Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista

in a couple of weeks. We’re fairly sure we can raise the level of finance we need to keep us in business … oh, at least for the next few months.’ There was some nervous laughter among the group. I didn’t know what to do. Was he joking? The look on Olly’s face didn’t suggest that he was. Oh God, what had I got myself into? Had I just boarded a sinking ship?
    *
    On my second day at Vintage I arrived early, armed with my laptop. I was pleased to find that Aidan was already in the office.
    ‘Morning,’ he called out without looking up at me. I plonked a latte down in front of him. That got his attention.
    ‘You want something, don’t you?’ he asked.
    ‘Well, I was hoping you might be able to get me linked into the rest of the office computers,’ I said, whipping my laptop out of the stripy Paul Smith case Ali gave me for my birthday. ‘At least that way I might be able to make a useful contribution.’
    He grinned at me, raising the latte to his lips. ‘Far as I’m concerned you’ve already made a useful contribution today.’ He took a sip. ‘Of course I can get you networked in. Since you’re here early I can give you a quick tutorial on how everything works.’
    By the time everyone else had arrived in the office, I was installed in the meeting room with a passable knowledge of how the VO ordering system worked. Not that I was to need it that day. Instead, I was dispatched to deliver urgent mail to a number of London addresses – Rupert thought couriers were an unnecessary expense – so I spent most of the day on the underground.
    Days three and four in the office passed in much the same fashion, with everyone else apparently incredibly busy while I carried out menial tasks. I revolutionised the chaotic filing system, first colourcoding different sections (pink for purchasing, green for research, blue for bills), then arranging the documents within those sections chronologically. Then I changed my mind and arranged them alphabetically. I rearranged furniture. I bought a map of the world into which I stuck pins to illustrate the vineyards from which Vintage Organics gets its wines. I tidied up other people’s desks while they were out at lunch.
    It was really starting to get me down. Staring out of the office window I caught sight of a tall blonde girl walking a poodle and felt a sharp pang of regret. I missed them. I actually missed my hounds. I missed Thierry and Theo. After months out of work I had been looking forward to a challenge, something I could get my teeth into, and here I was, feeling more useless and insignificant than I had ever felt at Hamilton Churchill.
    Perhaps it was because my self-esteem was pretty low at this point that I turned up to my first official date feeling ridiculously nervous. I had changed outfits fourteen times (a record, even for me), eventually deciding to go relatively low-key: jeans, heels and the Vivienne Westwood top I’d bought the day Dan dumped me. I was already out the door and halfway down the street when I decided that might be a bad omen. I retuned home and changed for the fifteenth time: different jeans, different heels and a top that had no Dan connotations whatsoever.
    As a result of all the changing, I arrived at the bar onthe top floor of the Tate Modern twenty minutes late. Jake was sitting by the window, an untouched drink in front of him, checking his watch. Oh, crap, he was going to be annoyed about my lateness now. As soon as he saw me, he leapt to his feet, bumping the table and spilling beer everywhere. He then spent ages mopping it up with paper serviettes before eventually giving me a quick peck on the cheek.
    ‘Hi, Cassie,’ he said, not quite meeting my eye. ‘You look nice.’
    ‘Thanks,’ I said. We both stood there awkwardly for a moment.
    ‘I’ll get you a drink,’ he said, bumping into the table yet again as he moved past me towards the bar. I mopped up the beer while he got me a cocktail. So far, so disastrous.
    Desperate to avoid any awkward silences, I launched into a ten-minute diatribe about how disappointing my job was the moment he returned to the table. Jake gulped his beer. I knocked back my cocktail. We ordered a couple more. I realised that I had barely paused for breath since I arrived.
    ‘God, I’m sorry,’ I said eventually. ‘I’m being rubbish company. I promise to stop whingeing about work.’
    ‘And I promise to stop spilling beer all over the place,’ he said. We both laughed. He leaned