Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista

might just find myself out of work yet again if things carried on as they had been recently.
    The problem was a gentleman by the name of Alexandre Leveque, the owner of Chateau Saint Martin near St Emilion in Bordeaux. Rupert had sampled his wines when on a tour of the region and had become obsessed with doing a deal with Monsieur Leveque. Unfortunately, M. Leveque was not an easy man to do business with. For starters, he despised les Anglais . He was not a fan of Anglo-Saxon corporate culture and he was deeply suspicious of Internet-based businesses. In short, he wanted nothing to do with us.
    Peter had been dispatched to France to try to sweet-talk Leveque into doing a deal with us and had returned, chastened.
    ‘Never going to happen, Rupe. The man’s a nutter. He blames the English and the Americans for the demise of the great viticulteurs français . Apparently the crisis in French wine production is all our fault because we buy cheap stuff from the New World. And of course because we’ve dared to start producing wine in England, too, which is of course complete sacrilege.’
    Rupert refused to accept this. He was determined to get his hands on Leveque’s wines and as a result of his obsession, and of Leveque’s continued refusal to do business with us, Rupert had become increasingly difficult to please. Because the others were out of the office so much of the time, Melanie and I generally bore the brunt of Rupert’s frustration.
    After months of feeling that I was a valuable cog in the office machine, I was suddenly made to feel as though everything I did was wrong. It was a bit like working for Nicholas again. The research report I’d written for him on Corsican wines was ‘insubstantial’. The delivery company had messed up three orders in two weeks – why had I not got him quotes from new companies? Surely I should have guessed that he would want to look at new delivery firms? My job was to anticipate his needs, not simply to respond to them. And on the subject of anticipating needs, where the hell was his cappuccino?
    It was an immense relief to everyone when, at long last, Alexandre Leveque agreed to meet with Rupert. The terms of a deal were agreed, but Leveque refused to sign anything until he’d met Rupert in person: hewas to travel out to France that Thursday, taking with him the contract which Leveque would then sign, provided Rupert met with his approval.
    On Thursday morning, I skipped into work, anticipating my first relaxing work day in weeks. Rupert would be hysterical about the meeting, but at least he would be hysterical somewhere else. Peter and Fabio were both away on trips and Olly was attending his youngest child’s school sports day, so it would be just Melanie, Aidan and me in the office. As it turned out, it was just Aidan and me. Mel called in sick. We were just deciding whether we could afford to nip out to the market for a couple of bacon sarnies when the phone rang.
    ‘Cassie?’ It was Rupert. He sounded panicky. ‘We have a problem.’
    ‘What’s up?’ I asked. ‘You haven’t forgotten your passport, have you?’
    ‘Worse. I’ve lost the contract.’
    ‘You’ve what? What do you mean, you’ve lost the contract?’
    ‘I had to change trains in Paris and I must have left it behind.’
    ‘OK, well, don’t panic. I can fax a new copy over to you. Leveque must have a fax machine at his place.’
    ‘Cassie, you don’t seem to understand!’ His voice rose a couple of octaves. ‘This is going to be an incredibly delicate negotiation. I cannot turn up there without the contract. I’ll look like a bloody idiot.’ Well, you are a bloody idiot , I thought. Who leaves the contractwith an important business partner on the train? ‘In any case, Olly had already put his signature on the contract – a faxed signature is no good. It has to be the original.’
    ‘Right. Don’t panic. I’ll print out a new contract, take it to Olly – where’s his son’s school, by the way?’
    ‘No idea.’ God, he was useless.
    ‘All right, I’ll find it. I’ll get him to sign and I’ll courier the contract out to you.’
    ‘It’ll have to be at Leveque’s place by eight this evening. We’re having dinner.’
    ‘I’m sure it’s doable,’ I said, sounding a good deal more confident than I felt.
    While the new contract was printing, I called around a few courier companies. The news was not good. If you wanted a package delivered to France by that evening, it needed