Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista

thinks it’s never a good idea to print money?’ He was leaning in close to me, and I could smell the gin on his breath.
    I smiled at him as sweetly as I could. Had Nicholas not been standing right there I would have simply told him to get lost, he was so obviously just trying to makeme feel bad. There was a moment of silence which seemed to go on for ever.
    And then the best-looking man at the party came through the door, greeted Nicholas with a warm handshake and a smile, kissed me on the mouth and said, ‘You look bloody gorgeous.’ Then, turning to face Paul he muttered, ‘Stop hitting on my girlfriend, you pillock, she’s well out of your league.’
    I wanted to kiss him. Again.
    As they disappeared off towards the bar, Nicholas took me firmly by the elbow and steered me behind the reception desk.
    ‘No fuck-ups so far?’ he asked. He seemed to have got quite drunk very fast.
    ‘No, of course not. It’s all going really well.’
    ‘We don’t have any journalists at this thing, do we?’
    ‘No, you told me not to invite any.’
    ‘Good. Last thing we need is a bunch of bloody hacks here pissing and moaning about squandering investors’ money on champagne. Bunch of bloody freeloaders. If any turn up, just you make sure they aren’t allowed in.’
    Great, so now I’m the bouncer?
    ‘Of course, Nicholas, it’s invitation only.’
    ‘Good. You look nice,’ he said, again, and stomped back to join the festivities.
    Ali arrived late, looking impossibly tall and svelte in a very short black dress and sky-high red heels. If she wasn’t my best friend I would be terrified of her.
    ‘Meet you in the garden in five for a cigarette,’ she said as she kissed me hello, before heading off to the bar where she was immediately engulfed by a crowd of men. Moments later I’d summoned Christa, one of the other PAs, to take over meet-and-greet duty while I slipped out.
    Ten minutes later I was still standing in the garden alone, freezing to death. And I don’t even smoke. I was just about to give up on her when Ali emerged.
    ‘I see Dan’s up to his old tricks,’ she said, nodding in his direction. He was standing near the bar, laughing at something someone had said, his hand placed on the lower back of the blonde standing next to him. I felt the horrible, jealous twist I get in my gut whenever I see him with someone else, and tried to shake it off.
    ‘He’s just flirting, it doesn’t mean anything,’ I said crossly. ‘It’s me he’s coming home with.’
    ‘I’m only joking,’ Ali said, a little half-heartedly. ‘Anyway. What a great party! The place looks amazing. And you look amazing. Well done, honey.’
    ‘Glad you think so,’ I said, trying to stop my teeth from chattering. ‘Now hurry up and smoke your fag before I freeze to death.’ A group of traders from Hamilton came out onto the balcony. Instead of coming over to say hello they remained huddled in their corner, talking in unusually subdued voices.
    ‘What’s up with that lot?’ I asked, inspecting the nearest floral arrangement, a collection of the most beautiful white orchids. I wondered whether I couldsmuggle it out on the way home. It would look great on my coffee table.
    ‘They’re all shitting themselves,’ Ali whispered conspiratorially, ‘everyone is. Even your Dan the wunderkind.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘God, Cass, where have you been all day? Last week it was Allen Brothers, this week it’s Grant & Waters. Investment banks are going tits up left, right and centre and even those that aren’t going under are making savage cutbacks. We’re next. The writing is well and truly on the wall now. Rumour has it around a quarter of the traders are looking at redundancy.’
    ‘Oh, my God. But you’ll be all right, won’t you? And Dan will be? I can’t believe this. It’s Hamilton Churchill, for God’s sake, it’s one of the oldest investment banks in the UK.’
    ‘So what? It doesn’t mean a thing. Believe me, the powers that be might not let Lloyds TSB go to the wall, but that’s because they aren’t prepared to let Joe Bloggs lose his life’s savings. If we fail, it’s just a bunch of rich people who lose their money. That’s the theory, anyway. No one gives a shit.’ She threw her cigarette to the floor and stomped on it viciously.
    ‘Anyway, come on, let’s not let it spoil the party,’ she said, trying to reassure me. ‘There’s a last-days-of-Rome atmosphere building in there and I for one plan to