Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista

could. One theory holds that it’s all the fault of Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher.’
    They looked at me curiously.
    ‘Well, they were the ones who pushed for a massive expansion of home ownership in the UK and the States – mortgage companies were under a lot of pressure to extend lending, and they began to start lending to people who couldn’t necessarily afford to repay the loans. You can argue that all the trouble started with the mortgage market.’
    Even as I was saying this I was surprising myself. I really had been paying attention to the newspapers lately. Even so I clearly wasn’t half as surprised as Nicholas, who was regarding me, open-mouthed, but definitely with greater respect than he had done before.
    ‘Well said, Cassie,’ Bill said. ‘It’s very easy to oversimplify these things, isn’t it?’
    By ten o’clock the party was winding down and I decided to make my exit while things were still going well. I kissed Gabriella and Bill goodbye, thanking them for a lovely evening, and had almost made it out the front door when I felt a hand on my shoulder.
    ‘Not so fast, young lady,’ Nicholas slurred at me, a lascivious grin on his face.
    Oh, Christ, I thought, he isn’t going to make a pass, is he?
    Fortunately, he was not.
    ‘Friend of mine just started up a wine business,’ hesaid, thrusting a card into my hand. ‘He’s looking for someone to answer the phones, do the office admin, that sort of thing. Pay wouldn’t be top-notch, but you never know. Give him a call. Might be fun. Keep you in high heels, or whatever.’ Some things never change.

16
     
    Cassie Cavanagh is making a comeback
    I rang Milena on Monday morning.
    ‘Of course I remember you,’ she said when I introduced myself. ‘And what perfect timing you have! Tom, our office manager, has just phoned me up telling me he has food poisoning – I think that is English code for hangover, no? – and I desperately need someone to come in and answer the phones for me. Could you come?’
    ‘Right now?’
    ‘Right now.’
    By eleven o’clock I was sitting behind a desk in the rather chaotic offices of Appetite, Milena’s catering company, feeling completely overdressed. The pain of the jumper-wearing incident at Simmons & Blaythe still fresh in my mind, that morning I’d put on my sharpest suit. How was I to know that here in unfashionable Southwark, separated from the City only by the River Thames but feeling worlds apart,jeans and trainers seemed to be the accepted uniform? But if I felt self-conscious at first, I didn’t have a lot of time to think about it. The day sped by, a blur of orders were taken, invoices issued, payments made to suppliers and coffee fetched for superiors. It was seven o’clock by the time I left the office and I realised that that was the first time all day I had looked at my watch.
    ‘We may need you again tomorrow,’ Milena said to me, ‘depends how much Tom had to drink over the weekend. Would you be free again?’
    I worked for Milena for three days. The money I earned, combined with the latest dog walking dues and the money I’d got from the few days’ temping at Simmons & Blaythe meant that I could just about cover the month’s rent, though there was precious little left over. Looked like my family and friends would be getting home-made Christmas presents this year. I was sure that Less is More! would have plenty of handy hints. Baked Christmas tree decorations, anyone?
    ‘What would you think if I gave you a jar of homemade marmalade for Christmas?’ I asked Ali when she rang me that evening.
    ‘I’d probably throw it at you,’ she replied. ‘Mind you, you could buy me a Prada handbag right now and it wouldn’t cheer me up.’
    ‘You not feeling so good?’
    ‘I feel horrible. Allegedly the morning sickness, which ought to be called all-day-every-day sickness, is supposed to go away around now, but it’s notshowing any signs of letting up. I spend more time in the loos puking than I do at my desk these days. People are starting to talk.’
    ‘You haven’t let on yet?’
    ‘No, I think they just think I’ve developed a drug habit. Can’t be bulimia, obviously, given how fat I am.’
    ‘Is there anything I can do? Maybe we could get together over the weekend, watch DVDs, stuff our faces with pickles and ice cream or whatever it is you pregnant ladies crave? I can get fat with you.’
    ‘That sounds like a plan, Cass. But I was actually going to ask you