Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista

gambit (‘You bitch, Celia’) when I saw her standing on the platform, the baby in her arms, three-year-old Rosie in the pushchair and five-year-old Tom crawling around on the floor pushing a small vehicle and making impressively accurate truck noises. Celia smiled winningly at me.
    ‘Look, kids, it’s Auntie Cassie! Come all the way from London to see us!’
    ‘Hello, darlings!’ I cooed back. It’s difficult to stay pissed off when you have two blond angels running at you, arms outstretched, gurgling wholehearted hellos. Disentangling myself from the children, I gave Celiaan unenthusiastic peck on the cheek and took Monty, the baby, from her arms.
    ‘God, he’s huge,’ I exclaimed. ‘I can’t believe how much he’s grown.’
    ‘That’s the thing about babies,’ Celia replied sourly. ‘If you only see them once every six months then you will be amazed by their growth spurts.’
    ‘He looks exactly like his dad,’ I said, knowing that would annoy her. The other kids have far more of their father in them than they do of Celia, too, and she hates it when people point this out. ‘Where is Michael, by the way? Is he not joining us for dinner?’
    ‘Change of plan,’ she said with an air of weary resignation. ‘The “quick pint” he went for after work turned into three, so I told him to just stay there. Do you mind if we get takeaway instead? Not sure I can be bothered to go out. Sorry, Cass.’ My anger at her dissipated and was replaced with guilt. Celia looked wiped out. Her face was pale and her eyes ringed with dark circles. With her hair scraped back into a ponytail and wearing a less-than-flattering tracksuit she looked closer to thirty-five than twenty-seven. It was hardly surprising though. How could she not be exhausted with three children of five and under to take care of and a twenty-eighth wedding anniversary party to plan, not to mention having to cope with her feckless husband and recalcitrant younger sister.
    ‘That’s OK, Cee, takeaway’s fine. It’ll be nice to hang out with you and the kids at home.’
    ‘Great. And I am sorry, Cassie, that you had to change your plans for this weekend. I know you’re not keen on family things.’ You’ve got to hand it to her, Celia knows how to twist the knife.
    Dinner was a rather greasy Chinese eaten while sitting on the floor and watching the DVD of Mamma Mia , Rosie and Tom singing along lustily and tunelessly, getting all the lyrics wrong. Eventually, Celia put them to bed.
    ‘Wouldn’t usually let them stay up this late, but they were desperate to see their Auntie Cassie,’ Celia said as I opened a bottle of Rioja. ‘They see you so infrequently.’
    We were sitting at her rather formal dining room table. I felt an interrogation coming on.
    ‘How’s work?’ she asked. ‘Are you worried, you know, with the credit crunch and this recession business? Do you think your bank’s going to be OK? Because Mike was saying that quite a few of the banks are in trouble.’ Michael, Celia’s husband, is a solicitor with a small local firm and something of a know-it-all. He spends most of his time drafting contracts for property sales but he likes to pretend that he has insider knowledge of the business world.
    ‘It’s mostly the US ones,’ I said, with a breezy confidence that I didn’t feel as strongly as I might have done a few days previously.
    ‘Really? Because Mike was saying that quite a few of the British banks are having problems, too.’
    Conversations with Celia are often like this. Mike was saying this, Mike was saying that. It drives me up the wall. She appears to have no opinions of her own, except for those on what Mike would call ‘women’s subjects’ like childcare and cake-baking.
    ‘We’re fine, Celia, really. My job’s great. I’m actually in my boss’s good books for a change – I had to organise this drinks party for the clients and it was a real success. It was in this amazing hotel, the Hempel, you know, designed by Anouska Hempel—’
    ‘Ooh, did I tell you I got the function room at the Holiday Inn for tomorrow?’ Celia said, cutting me off in full flow. ‘It’s ever so nice, actually. It’s out on the A43, towards Corby. Lovely place. There’s a gym and a pool and everything. I think it’s a three-star. Anyway, the function room is lovely – nice views of the countryside and fields and things, and they’ve given us a really good deal on the buffet.’
    ‘Sounds great, Cee,’ I said,