Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista

another favour.’
    ‘Anything.’
    ‘Would you come to the doctor with me tomorrow? It’s the scan.’
    I met Ali outside the Royal Free Hospital the following morning. I held her hair back for her while she threw up into a bin in the car park. That done, we went in for the appointment, which was over in no time at all. The technician smeared gel on her tummy, and then pointed to a blob on the screen which she claimed was the baby.
    ‘There,’ she said, ‘you can make out the head … and oh, there’s the arm.’ I was amazed to see that tears were running down Ali’s face. It must be the hormones, I thought. She’s never usually this sappy.
    ‘Can you see it, Cass?’ she asked.
    ‘Yes … it’s lovely,’ I lied, peering at the monitor trying desperately to make out what it was I wassupposed to be looking at. Afterwards we ordered prints (one for her, one for me) and then went for a cup of tea in a café down the road. Ali gazed lovingly at the picture.
    ‘It’s like an alien,’ she said with a smile.
    ‘Mmm,’ I murmured, still not quite sure I was actually looking at the right blob. ‘A parasitic, puke-inducing alien. Adorable.’
    ‘No going back now,’ she said, squeezing my hand. ‘God, I’m going to have to tell them at work soon. That’s not something I’m looking forward to. Nicholas is not going to be impressed.’
    ‘You never know,’ I said. ‘After all, he’s a father. And sometimes I think he’s not as bad as he likes to make out.’
    She looked at me quizzically, sipping her tea. ‘You’re defending Nicholas? Have you been drinking?’
    I told her about the party, about how Nicholas had given me a contact for a possible job.
    ‘And?’
    ‘And I haven’t rung them yet.’
    ‘Cassie!’
    ‘Well, I feel a bit weird cold-calling people asking for jobs. Particularly as Nicholas was quite pissed when he gave me this guy’s card. He probably forgot all about it, so I’ll just be ringing this guy up out of the blue.’
    ‘Doesn’t matter, you can’t ignore opportunities like this,’ Ali said, waving at the waitress to bring overanother muffin. ‘Even if Nicholas didn’t tell him about you, it doesn’t matter. You can sweet talk him into giving you an interview. You could charm snakes when you’re in the mood, Cassie.’
    Back at home I decided to bite the bullet. I fished the business card out of my purse and dialled the number.
    ‘Yes?’ a man’s voice snapped at the other end of the line. For a millisecond I toyed with the idea of putting the phone down.
    ‘Is that Rupert Forsythe?’ I asked nervously.
    ‘Speaking.’
    ‘My name is Cassie Cavanagh,’ I started out. ‘I was given your number—’
    ‘Cassie!’ he boomed at me. ‘Nick said you were going to ring. How are you today?’
    ‘I’m … uh … very well, thank you …’
    ‘When can you come in and see us?’ he asked.
    ‘Whenever is convenient for you,’ I replied.
    ‘Why don’t you meet me tomorrow morning at Tapas Brindisa? Do you know it? Spanish place in Borough Market. Just round the corner from our offices. See you there at ten?’
    I never thought I’d hear myself say it, but thank God for Nicholas Hawksworth.
    The following day I turned up at Brindisa clad in jeans and a dark green Paul & Joe coat (two seasons old but still fabulous). I realised that I had no idea what Rupert Forsythe looked like. I hovered in the doorway, slightly panicked, realising that I had left hiscard at home and would not be able to ring him on his mobile. Damn. The café was busy, packed with what looked like a mixture of market traders getting a quick caffeine fix and creative types taking their sweet time over their lattes. Did any of them look like a Rupert Forsythe? I was just about to call home in the hopes of catching Jude before she left and getting her to search for the number when a very tanned forty-something man approached me, holding out his hand.
    ‘Cassie?’ he ventured. Thank God.
    He ushered me to a table at the back of the café where he was sitting with a younger, equally tanned man who turned out to be his brother and business partner, Oliver (‘Call me Olly’). They were posh, jovial and somewhat excitable – like a pair of pedigree Labrador puppies.
    ‘We’re terribly excited about the new venture,’ Rupert said, shifting around in his seat and spilling coffee onto his trousers. ‘Difficult market to start things going, but we think we’ve nailed the business model.’