Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista by Amy Silver Page B

so anything in those fields, I guess. Or, come to think of it, I could do something in events organising. I reckon I’d probably be quite good at that. Perhaps I could try out for the X Factor … ’
    Jude fidgeted more frantically. ‘OK, lots of ideas there, but I think you probably need to shorten the list a bit … And will you stop looking at your phone all the time, Cassie? You need to focus.’
    All of a sudden, tears sprang to my eyes. ‘I lost my job this afternoon, Jude – I really don’t think it’s the end of the world if I haven’t found full employment within five hours of being made redundant, is it? I can’t think about jobs now, OK? I’m worried about Dan.’
    She sighed heavily and got up to clear the plates.
    ‘Yes, I know,’ I snapped at her, ‘you don’t like him! You’ve told me a million bloody times. I get it, youdon’t like Dan. But I do, and he’s going through something, and I’m worried about him and about us …’ I grabbed a Kleenex and blew my nose. Jude sat down next to me and wrapped her arm around my shoulder and made soothing noises.
    ‘It’ll be OK, Cass. He’ll be OK. How about we go to the Rose & Crown and have a drink? I’m buying.’
    I perked up a little. Jude almost never offers to get the drinks in.
    I awoke the following day with a raging hangover. It turns out that one of the barmen in the Rose has a serious crush on Jude and as a result was keen to ply us with free drinks all night. For a second when I woke, all, with the exception of my aching head, was well with the world. For just a moment I forgot that I was unemployed. I even had a split second of panic when I looked at my alarm clock and realised it was almost eleven – I was late for work! Except that I wasn’t. No work to be late for. I checked my phone (no missed calls), rolled over and went back to sleep.
    At about half twelve, my phone buzzed. Private number calling .
    ‘Hello?’ I croaked.
    ‘Cass, it’s me.’ Ali, calling from work. ‘Are you OK?’
    ‘Yeah, fine. Pissed off. Hungover. How are things there? Nicholas had a nervous breakdown yet?’
    There was a long, ominous pause.
    ‘Shit, are you OK, Al? They’re not getting rid of you too, are they?’
    ‘Not me, but they’ve already called in six or seven guys this morning. Dan was one of them. I’m sorry, Cass. Seems like that big trading loss on Friday just came at the worst possible time.’
    ‘Oh, my God! Where is he? Is he still there? Can you put me through?’
    ‘No, he and Mick Knight – he’s also got the sack – left as soon as they were told, about an hour ago. They’re probably in the Beluga. I just thought I ought to let you know. He looked pretty awful when he came out.’
    I couldn’t believe he hadn’t called me. I hauled myself out of bed and into the shower, made a strong pot of coffee and called Dan’s mobile. No answer. Scrolling down through my contacts, I found Mick’s number. I knew it wasn’t a great idea to try to trace one’s boyfriend through his mates (particularly through his recently sacked mates), but it felt as though Dan hadn’t been answering my calls for days. I was starting to wonder whether there was something up with his phone. On the third ring, Mick answered.
    ‘Oh, hi Cassie. No, he’s not here, he came for one, then he buggered off. Not really in the mood for a session, I think.’
    We shared condolences and I hung up.
    Turning up at one’s boyfriend’s flat unannounced is probably an even worse idea than ringing around his mates to track him down, but I was determined to see Dan. I knew that if I could just get to talk to him he’dfeel better. I could spoil him for a day or two and, after a suitable mourning period, we could figure out what he could do next. Dressed in skinny jeans, the Chloé boots I’d got on sale last spring and a little fake-fur coat over the halter-neck top he likes me in, I hopped on the tube and made my way to Farringdon and up to Rosebery