Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista

stress a little further, I’d invited Jake along. It was a little early in our relationship for meet-the-family, but since my drunken appearance at his flat things had been going so well between us. We’d barely spent a night apart. Plus, to be perfectly honest, I wanted to show him off.
    I consulted Less is More! for ideas on cheap dinner parties. There was a long section on ‘freegans’, people who scavenge for food in supermarket dustbins. Tempting as it might be to serve my sister something I’d found in a dumpster, I discounted the idea on the grounds that I’d rather die than be caught fishing things out of bins, and decided instead to go for the low-cost menu option: a wholesome and warming French onion soup followed by slow-cooked lamb.
    The cooking had gone surprisingly well. I had only managed to scald myself twice, which is pretty good going for me, and I had succeeded in manoeuvring the furniture in our living room so that there would be space for six adults to eat, with the kids sitting at the counter. I was showered, spruced up and ready for anything by the time my family arrived.
    Well, almost anything. I kept my cool when Celia launched straight into her diatribe about how horrible London is. I grinned and bore her criticisms of the flat (‘Not very practical for dinner parties, is it? Don’tknow how you cope without a proper dining room’). Somehow I managed. But I started to lose my temper when she expressed exasperation that I had not prepared a separate meal for the kids. ‘French onion soup? For a three-year-old? Honestly, Cassie, you just don’t think , do you?
    Celia was saved from having a drink dumped in her lap by my doorbell. Jake had arrived. And he was perfect. He chatted to my dad about gardening. He (remarkably convincingly) feigned interest in Mike’s golf handicap. He had a lengthy conversation with my mother about the problems facing teachers today. And he charmed Celia, not so much by saying anything to her, but by spending half an hour playing hide-and-seek with Tom and Rosie, and apparently enjoying it.
    Over dinner, my parents announced with great excitement that they were planning a caravanning trip to the Lake District.
    ‘In December?’ I asked.
    ‘No, we’re not going until March,’ Mum said, ‘but we just thought we’d mention it. There’s a lot of preparation goes into these things.’ Despite myself, I cringed. Anyone would have thought they were going trekking in the Himalayas.
    ‘I love the Lake District,’ Jake said. ‘I took some great pictures there last summer.’
    ‘You and Cassie should join us,’ Mum said.
    ‘Not sure caravanning’s really Cassie’s cup of tea,’ my sister chirped up. ‘She’s more the five-star-hotel type, aren’t you, Cass?’
    Everyone laughed, including Jake. I got up to clear away the plates.
    ‘Actually,’ Jake said, ‘I was thinking of going a bit farther afield next year, after my course ends. I did a trip to East Africa a couple of years ago, which I really enjoyed. I’m thinking of West Africa next – Senegal, perhaps, or the Ivory Coast.’
    ‘Not much in the way of five-star hotels there, I shouldn’t imagine,’ Celia said with a sly little smile.
    ‘Oh, I’m sure Cassie’s capable of roughing it,’ Jake replied, as he got up to give me a hand with the dishes. Although Celia was annoying me, it struck me in that moment that she knew me a little better than Jake did. Roughing it, particularly in a tropical country with an abundance of large insects, was not my idea of a great time.
    Later, as my parents pored over the images on Jake’s digital camera, Celia joined me in the kitchen to make coffee.
    ‘Well, Mum and Dad are smitten with him,’ she said.
    ‘That’s good, because I am too.’
    ‘He is very nice. Although I wouldn’t necessarily have put you two together. I mean, he doesn’t really seem like your type? All that talk about dropping everything to run off to dangerous places, I can’t really see you doing anything like that.’
    I slammed the cafetière down on the counter, slightly harder than I’d intended to.
    ‘Celia, I don’t have go everywhere he goes,’ I snapped. ‘There are plenty of couples who don’t doeverything together. We’re not all like you and Mike. Just look at Jude – she and Matt spend months apart, and they’re just fine.’
    Celia retreated, wounded, to the living room. I immediately felt guilty. She did have a point. I also felt a little