Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista

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 thecheek 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.

5
     
    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 toldme 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