Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista

enjoy it.’
    So, apparently, did Dan, who was now talking to not one but three blondes, all of whom seemed to behanging on his every word. Just as they were all squawking at some fantastically amusing comment he had made he caught my eye and abandoned them immediately, making his way through the crowd to my side.
    ‘Great job, babe. It’s quite a party,’ he said, giving me a kiss. ‘And you look beautiful. Have I told you that already?’ He escorted me over to a table in the corner and we sat down. He took hold of my hand but he wasn’t looking at me. His eyes were constantly roving the room.
    ‘Is everything OK?’ I asked him, slipping my hand into his. His palm felt clammy against mine.
    ‘Great, sure. Of course,’ he replied, but he was shaking slightly. Whether he was on edge because of the news from the markets or the cocaine he’d no doubt been snorting off the cistern in the men’s room all evening, I couldn’t be sure.
    ‘I see Ali’s hunting the Fox,’ Dan said, nodding in Ali’s direction. She was cosying up to one of the more dashing attendees at the party, one of the few who in his tux looked more like James Bond than a waiter.
    ‘Hunting a fox?’
    ‘That, as you should remember from your notes, is Jean-Luc Renard, aka the Fox, ridiculously rich French bloke. One of Ali’s clients. Married with three kids, not that you’d notice from the way he behaves.’
    ‘Oh, Christ. Does she know he’s married?’
    Dan laughed and gave me a kiss on the forehead. ‘You’re so sweet sometimes,’ he said. Then all of asudden he jumped to his feet and said, ‘Just spotted someone I need to have a bit of a chat with. Back in a mo’.’
    I didn’t see him again for about an hour, and when I did he was swaying a little, his arm draped (lovingly? or for support?) around the shoulder of a statuesque brunette in what looked from a distance like a Roland Mouret dress. I recognised her from the guest list – I couldn’t remember her name but I did know she was an American, a high-flyer from one of the US banks who managed a squillion-pound investment fund. That knot of jealousy in my stomach tightened just a little. I watched them cross the room together and find a table near the bar, where they continued to talk, their heads just a little too close together.
    I was debating the pros and cons of marching over there and introducing myself (pro: I could let her know that he’s taken; con: I look like the neurotic jealous girlfriend), when Nicholas appeared, lurching through the crowd, clutching a pint of beer in his hand. Who drinks beer when there’s champagne on tap? Boorish, charmless Nicholas, that’s who.
    ‘What are you doing over here, all on your own?’ he slurred at me, slumping into the chair next to me. ‘You’ve done the hard work, you should be having fun.’
    ‘I was,’ I said. ‘I am. I’m just . . .’
    ‘Waiting for him.’ He jerked his head in Dan’s direction. ‘Never mind him. You’ve done a good job tonight. Go and enjoy yourself.’ And with that hehauled himself to his feet and staggered off again, sloshing beer on to the floor and guests alike as he went.
    For a moment or two, all thoughts of Dan and the American went out of my head. I did a good job. I did a good job . Nicholas Hawksworth thought I had done a good job. That was something worth celebrating. From that moment on, the rest of the evening passed in a bit of a blur. With Nicholas’s approval gained, I was finally able to relax, hit the bar and mingle.
    Ali eventually tore herself away from the Frenchman for long enough for us to have a bit of a dance, the American woman disappeared and everyone finally seemed to forget that their jobs were on the line just long enough to enjoy themselves.
    Officially, the party was over at 10.30 (it was just supposed to be cocktails, after all). Dan and a couple of his trader friends, Mick and James, ushered me into a taxi at around midnight. Back at Dan’s place in Clerkenwell I went straight to bed, while the boys stayed up playing poker. Dan came to bed at three. He slipped his arms around me and started kissing my neck.
    ‘It was a great night, Cass,’ he whispered to me. ‘Feel like celebrating?’
    ‘You have to be up in two hours,’ I groaned, by which I meant, I have to be up in four hours.
    ‘So I’ll sleep for an hour.’ He slipped the straps of my camisole off my shoulders.
    Sometimes he can be very persuasive.

4
     
    Cassie Cavanagh has had