Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista

the fact that I’m Dan’s girl friend probably has something to do with it, but it’s also because I’m ‘just a PA’, a person of little consequence and no threat to anyone’s ego.
    Today, egos were taking a pounding all over the place. By mid-afternoon the FTSE 100 had fallen by more than a hundred points and the Dow Jones was down nearly half a per cent. The atmosphere in the trading room was fraught, even more so than usual. A lot of the traders, who like to pride themselves on their poker faces, were starting to look very nervous. By the time the London market closed at four, the FTSE had fallen another hundred points and nervousness had given way to what looked a lot like panic. I caught Ali’s eye just after the market closed; she gave a sad little shake of her head. Not a good day.
    I didn’t get to speak to Dan, although he did wave half-heartedly from the other side of the floor as hewas heading off out the door. I couldn’t tell at that distance whether his expression was similarly gloomy. But he rang me a little while later from the pub.
    ‘How’d you make out?’ I asked, with some trepidation.
    ‘Better than a lot of the guys. Not too bad actually. Turns out my decision to short HBOS was a stroke of genius. You OK? It seemed like Nick was in a foul mood.’
    ‘You have no idea. You going to be there long? Maybe we could go and get some dinner once I get out of here.’
    ‘Cass, I really can’t tonight. It turned into a late one last night and I’m shattered. And I want to be on form for your soirée tomorrow. I’ll make it up to you, promise. This weekend, I’m all yours.’
    Yeah, about that . . . I couldn’t face telling him that our plans to spend the entire weekend in bed, guzzling champagne and strawberries and generally being debauched, were going to have to be put on hold.
    Disappointed that I wasn’t going to see Dan that night, I decided to head home via the DVD place on the high street. I was in the mood for historical romance, preferably involving Rufus Sewell or Orlando Bloom ripping someone’s bodice off. The arrival of Nicholas, brandishing a sheaf of papers, drove such thoughts straight out of my head.
    ‘Do you know who the chief executive of Private Capital Trust is, Cassie?’ he asked me, perching his not inconsiderably sized arse on the edge of my desk.
    ‘No, Nicholas,’ I replied, ‘I can’t say that I do.’
    ‘Well, do you know what he looks like?’
    Of course I bloody don’t, you moron, I’ve just told you I don’t know who he is .
    ‘No, I don’t, I’m afraid.’
    ‘Well, you should. When the guests arrive at the party tomorrow I want you standing at the door, looking fetching in some little black dress or other, greeting everyone by name. If you think you can manage it, you might want to add in some small talk, nothing too inane, but don’t overstretch yourself. Here’s the list. Names and photographs, with some brief biographical details. Some of them will be bringing wives, girlfriends and mistresses. Probably not all three at once. Well, hopefully not, anyway. I don’t have their names and pictures, obviously, so you’ll just have to try and negotiate that minefield as gracefully as possible. OK? Right, well, have a good evening.’
    My heart sank. There were close to two hundred names on the list, the vast majority white, male and somewhere in their forties of fifties. They all looked exactly alike. They all looked like Nicholas.
    Several hours later I passed out on the sofa and dreamed that I was on the judging panel of a bizarre beauty pageant in which all the contestants were overweight, ruddy-faced, middle-aged men. The swimsuit portion of the evening was especially painful. Nicholas came second, and I knew that I’d be in for a hard time the next day at work.

3
     
    Cassie Cavanagh is flushed with success
    I felt sick. I literally thought I was going to throw up all over my new Marc Jacobs dress, which would have been a shame since I paid close to a month’s salary for it. Plus, much as I hated to admit it, Ali had a point about the shoes. For some reason, while I was perfectly capable of dancing around my flat in them, some where on the descent down the highly polished marble stairs from the hotel lobby to the party venue, they had transformed themselves from objects of desire to potentially lethal instruments of torture. I was desperate for a drink to take the edge off but equally terrified that, given that I hadn’t had