Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista

Austen TV adaptations – has been banished indefinitely.
    Needless to say I’m a terrible person to live with at the moment, but Jude has been an angel. She’s brought me cups of tea accompanied by Marmite on toast (even though she loathes Marmite and just the smell of it makes her gag), she’s ventured downstairs to Jez’s flat to exchange Hard to Kill for Kill Harder , she even offered to do my laundry (I accepted). Apart from her initial, knee-jerk ‘that sodding wanker’ comment, she did not bad-mouth Dan at all, she listened sympathetically when I raged about him, she nodded dutifully when I told her how wonderful he was and how I couldn’t live without him and how I must, must have him back.
    However, this, the morning of day three AD (After Dan), Jude woke me at eight thirty brandishing a cup of tea and a determined frown.
    ‘Jesus, Jude,’ I complained, ‘it’s not like I’ve got a job to go to.’
    ‘Precisely,’ she said, snapping open the blinds to reveal skies that looked as grey and miserable as I felt. ‘I know you’re feeling down, but enough is enough. You have to get up and start putting the Recession Buster into action. I want you online by nine a.m., checking out the job sites. Register with some agencies.’ She smiled at me, wrinkling her nose just alittle. ‘And you really ought to think about taking a shower.’
    I clung on to my duvet for as long as possible, only venturing from the safety of my bedroom once I’d heard the front door slam as Jude left for college. I couldn’t face any further admonishments from my well-meaning flatmate and I had to admit that she was right. It was true, joining the ranks of the great unwashed was hardly likely to help out in the job-search stakes, or more importantly in the getting-Dan-back stakes. And I had decided, over the course of my morning cup of tea, that all this wallowing was ridiculous. I could get him back. I would get him back. This whole break-up thing was just an overreaction – an understandable overreaction – to the shock of losing his job. I would leave him alone for a few more days and then I’d ring him. He might not agree to give it another go straight away, he was much too stubborn for that – but I’d talk him round. I can be persuasive too, sometimes.
    I showered, washed my hair, put on a life-affirming outfit (the new skinny jeans might have a whiff of sadness about them, but they still looked good) and flipped open my laptop. I did not, as Jude had suggested, start looking at recruitment agency sites, but fell at the first hurdle and went straight to Facebook. I brought up Dan’s profile and felt a sharp twinge of agony as I noticed that he had changed his status from ‘in a relationship’ to ‘single’. Still, it could be worse, he could have de-friended me. There were abunch of messages from various friends and colleagues expressing sympathy over his job loss. I scrolled down. And then my heart stopped. There, plain for everyone to see, was a message from someone called Tania Silk.
    Missed you last night. Hope all’s well. Later? xxxxx
    Who the fuck was Tania Silk? I clicked on her name and a picture came up, a full-length shot of a tanned brunette in a red bikini in front of a turquoise sea. The picture was taken from too far away for her face to be clearly recognisable, but the body was annoyingly impressive.
    I rang Ali.
    ‘Who the fuck is Tania Silk?’ I snapped at her before she’d even had a chance to say hello.
    ‘What? What are you talking about? Market’s open, Cass, can’t talk now. Nick’s on the warpath and my head’s on the block. Ring you back later.’
    I stormed around the flat, my heart beating fit to break my ribs. He was seeing someone else. He was seeing someone else? He couldn’t be. I felt physically sick. I went back to my computer, looked at the message again. Maybe it was perfectly innocent. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe she was just a friend. A friend I’d never heard of. Who sent messages with five kisses at the end. I clicked on her name again and peered at her face. She was familiar. Older, in her thirties, in very good shape . . . I’d seen her before. I’d seen her recently. I’d seen her at the Hempel, at the drinks party, sitting with my then boyfriend, now ex-boyfriend, talking for too long, their heads too close.
    Somewhere underneath the heap of dirty clothes, magazines and DVD covers next to my bed there lay the cheat sheet Nicholas had given me, the