of panic crossed his face and he glanced around the room to see if anyone was watching. Dan doesn’t do emotional melodramas, particularly in front of his friends.

‘Jesus Christ, Cassie,’ he whispered. ‘Please don’t do that. Don’t make a scene.’ He fished around in his pocket and handed me a second-hand Kleenex. Then he said, ‘You’re being really selfish, you know that? You’ll get another job – you can work for any type of company, you can work for bloody Sainsbury’s. If I lose my job, or if one of the boys over there gets sacked,
we’re screwed, do you understand that? We’ll never get re-hired in this market. Now go to the loo and sort yourself out, you look awful.’

I fled to the ladies. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps I was being selfish. Traders like Dan and Ali stood to lose a great deal more than I did if they lost their jobs. And my skills were a little more transferable. He certainly had a point about me looking awful. I scrutinised myself in the mirror. My face was pale and blotchy, my mascara had started to run and I seemed to have managed (God knows when) to have dribbled coffee down the front of my shirt. Fantastic. Whipping out my make-up bag I got started on emergency maintenance. I was just re-applying my mascara when the door to the ladies burst open, giving me such a fright that I almost took my eye out, and Christa marched in.

‘Cassie,’ she intoned mournfully, cocking her head to one side like a puppy. ‘I am so sorry. You must be devastated.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t say devastated, Christa. It’s not like it was my dream job. Plenty of secretarial jobs going around.’ I sniffed, dabbing at my eyelid with a Kleenex, removing the ugly black smear caused by Christa’s dramatic entrance a moment previously. And as I said this, I felt it. Dan was right. I was right. I was an extremely competent PA. I would find another job. A better job. I turned to Christa, who was still pulling her faux-concerned face, and gave her the most dazzling smile I could muster under the circumstances.