Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista

the bluntness of her announcement caught me so by surprise. This entire time I had imagined that there was either something up with the Frenchman orsomething up at work. Never for a moment did I think . . . And at that moment I cast my mind back to the wedding, to the way she reacted when I asked her why she wasn’t drinking. God, I could be stupid sometimes.
    ‘I take it this is the Frenchman’s?’ I asked, handing her a Kleenex.
    She blew her nose loudly, nodding at the same time.
    ‘He’s been a total shit about everything. Doesn’t want to know about it and doesn’t want anything to do with me any more. He’s gone scampering back to wifey, his tail between his legs. God, it’s such a fucking cliché! Do you know what the first thing he asked me was?’ I shook my head. ‘“Are you sure it’s mine?”’
    ‘Jesus, what’s the French for wanker?’ I asked.
    ‘I know! And the thing is, it is his. I know it is. There hasn’t been anyone else for ages . . .’ she tailed off. ‘I didn’t tell anyone about it, but I’d been sleeping with him on and off for most of last year.’
    ‘Ali! I can’t believe you didn’t tell me . . .’
    ‘I know. It was just – I knew that the whole thing was stupid – he was married and everything, so it was never going to go anywhere. But I wanted it to. I liked him, Cass. I really liked him.’
    ‘And now? Do you love him? Are you in love with him?’
    ‘I was,’ she said sadly. ‘At least I thought I was. Funny how quickly you can go from being madly in love with someone to planning what track’s going to be playing when you dance on their grave.’ She putdown her cup of tea and lit a cigarette. ‘Help yourself to a real drink, by the way. Just because I’m on the wagon doesn’t mean you have to be.’
    ‘Ali . . .’ I said nervously. ‘You’re not drinking but you are smoking? What does this mean? What are you planning to do?’
    ‘I’m not smoking a lot,’ she said guiltily, stubbing it out in the ashtray in front of her.
    ‘So . . . you’re going to have the baby?’ I was astounded. I do love Ali, I love her to bits, but she’s about the least maternal person I know.
    ‘I think so,’ she said softly, without looking at me. I gave her a hug.
    We talked for hours, me knocking back Chianti, her drinking endless cups of tea. I told her she ought to switch to herbal. She told me to fuck off. I suggested she at least stop smoking; she said she was down to just five a day, and was planning weaning herself off them over the next few weeks. I looked sceptical.
    ‘I will, Jesus, I promise. God, it’s not like I’m not prepared for my sacrifices. This will be the end of my career, you know. I’ll be mummy-tracked. If this were a good market I might be shoved into corporate finance. But today? I’ll be incredibly lucky to keep my job. If I were a bookie I’d be giving odds of around twelve to one against.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Still, I tell you what. If I am on my way out I’m going to use the remaining weeks and months I have at work to lose Jean-Luc all the money I’ve made him over the past year.’
    Later on, with the help of a little Dutch courage, I asked her why she’d decided to keep it.
    ‘Why, when you know it’s going to be the end of your career, when the father doesn’t want to know, when you’re only twenty-seven . . . Why are you going to have the baby? Not that I think it’s a bad thing, I don’t,’ I added hastily. ‘I’m just . . . surprised, that’s all. You’ve never talked about wanting kids.’
    ‘Never thought I wanted them,’ she replied. ‘I mean, not even five or six years down the line, even if I were married and settled – which is, let’s face it, unlikely – even then, I didn’t picture myself with kids. And I have no problem with abortion. I can’t really explain it. It’s just that now that he or she is here, I don’t want him or her to not be here. Does that make sense?’
    After that much wine, combined with some seriously strong painkillers, not a lot made sense. I certainly didn’t. Unable to persuade me to go to bed in the spare room, Ali laid me down on the sofa and covered me with a blanket before disappearing off to bed.
    The next morning she woke me with coffee. Groggily accepting the mug, I pulled myself upright. My upper thigh hurt like hell. My head was almost as bad.
    ‘Christ, Ali,’ I groaned. ‘What time is it?’
    ‘Just after nine.’ Maybe it was just