Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista

to be collected by eight in the morning. It was now eight thirty. It was the same story with the first three firms. The fourth said they could do it provided that I had the package ready for collection by nine thirty. Hurrah. I rang Olly. His phone went straight to voicemail. Shit. I left a message.
    ‘Olly, you need to ring me back as soon as you get this. It is very urgent.’
    I rang again five minutes later, and again five minutes after that. He called back at eight fifty. They were just on their way to the sports day at his son’s school in Wimbledon. If I took a cab I could get there in twenty minutes. I rang the courier company again. Could they pick up from the school at nine thirty? Yes, they could. Fantastic.
    I hurtled down the stairs, out of the door and up the road to London Bridge station, where you are guaranteed to find a black cab at any time of night or day. There was a queue of around ten people outside the station. Bugger it. I wondered whether I should take my chances on the high street? I decided against it. The queue was moving fairly quickly. It was just after nine when I got into the cab. I could still make it. I would still make it.
    The traffic in central London was pretty awful, but once we got past Clapham and out onto the A24 we were picking up pace. It was nine fifteen. It was going to be close.
    ‘You in a hurry, love?’ the cabby asked me. He’d obviously seen me looking at my watch every thirty seconds.
    ‘Yes, I really need to get some papers to my boss by nine thirty.’
    ‘We should make it, provided the traffic’s like this all the way.’ That remark was the kiss of death. Moments after he’d said it, the cars in front of us started to slow. Their speed dropped and dropped and eventually we came to a halt. ‘Famous last words,’ the cabby said cheerfully. Oh, fuck. I wasn’t going to make it.
    I got to the school at nine forty. Olly was waiting for me in the car park. I asked the taxi driver to wait and sprinted across to him. He was shaking his head.
    ‘Too late, Cassie. The courier just left.’
    ‘You’re joking.’
    ‘I’m not, I’m afraid. I tried to persuade him to wait, but he said nine thirty is the absolute latest they can accept packages for same-day delivery.’
    ‘Oh, Jesus. Rupert’s going to kill me.’
    ‘He is,’ Olly agreed. I sat down on the pavement, my head in my hands. This was a disaster. What the hell was I going to do? ‘We’ll have to let him know. Do you want me to ring him? I can tell him that it wasn’t your fault.’ Of course it wasn’t my bloody fault , I thought. He’s the one who left the bloody contract on the bloody train . But somehow I knew that, when it came down to it, I would be the one to carry the can. There was only one thing for it.
    ‘Don’t ring him,’ I said to Olly, getting to my feet. ‘Sign the contract.’
    ‘Cassie, there’s no way you can get it to him today.’
    ‘Yes, there is. I can take them to him myself.’
    In the taxi on the way back to my flat I rang Air France. There were no direct flights from London to Bordeaux until that evening, but I could get a seat on the twelve o’clock flight from Gatwick which got into Paris at one thirty. From Paris to St Emilion it was about three hundred and seventy miles, so if I hired a car at the airport and put my foot down on the motorway I could be in St Emilion by seven. Although unless I could make it to the airport by ten forty-five, all this was moot.
    I left the taxi driver waiting downstairs while I ran up to the flat to grab my passport and a change of clothes – I couldn’t get a flight back until Saturday morning unless I was prepared to pay an extortionatefare. I left a hastily scrawled note for Jude, saying, Gone to France. Back soon . Then I ran back downstairs, tripped on the second to last step and fell flat on my face, hauled myself up again and flung myself into the back of the cab.
    ‘Gatwick,’ I gasped. ‘Quick as you can.’
    From the taxi I phoned Avis and arranged the car hire. The moment I’d hung up, Rupert rang.
    ‘Is everything sorted, Cassie? Is the contract on its way? What time can I expect it?’
    ‘It’ll be delivered to your hotel by seven,’ I said.
    ‘You sure about that? The company’s guaranteed that, have they?’
    ‘Sorry? I can’t really hear you, Rupert,’ I lied. ‘You’re breaking up.’ I hung up. Oh, God, please let me get to that hotel by seven.
    I made it to the check-in desk at five