Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista (9 page)

‘I thought it was,’ I said, waving at the waitress as I polished off my drink. ‘But then I’m clearly a complete idiot.’

‘No, Cassie, you just see the good in people. You trust people.’

‘Exactly. I’m an idiot.’

I was woken by a door hitting me sharply on the top of my head. I opened my eyes to discover that I was lying on the cold blue tiles of our bathroom floor, fully clothed, my feet in the shower cubicle. A dark-haired man was standing over me, his expression a mixture of confusion and concern.

‘I’m so sorry. Are you all right? What are you doing down there?’ he spluttered.

‘Well, I was asleep,’ I said crossly, struggling to sit up. ‘Who the hell are you?’

He offered a hand to help me up, but I waved it away.

‘I’m Jake,’ he said, retreating slowly as I hauled myself to my feet, glaring at him. ‘I’m a friend of Jude’s. We came back here to work on a project we’re doing together at college.’

‘Well, you should think about knocking before barging into my bathroom,’ I snapped at him.

‘The door was open,’ he pointed out.

‘You could knock anyway. God, what time is it? Is it early? I feel like death.’

‘It’s twelve thirty,’ he said. He grinned an annoying lopsided grin. ‘I have to say you don’t look that hot.’

‘Thank you very much,’ I snarled, barging past him and into the living room, where Jude was sitting on the sofa, a stack of papers laid out on the coffee table in front of her.

‘Oh hi, Cass,’ she chirped. ‘I was wondering where you’d got to. Tried to ring you last night – I ended up crashing round Amanda’s place.’ She frowned at me. ‘God, you look terrible.’

‘Thanks.’

‘No, really, you do. I’ve got a friend round, by the way. Jake.’

‘We met,’ I said sourly, yanking open the fridge. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, there’s no bloody milk!’

‘I did buy it last time,’ Jude murmured, going back to her reading.

‘Good for you!’ I snapped.

‘Cassie!’ she said. ‘I was just pointing out   ’

‘Dan cheated on me!’ I yelled at her. Jude did her level best to look surprised.

‘Dan was cheating on me. With an American! Some old, wrinkled, thirty-five-year-old American!’

Jake wandered back into the living room. ‘Thirty-five’s not really that old,’ he said.

For a second I thought about throwing my empty coffee mug at him, but instead I just slammed it down on the kitchen counter.

‘I’m sorry about your boyfriend,’ he said. ‘That’s awful.’

‘Yes, well, men are awful,’ I retorted, shoving past him for the second time that morning.

I marched back into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Catching sight of my reflection in the mirror, I did a double take. They were right, I did look hideous – washed out, blotchy and bleary-eyed, with my hair sticking up at weird angles, thanks to a night spent, literally, on the tiles. I was mortified. I can’t believe I’d let people see me like this. Oh, Christ. I got into the shower and scrubbed, trying to wash away the pain, humiliation and smell of gin.

An hour or so later, I emerged from my bedroom, with clean hair, wearing jeans, Uggs, a lovely leather jacket given to me for my birthday by the boyfriend before Dan (whom I was now seriously considering calling, just to say hello) and just enough make-up to transform my complexion from pasty to perfect. Jake, sitting on the sofa next to Jude, looked gratifyingly impressed as I swept into the room. Jude, on the other hand, eyed me disapprovingly.

‘That doesn’t look much like an interview outfit, Cass. How’s the job search going?’

‘It’s not,’ I replied. ‘Look, I lost my job on Monday. My boyfriend broke up with me on Tuesday. On Wednesday, I did nothing but lie in bed watching
rubbish films and eating cheese. That was the high point of my week. Yesterday, I discovered that my ex has been shagging some thirty-seven-year-old American woman, so today, if you don’t mind, I’m going shopping. I’ll start looking for a job on Monday.’

I love shopping for winter clothes. OK, I love shopping for summer, spring and autumn clothes, too, but there’s something effortless about winter wear. It’s so forgiving. No need for toned arms and shaved legs, it’s all about wrapping yourself up in layers, swathing yourself in woollens, donning cute hats and colourful scarves and amazing, to-die-for, sex-kittenish over-the-knee boots.

On Friday, I spent a very satisfying afternoon on the Kings Road, with just the briefest of detours down Sloane Street. (I needed some gloves and they have lovely ones in Chanel. Yes, they’re pricey but they’ll last for ever.)

On Saturday, I went to the gym for the first time in a week. Running on the treadmill, I noticed that in my plain black tracksuit bottoms and faded grey T-shirt, I looked a little drab. Particularly compared to the girl next to me who was sporting blue leggings with a pink stripe down the side and matching pink vest.

‘Like your outfit,’ I gasped at her, reducing my speed from eight miles per hour to seven.

‘Thanks,’ she huffed back. ‘Sweaty Betty, on the high street. They’ve got some really good stuff. Nice trainers, too.’

So on my way home I popped in to take a look. She was right, they did have good stuff. I left with two new running outfits, two sports bras, a yoga mat and a pair of trainers.

I was hoping that Jude would be out when I got home, but there she was, sitting at the counter in the kitchen, reading the paper and sipping camomile tea. I loathe the smell of camomile tea. She looked at me as I came in, sighed, shook her head sadly and went back to her paper.

‘What?’ I said, dropping my packages in the living room. ‘What now?’

‘Cassie, you just lost your job and as far as I can make out, you have done nothing but shop ever since. I’m just worried, that’s all. I’m worried about you and, to be honest, I’m worried about the rent.’

God, her and the bloody rent. Anyone would have thought we had an eviction notice attached to the front door.

‘Jude,’ I said, gritting my teeth, ‘I will have the money to pay the rent, I promise. You don’t have to worry about that.’ She sighed and went back to her newspaper. She was worried, I could tell, and it wasn’t long before she spoke up again.

‘I know that I’m nagging at you, Cass, but I am concerned. I know you’re having a terrible time, but you have to remember that this isn’t just about you. If you can’t pay up then I’ll have to find someone else to move in. Or we’ll both have to find somewhere else to go.’

‘I know, you’re right, I know . . .’

‘Maybe,’ she cut in, ‘maybe you ought to think about moving home for a little while, just while you sort yourself out. And we could sublet your place for a few months.’

‘No!’ I cried. ‘Anything but that! I can’t move home, Jude, I really can’t. I’d go mad.’ I sat down next to her at the counter.

‘I will get a job. Job hunting starts Monday. In earnest. Promise. Plus, I’m not just shopping randomly, you know,’ giving her arm a squeeze. ‘There is a point to my purchases. This morning, for example, I was feeling really rubbish about myself in the gym, with my kit almost falling apart—’

‘You bought those jogging bottoms about a month ago,’ Jude interrupted, rolling her eyes at me.

‘Almost falling apart,’ I went on, ‘and you know what it’s like. If you don’t feel good about yourself in the gym it’s really de-motivating. Makes you not want to bother any more. And if I stopped going, it would be a huge waste of money, wouldn’t it? Paying a hundred quid a month and then not even going?’

‘It’s a waste of money anyway. What’s wrong with running in the park?’

‘Park’s full of nutters and dog shit,’ I muttered. ‘Plus it’s much too cold to run outside now. I’d have to buy a whole new exercise wardrobe if I were to run in the park in winter, and that would cost a fortune, wouldn’t it?’

Jude just laughed, shaking her head again.

‘Jake was asking about you, by the way,’ she said, tossing me the magazine section, the only bit of the paper I tend to look at.

‘Who?’ I asked, flicking through the magazine to the health and beauty section. There was an article on the new ‘peel’ treatment at Body & Soul, a day spa in Kensington. ‘Oh, that sounds nice. “An Energising blood orange-scented body scrub followed by a thirty-minute massage”.’

‘You know, my friend from college, the guy who was here the other day? The one you could barely be civil to?’

‘Oh, right. I wonder if they’ve got any appointments at Body & Soul today? I could do with a massage after all the stress of the past few days. Plus I’m in desperate need of a pedicure.’

I rang the spa and, incredibly, they’d had a couple of cancellations. They could fit me in after lunch. Fantastic.

‘I’ve got to keep busy,’ I said to Jude, who, I could tell, was just dying to ask me how much the treatments cost (£125 for the massage, £55 for the pedicure, not that I would have told her that). ‘If I stay in I’ll just be sitting around here all day, moping about Dan. You don’t want me to do that, do you?’

‘No, of course not. You should go out and enjoy yourself,’ she said, surprisingly encouragingly. ‘Actually, Jake and I were thinking of going to the Eve Arnold exhibition at the Barbican this afternoon. You should join us. It’d be a lot cheaper than going to the
spa. Did I tell you that Jake’s a photographer? He’s really good actually.’

Aha. Now I see what she’s up to.

‘Mmm, not really in the mood for art right now. All that standing around and considering the meaning of things. It’s just going to depress me even more.’ Desperate to divert her focus from my spending habits, I brought up the only other subject she’s willing to talk about ad nauseam, Matt.

‘How’s the love of your life doing? Hope you’re not keeping news from the front from me, just because my love life’s down the pan.’ Matt is Jude’s boyfriend whom she almost never sees – he works for Unicef and spends around nine months of the year out of the country, usually in places where there is a higher-than-average likelihood of being shot.

‘Not at all. He’s fine. Sierra Leone this week. With a bit of luck he’ll be in London for ten days in December. I was going to ask you about that, actually – usually he stays at his brother’s place, but I was hoping he might stay here this time?’

‘Course he can, Jude. He can stay for as long as he likes.’ I gave her a quick peck on the cheek and slipped out the door before she could start interrogating me on the cost of spa treatments.

The exfoliating scrub was delightfully relaxing, the pedicure less so. Not that the beauty therapist didn’t do a very fine job, lacquering my toenails to perfection with Chanel Rouge Noir. No, it was just that my much-needed pampering session was interrupted by a
telephone call from my sister.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked, her voice dripping with concern.

‘I’m fine, Cee.’

‘Mum told me about your email.’ I’d delivered the bad news about my job to my parents electronically the previous evening. ‘She said she tried to call you straight away.’ I had then turned off my mobile phone so that I wouldn’t have to field endless questions about my state of mind and my plans for the future. I was getting more than enough of that from Jude.

‘I know, I missed her calls. I’ll get back to her later on today. Promise,’ I said, feeling guilty as I did. I had no intention of calling back later that day.

‘What are you going to do, Cass? Have you started looking for things? Michael did warn you, didn’t he, that job losses were just around the corner? Do you remember, he suggested that you start looking for other opportunities?’ If I hadn’t been in the process of receiving a foot massage I might have kicked something.

‘I’ll be OK, Celia. There are plenty of other jobs in London.’

‘Mmm. Or you could think of coming back and living somewhere round here, couldn’t you? After all, Michael says—’

‘Celia?’ I cut in. ‘Celia? Can you hear me? I’m about to go into a tunnel,’ I said, ignoring the pedicurist’s quizzical look. ‘You’re breaking up.’

I switched the phone off and didn’t turn it on again for the rest of the afternoon.

On Sunday, I met Ali for eggs Benedict and Bloody Marys at Canteen in Spitalfields market. At first she kept me amused with stories of Nicholas’s very public humiliation of Christa Freeman, who, it was turning out, was perhaps not quite the star secretary he had thought, but eventually, inevitably, the conversation turned to Dan.

‘Are you sure you want to hear this?’ she asked me.

‘Well, not really, but I’d rather find out the gory details from you than discover them some other way. It’s Emily’s wedding next month, there are going to be loads of work people there, it’s bound to come up at some point.’ Emily is a colleague from Hamilton Churchill. Her nuptials were taking place in just a few weeks’ time in some incredibly fancy country house hotel and virtually everyone from the office, including Dan, was going to be there. Until the bloodbath break-up, I’d really been looking forward to going with him.

‘OK. Well, I asked James Cohen about it.’ James was one of Dan’s best friends at Hamilton. ‘He was very reluctant to tell me anything, but eventually he told me that Dan met Tania at the Alchemy summer party in August.’

More than two months ago. I took a gulp of my Bloody Mary, almost taking my eye out with the celery stick.