Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista

rude to say no. I would never in a million years have pictured myself living with her, but about a year ago I found the perfect flat, a smart little two-bedroom place above an art gallery just off Clapham Common. There was no way I could afford it on my own, and I happened to know (through the power of Facebook again) that she was looking for a place, and I just thought, what the hell. At first, she was sceptical.
    ‘I’m a student, Cassie,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t be living in a soulless new-build with a plasma-screen telly and a Smeg fridge. Wouldn’t you rather find somewhere with a bit more character?’
    ‘If by character you mean damp in the bathroom and carpets from 1976, then no, not really,’ I replied.
    Eventually I talked her round. And our place is not soulless. OK, so it does have laminate flooring, which I have artfully covered with rugs from Heal’s andDesigners Guild, and there is an excess of gadgetry – the kitchen taps have lights which make the water look red or blue depending on temperature (ideal for when you’ve taken so much cocaine you can’t tell hot from cold, Ali once remarked) – but I love the newness of everything.
    ‘It makes it really easy to keep clean,’ I said to Jude a month or two after we moved in.
    ‘Particularly when you have a cleaner who comes once a week,’ she replied. She thinks having a cleaner is self-indulgent; I think life is too short to clean skirting boards.
    Clad head to toe in the Stella McCartney yoga wear I bought her for her birthday (she’d die if she knew what it cost), Jude popped back into the living room to pick up her keys. She frowned at the overflowing ashtray into which Ali was squishing her cigarette.
    ‘I’ll just empty this for you, shall I?’ she asked.
    Ali pulled a face at her back.
    ‘Have you tried the Allen Carr method for quitting?’ Jude asked as she returned the emptied ashtray. ‘I hear it’s very good.’
    ‘No, I fucking haven’t,’ Ali mumbled and promptly lit up again.
    Jude sighed and headed off to her class.
    I served up the takeaway (sushi and sashimi, Ali’s favourite), and resumed my investigation into the state of Ali’s love life, which is frequently a complicated business.
    ‘Mr Inappropriate?’ I asked again. ‘Anyone in mind?’
    Ali laughed. ‘Not at the moment, no,’ she said, but I noticed that as she said it she couldn’t quite meet my eye. ‘We should go on holiday,’ she announced suddenly.
    ‘Uh-huh,’ I said, now very suspicious at the way-too-abrupt change of subject.
    ‘I haven’t been anywhere for ages – we could do a spa thing or something. It would be fun. I could look for some cheap deals on the Internet.’
    ‘We could . . .’ I said, a little non-committal.
    ‘What? You don’t fancy it? Or you have to ask Dan’s permission?’
    ‘It’s not that,’ I said. ‘Just that I was sort of planning a surprise for him. I was thinking of taking him away for our anniversary.
    ‘What anniversary?’
    ‘It’ll be ten months in a few weeks,’ I said, slightly sheepishly.
    ‘Your ten-month anniversary?’ Ali looked unimpressed. ‘And where were you thinking of going?’
    ‘Rome. I’ve found some amazing places on the Internet – I’ll show you.’ I grabbed my laptop from the kitchen counter and brought it over. ‘This is my favourite,’I said, bringing up the site, ‘Hotel de Russie. It’s just across the road from the Spanish Steps and it looks totally amazing. And it has the best spa in Italy, apparently.’
    Ali nearly choked on her champagne. ‘Yeah, for over four hundred euros a night I would bloody well hope so. Can you seriously afford that, Cass? You do know we’re heading into a recession, don’t you?’
    ‘Yes, I know. But we’ll be all right, won’t we?’ I said. ‘We’ve got good jobs, we work for a profitable company. Anyway, it probably won’t last that long, will it? These things go in cycles.’ I tried to sound as though I knew what I was talking about. Ali gave me a rueful little smile.
    ‘Well, I hope he appreciates it,’ she said. I didn’t say anything. Sometimes it’s better not to discuss Dan with Ali when she’s had a few.
    I put Ali into a taxi at around ten – ridiculously early, but then she does have to be at work by six thirty. I rang Dan once or twice (oh, all right, three times) but his phone was off. So I put my shoes on (they even look great with my pyjamas) and, fuelled by an excess of champagne and armed