Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista

front of my shirt. Fantastic. Whipping out my make-up bag I got started on emergency maintenance. I was just re-applying my mascara when the door to the ladies burst open, giving me such a fright that I almost took my eye out, and Christa marched in.
    ‘Cassie,’ she intoned mournfully, cocking her head to one side like a puppy. ‘I am so sorry. You must be devastated.’
    ‘Well, I wouldn’t say devastated, Christa. It’s not like it was my dream job. Plenty of secretarial jobs going around.’ I sniffed, dabbing at my eyelid with a Kleenex, removing the ugly black smear caused by Christa’s dramatic entrance a moment previously. And as I said this, I felt it. Dan was right. I was right. I was an extremely competent PA. I would find another job. A better job. I turned to Christa, who was still pulling her faux-concerned face, and gave her the most dazzling smile I could muster under the circumstances.
    ‘Must dash, anyway. Meeting friends for cocktails. Good luck with Nicholas. Don’t forget, just one shot in his latte in the morning or he gets very jittery.’ Ha. Bring Nicholas anything weaker than a triple-shot in the morning and your chances of making it to lunchtime alive were slim to none.
    Feeling better about things already, I decided that an early exit was probably best, particularly since the three double G&Ts I’d consumed in under half an hour were making me feel a little woozy. Dan was sitting on the stool I had vacated, flirting with the Czech girl. Yes, he could be romantic sometimes, at others he could be a real shit. Still, determined to save face I went over and picked up my rather forlorn little box of belongings.
    ‘You not staying?’ he asked.
    ‘Not really in the mood right now,’ I said. ‘Think I’ll make it an early night.’
    ‘You sure?’ he asked, putting his arm around me, but I could tell he was relieved. ‘Sorry if I snapped at you earlier. We’re all just a bit on edge. And I’m sorry about the job, but I know you, Cass, you’ll have no trouble finding something else.’ He kissed me on the forehead. I hate it when he does that. It’s so dismissive, so un-boyfriend-like. It’s the kind of kiss you give a child, or an ageing aunt. Determined not to let him get to me, I smiled my breeziest, haven’t-got-a-care-in-the-world smile, turned on my heel and left the bar. When I glanced back over my shoulder to see if he was watching me leave, I saw that he was simultaneouslywaving his mates over and dialling a number on his mobile phone.
    By the time I got back to Clapham I was too distracted by concerns about Dan to worry about the fact that I had just lost my job. It wasn’t just the way he had acted that evening, it was his behaviour of the past few days, ever since I said I was going away on Friday night. I decided that he must be punishing me. I hadn’t been there for him in his hour of need; now he was repaying the favour. There was a kind of logic to it, I supposed, but it still seemed rather petty.
    Jude was in the kitchen making something that smelt deliciously of lime and chillies. I dumped my cardboard box of belongings on the floor and slumped onto the sofa. She carried on stirring, oblivious to my distress.
    ‘I’m making aubergine and tofu satay,’ she called out. ‘Do you want some?’
    ‘Is there anything to drink in the fridge?’ I asked.
    ‘Not unless you bought something. There was about a glass of that white left from the bottle you opened last night, and that’s gone in the sauce.’
    I groaned dramatically.
    ‘Cassie, what’s going on?’ she asked, and I recounted the whole sorry tale.
    Jude, as ever, was full of practical advice. Over a surprisingly tasty dinner (Jude’s a good cook, but I’m always suspicious of anything containing tofu, quorn or any other weird meat substitutes), accompanied bysparkling mineral water (‘So much better to make plans with a clear head,’ Jude said, a sentiment with which I strongly disagree), she came up with the Recession Buster , a Plan of Action which I was to follow over the next couple of weeks.
    Recession-Busting Action Number One: Register with morale-demolishing temp agencies.
    When I tried to object she cut me off. ‘This is not an easy market, Cassie. I know you think that with your skills you should walk into another job, but I wouldn’t count on it. Things are tough out there.’
    ‘Jude, you’re a student,’ I pointed out. ‘How would you know?’
    She tossed me a copy of the