Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista

the world. For just a moment I forgot that I was unemployed. I even had a split second of panic when I looked at my alarm clock and realised it was almost eleven – I was late for work! Except that I wasn’t. No work to be late for. I checked my phone (no missed calls), rolled over and went back to sleep.
    At about half twelve, my phone buzzed. Private number calling .
    ‘Hello?’ I croaked.
    ‘Cass, it’s me.’ Ali, calling from work. ‘Are you OK?’
    ‘Yeah, fine. Pissed off. Hungover. How are things there? Nicholas had a nervous breakdown yet?’
    There was a long, ominous pause.
    ‘Shit, are you OK, Al? They’re not getting rid of you too, are they?’
    ‘Not me, but they’ve already called in six or seven guys this morning. Dan was one of them. I’m sorry, Cass. Seems like that big trading loss on Friday just came at the worst possible time.’
    ‘Oh, my God! Where is he? Is he still there? Can you put me through?’
    ‘No, he and Mick Knight – he’s also got the sack – left as soon as they were told, about an hour ago. They’re probably in the Beluga. I just thought I ought to let you know. He looked pretty awful when he came out.’
    I couldn’t believe he hadn’t called me. I hauled myself out of bed and into the shower, made a strong pot of coffee and called Dan’s mobile. No answer. Scrolling down through my contacts, I found Mick’s number. I knew it wasn’t a great idea to try to trace one’s boyfriend through his mates (particularly through his recently sacked mates), but it felt as though Dan hadn’t been answering my calls for days. I was starting to wonder whether there was something up with his phone. On the third ring, Mick answered.
    ‘Oh, hi Cassie. No, he’s not here, he came for one, then he buggered off. Not really in the mood for a session, I think.’
    We shared condolences and I hung up.
    Turning up at one’s boyfriend’s flat unannounced is probably an even worse idea than ringing around his mates to track him down, but I was determined to see Dan. I knew that if I could just get to talk to him he’dfeel better. I could spoil him for a day or two and, after a suitable mourning period, we could figure out what he could do next. Dressed in skinny jeans, the Chloé boots I’d got on sale last spring and a little fake-fur coat over the halter-neck top he likes me in, I hopped on the tube and made my way to Farringdon and up to Rosebery Avenue. I buzzed the intercom and waited. No answer. I buzzed again. No one came. Up on the second floor, where Dan’s bedroom is, I thought for a moment that I saw the blinds move, though I couldn’t be sure. I rang his mobile. I left a message.
    ‘Dan, it’s me. I’ve come to see you. Please ring me back. I’m going to go to the Ambassador and wait for an hour or so, so please come and find me. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry about the job, about everything. Please come and find me, I really want to talk to you.’
    Eventually I gave up standing around in the street like a lovesick puppy and headed for the pub. I ordered an orange juice. Half an hour later, I ordered a coffee. Half an hour after that, I thought, oh fuck it, and went for a gin and tonic. Hair of the dog. No sign of Dan, no texts and no missed calls. Eventually, at around three, I gave up and started to wend my weary way home. The prospect of going back to an empty flat (or worse, a flat occupied by Jude, who would have me making lists and fine-tuning the Plan of Action), was too depressing to contemplate, so instead of changing to the Northern Line at Embankment, I just kept going, all the way round to South Ken. I got out of the tube, hopped on a bus, and within minutes was standingoutside the gloriously dramatic window display at Harvey Nichols.
    Some people drink, some people take drugs. I shop. I realise that it is incomprehensible to many people (most of them straight men), but there is something incredibly hopeful about buying new clothes. Yes, it is ridiculous to imagine that a garment can change your life, but there can be no doubting the mood-enhancing, confidence-boosting power of a beautiful new coat, or a killer pair of heels, or, as turned out to be the case that afternoon, an incredibly flattering pair of size eight jeans. Size eight! My heart soared. All the stress of the past couple of weeks must have been taking its toll. They weren’t cheap. 7 For All Mankind jeans do not come cheap – but it could have been worse. I could have gone for