Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista

on?’ I asked. ‘You seemed fine when we spoke the other day. You were talking about getting that ludicrously expensive buggy – you seemed really excited about everything.’
    ‘That was before,’ she sniffed.
    ‘Before what?’
    ‘Before I knew it was a boy!’ she wailed, and burst into tears again.
    I made her a cup of tea and opened the champagne.
    ‘I thought you weren’t going to find out the sex?’
    ‘I changed my mind at the last minute.’
    ‘Boys aren’t that bad.’
    ‘They’re horrible. They’re difficult and badly behaved. They’re interested in tedious things like sports … Oh, Jesus. I’m going to have to take him to football matches, aren’t I?’
    ‘Not necessarily,’ I replied. ‘You never know, he might turn out to be gay.’
    ‘We can but hope.’
    ‘He’ll be lovely, Al. Can you imagine how good-looking he’ll be – tall and gorgeous, just like you, only with a bit of exotic, ne’er-do-well Frenchman thrown in?’
    ‘He is going to be a heartbreaker,’ she admitted. I clinked my glass with her mug.
    ‘He’s going to be amazing.’
    We sat on the sofa in front of the fire, talking names.
    ‘Seth,’ I suggested. ‘Or Nate.’
    ‘Too American.’
    ‘Jean-Marc? Olivier?’
    ‘He’s definitely not having a French name,’ she said. ‘Oh, give us a glass of that, will you? I can’t stand sitting here drinking bloody herbal tea all the time.’ I poured her a small glass of champagne. It was organic, after all. How much harm could it do? ‘He rang today,’ she said.
    ‘Who rang today? The Frenchman?’
    ‘Mmm.’ She was looking away from me, but I could tell she was starting to cry again.
    ‘So that’s what this is all about.’ I put my arm around her shoulders. ‘What did he say?’
    ‘Well, I told the powers that be at Hamilton Churchill that I’m pregnant. I was going to try to keep it quiet for a bit longer, but I was getting tired of all the remarks about me getting fat. Anyway, someone at work obviously told him that I was pregnant. Still pregnant, I mean.’
    ‘You hadn’t told him you were keeping it? I mean, keeping him.’
    ‘No. Why should I? He made it perfectly clear that he wanted nothing to do with me or the baby as soon as I told him about it. I think he just assumed I’d have an abortion, and I never disabused him of the notion.’
    ‘So what did he say?’
    ‘He was furious. He said that he expected to be kept informed about what was happening with his child.’
    ‘What a wanker. What a total wanker. What did you say?’
    ‘I told him to fuck off. The last time we talked about it he didn’t even acknowledge that it was his child, so as far as I’m concerned it has bugger all to do with him.’
    ‘Too right,’ I said, finishing the last of the champagne.
    ‘What do you think of Joe?’ she asked.
    ‘After your dad? I think it’s lovely. Joe Vaughn the second. It’s perfect. Have you told your dad, by the way?’ Ali was an only child, the apple of her father’s eye and his only family now.
    ‘Not yet. I think in some ways he’ll be pleased – he’ll be a such a brilliant granddad – it’s just the part about getting knocked up by a married Frenchman who dumped me the second he found out about the child he’s not going to be turning cartwheels over.’ She sighed and handed me her glass. She’d only had two sips. ‘I’m going to go and see him next weekend.’
    ‘Do you want me to come along, for moral support?’
    ‘That would be brilliant, Cass.’
    I was going to go straight home after I left Ali’s, but somehow, half an hour later, I found myself standingon Jake’s doorstep with a six-pack of cider I’d bought from the off-licence. Not my usual taste, but Jake loves the stuff. The bottle of champagne had put me in an excellent mood and I was utterly convinced he’d be thrilled to see me. I rang the doorbell. There was no answer. I rang again. Still nothing. I rang a third time. Someone yanked the door open violently. A middle-aged, female someone, wearing a dressing gown.
    ‘What on earth is it?’ she demanded.
    ‘Does … Jake live here?’ I asked, slightly confused.
    ‘Who? Do you know what time it is?’ She glared at the six-pack of cider in my hand. ‘Are you drunk?’
    ‘Little bit, actually. I think I may have rung the wrong doorbell. Don’t suppose you know if there’s a Jake in the building, do you?’
    ‘Flat C,’ she replied with a murderous glare, slamming the door in my