Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista

whispered at the gentleman on the end of the row, ‘Would you mind terribly moving along a bit?’
    ‘Yes, I would,’ he replied loudly. ‘People should arrive on time. Then they wouldn’t have any trouble finding a seat.’
    The people in front were turning around and looking. The bridesmaids were hovering in the doorway, waiting to make their entrance. I pushed past the man at the end of the row, past his wife, past the impeccable blondes next to her, and so on and so on. People tutted and sighed dramatically as I inconvenienced them. Eventually I got to the seat. As I sank down into it, breathing an enormous sigh of relief, I saw him. Dan was on the other side of the room, a few rows ahead. He was looking straight at me. For a second, our eyes met. The woman sitting next to him whispered something in his ear and he turned away.
    The service was a long one. I wept as though I were the bride’s mother, though her tears were unlikely to be quite so bitter. The woman sitting next to me handed me a Kleenex.
    ‘I always cry at weddings,’ she smiled at me. ‘It’s just so lovely to see two young people so in love.’ I sobbed even harder. Eventually, after what seemed like three hours of vows, songs and sermons, we were allowed out. I made a beeline for the ladies loo.
    I sized myself up in the mirror. Not good. I still had a few remaining bits of hedgerow in my hair and my face was shiny and flushed from the two-mile hike. As for the outfit … I was wearing a strapless gunmetal-grey satin dress which I’d found in H&M – when I’dtried it on in the shop I thought it looked simple and elegant. In the right light, if you squinted a little, it might just about pass for Calvin Klein. But now, in the ladies loos at Bramley House, standing in front of the full-length mirror, under unnecessarily harsh lighting, it just looked exactly what it was: cheap. Everyone would know. There I was, alone, in my cheap dress and scuffed shoes, and I had to go out and mingle with people wearing Chanel and Yves Saint Laurent, people wearing couture, for God’s sake, people who arrived by helicopter or at the very least by Rolls-Royce.
    I needed help. I needed a friend. Having done my best to fix my make-up, I went back to the party. There was still a throng of people surrounding the happy couple (she did look very good in her dress – but then who wouldn’t look good in Vera Wang? – but I thought he looked a bit chinless) so I didn’t even bother to try to get close enough to congratulate them – they had far more important people to speak to. I made my way through the crowd, keeping my head down, anxious to speak to Ali or at the very least to get some champagne down my throat before I had to deal with the likes of Nicholas, Christa or worse. I had almost made it – I could see Ali was just a few feet away from me, standing next to the bar – when disaster struck. Paul Fitzgerald, the odious hedge fund manager who had tried his best to humiliate me the night of the office party, lurched into my path.
    ‘Hello there, love,’ he said, breathing whisky at me.He was swaying a little; he must have started the party early, just for a change. ‘Dan not with you today?’ Dan had come to my defence the last time I encountered this slug. Today there was no one to help.
    ‘No, he’s not with me,’ I said, desperately trying to make my way past him.
    ‘Oh, no, that’s right, he’s here with Tania, isn’t he? Fantastic legs that Tania, they go all the way up. Must be difficult, splitting up, you know, with the two of you working together …’ He laughed a nasty, snorting laugh. ‘I do keep putting my foot in it, don’t I? You don’t work with him any more, do you? Where are you working these days?’
    Abandoning any attempt to be polite I barged past Paul, shoving him into the gaggle of guests standing just behind him. Once again, there was much tutting and sighing. I finally arrived at the bar, grabbed a glass of champagne from the waiter and almost fell into Ali’s arms.
    ‘Oh, my God, I’m having a terrible day,’ I moaned.
    ‘There’s a lot of it about,’ she replied without looking at me.
    ‘Why, what’s up?’
    ‘Oh, nothing much, just … stuff.’ She was gazing into the crowd of guests, searching the room for someone. I noticed that the drink in her glass was clear and still, rather than champagne coloured and bubbly.
    ‘You on the wagon?’ I asked.
    ‘I don’t have to get completely pissed