Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista

huddling beneath an enormous yellow umbrella, picking their way through the puddles in their stilettos. I froze. There was nowhere to run, unless you count straight into the traffic. I considered it. Briefly, the thought of being crushed by a 4x4 did seem preferable to having to confront Christa in my current state. I dithered too long. They were almost on top of me. Christa clocked me. Her expression went from surprised to slightly disgusted. Steeling myself for what I imagined was likely to be one of the most painful conversations of my life, I tried to smile. They looked at me, then at each other.
    ‘Hello,’ I said with as much jollity as I could muster.
    They walked straight past me. They did not even acknowledge my existence. I couldn’t believe it. ‘Hello!’ I said, loudly and angrily.
    Christa said something to Angela and they both laughed.
    If I’d had anything to throw at them, I’d have thrown it. Sadly I had already binned the assortedbags of dog shit, so I had to make do with storming home in a terrible rage. Jude was going to rue the day she’d suggested this bloody dog-walking thing to me. I crashed into the flat, slamming the door behind me.
    ‘Jude!’ I yelled. ‘Where the bloody hell are you?’
    There was no answer. I stormed around the flat, trampling mud everywhere. She was out.
    ‘I could kill you!’ I yelled at no one in particular, storming back into the living room, only to discover that my Designer’s Guild rug was now covered in muddy footprints. Aaaargh. I kicked off my trainers, took off my sodden clothes and stuffed everything into the washing machine. Then I took a very long, very hot shower.
    Dressed in my pyjamas, clean, warm and dry, but still simmering with fury, I went straight for the fridge where, on the bottom shelf, was a bottle of champagne which Jude had bought for us to open when I got a new job. I opened it and poured myself a large glass. I flipped open my laptop and went straight to NET-A-PORTER. I was damned if the next time Christa Freeman laid eyes on me I’d be in anything less than the most amazing dress ever. The wedding was black tie, of course. I lost my heart to a Balmain embroidered mini dress, but even I wouldn’t stretch to six grand for a frock. Eventually I settled on a Matthew Williamson embellished silk dress. Click. The site suggested I wear it with Jimmy Choo sandals and an Anya Hindmarch clutch. Well, I was off the wagon now. Click, click. I swiggeddown the rest of my champagne and poured myself another glass. Proceed to checkout. Click. The total came to £2,245. More champagne. Gulp. Confirm purchase. Click.
    I got up early the next morning. I often do when I’m hungover. You wake up, you think, oh God, what the hell did I do last night, you remember that you spent £2,245 on a wedding outfit, you think, oh shit, and then you can’t get back to sleep again. Given that it wasn’t even seven o’clock yet, I was surprised to see Jude sitting in the kitchen, drinking a mug of camomile tea. She didn’t smile when she saw me.
    ‘You get a new job then?’ she asked, indicating with a jerk of her head the empty bottle of champagne that was sitting on the table where I’d left it.
    ‘No, I just had a really bad day. I’m sorry, I’ll replace it.’
    ‘Did you win the lottery?’
    ‘It’s a twenty-five-quid bottle of Moët & Chandon, Jude, I think I can probably stretch to that without breaking the bank.’
    ‘Right. And what about the dress? And the shoes? And the handbag?’
    Shit. I’d left my laptop on.
    ‘I come home, I see empty champagne bottles, mud all over the place, all the lights left on, and then I go to check my emails and I find out that you have spent more than two grand – two fucking grand – on a dress!’ She was yelling at me. And swearing. Judenever swears. This was bad. ‘You don’t have enough money to pay next month’s rent so how the fuck are you able to afford that?’
    ‘I just … I just wanted to cheer myself up,’ I said weakly.
    ‘Well, then you rent a fucking comedy, Cassie. You watch Friends on TV. You call Ali, you call me, call your mum, whatever. You don’t spend two grand on some ridiculous fucking outfit.’ I don’t think I have ever heard Jude swear so much in such a short space of time. She marched across the room, picked up my laptop and plonked it down on the counter in front of me.
    ‘Cancel it,’ she said.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Cancel. It. Now.’
    ‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m