Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista (15 page)

‘He dumped her for another girl,’ Celia said helpfully. Why oh why had I told her that?

‘Still. You’ll find someone else. You’re looking well. Bit thin. Are you still going to that gym on the high street?’

‘Yes, I still go.’

‘You’re still going there! I can’t believe it. It was ever so expensive, wasn’t it? How much was it again?’

‘I don’t know. Hundred quid a month, I think.’

‘You don’t know!’ More incredulity, this time from Michael. ‘That’s where you’re going wrong, Cassie. You need to keep on top of these things. You need to write down all your outgoings. Keep tabs on your expenditure. That way you won’t end up living beyond your means.’ Heaven forfend.

‘Do you ever watch that programme, you know the one,
MoneySavers
? It’s on ITV, I think it’s on Wednesdays. You should watch that,’ Celia said. ‘They’ve got loads of good tips. They had a thing on last week about making gifts for your friends instead of buying them – you know, knitting scarves, crocheting a hat. That sort of thing.’

Last year I bought Ali a bracelet from Vivienne Westwood. I could imagine the look on her face if I presented her with a hat I had crocheted myself. Not
wanting to be negative, I said, ‘Oh, yes, I think I might have seen some of that. Jude Sky-Plussed it for me.’

‘Sky Plus!’

Oh, God, why did I mention the Sky Plus?

‘That’s a bit of an extravagance when you don’t have a job, isn’t it?’

‘I just haven’t got round to cancelling it yet …’

Needless to say, that lunch was not ideal preparation for my loan discussion with Dad. I felt sure Celia had done it on purpose – she suspected I might ask for money and so she not very subtly demonstrated to my parents that I was still spending money on luxuries. She’s a sneaky cow. Back at my parents’ house I sat down on the sofa next to Dad, who was watching
From Russia with Love
on ITV for about the millionth time. I rested my head on his shoulder.

‘You all right, Cass?’ he asked. ‘Sorry about that chap. Rotten thing to do.’

‘Mmmm. I’ll be OK. It’s just that everything’s happened all at once, you know. The job, Dan, worries about money …’

‘You want to listen to your sister about that,’ Dad said. God, I hated Celia sometimes. ‘You have to be more careful about what you spend your money on.’

‘I know, I will be more careful. I am being more careful. But it’s still really tough, you know? London’s such an expensive place.’

‘Why don’t you think about moving back up here then? Not back home with us, but back to Kettering. Rent would be much cheaper.’

This conversation was really not going the way I wanted it to.

‘Well, perhaps if I was really struggling. But I’ve made a life for myself in London, now. All my friends are there.’

‘Your family’s here,’ he countered.

Oh, for God’s sake. I’d just have to come right out and ask.

‘Dad, do you think there’s any chance you might be able to lend me a bit of cash? Just to tide me over for a month or two, to help out with the rent, the bills, the essential stuff?’ Probably best not to mention my idea of going to a retreat to get my head sorted. Dad sighed heavily and switched off the TV.

‘Susan,’ he called out to my mother who was in the kitchen making tea. ‘You’d better come in here.’ My mother appeared, carrying a tea tray. ‘Cass has asked us for a loan,’ Dad told her. ‘I thought we should all talk about this together.’

My parents had anticipated the possibility that I might hit them for a bit of cash. They had discussed the matter at length and had decided that it was in my best interest to refuse.

‘I can assure you that it’s not in my best interest,’ I protested. ‘It’s not in my best interest to be thrown out on the street by my landlord, is it?’

‘Cassie, you’re paying for an expensive gym and
using that Sky Plus thingamy. I don’t think we’re quite at the eviction stage yet, are we?’ Dad said. ‘You need to sort this out for yourself. You need to learn to live a bit more frugally. We’re all having to do it. Everyone’s having to tighten their belts. In any case, we don’t have a lot to spare. Not now that we’re building the conservatory.’

‘What conservatory?’

‘Out at the back,’ Mum cut in. ‘Off the kitchen. It’s going to be lovely. A real sun trap.’

‘We might grow tomatoes,’ Dad said. Super. ‘And there’s the camper van …’ he went on.

The what now? ‘The camper van?’

‘Oh, yes, didn’t we tell you? Your mum and I are going in with Cee and Michael, buying a van so that we can go to some new places, you know, Devon and Cornwall, maybe to the Lakes. Been a while since we went anywhere other than Bournemouth.’

My parents, the last of the great explorers.

That night after dinner Dad went off to bed (‘Early start tomorrow’) while Mum and I stayed up talking in the kitchen.

‘He won’t change his mind, will he?’ I asked. ‘About the loan?’

‘He won’t and neither will I. Cassie, you know that you live a bit of an extravagant lifestyle. We understand you enjoy that, and that it’s hard to give it all up, but times are hard and you’re just going to have to prioritise. But I don’t really want to talk about all the
money malarkey – I’m sure you’ve had plenty of tips from Celia. I’m worried about other things. This business with Dan, for example. Are you really all right about that?’

I had the most cathartic cry I’ve had in a long time. Sitting there at the kitchen table with my mum’s arm around my shoulders, I let it all out. How horribly he’d treated me, the way he’d been sneaking around behind my back, how mean everyone was to me at the wedding, how humiliated I had felt. I told her about how strange Ali had been, how unfriendly she was – I was really starting to worry that our friendship was in serious trouble, and I wasn’t sure why. I hadn’t intended to tell her all the gory details but once I started I just couldn’t stop myself. By the time I got to the end of the whole sorry saga I was all cried out.

‘Well,’ my mother said, getting to her feet to put the kettle on yet again. ‘I must say, I’m very glad he didn’t come to your father’s birthday party. You were quite right not to invite him. We wouldn’t have liked him at all. And if you’ve any sense, Cass, you won’t see him again. Sounds to me like you’re very much better off without him. You’re obviously much too good for him.’

‘I am too good for him,’ I agreed. ‘That Tania cow can take all his crap from now on. She can put up with him ogling other woman right in front of her, she can deal with his mood swings and his ego and the Thursday-night trips to Spearmint Rhino.’

‘To where, love?’

‘It’s just … a bar they all go to.’

I felt better already.

‘So, we know you’re better off without him,’ Mum said. ‘That’s one less thing to be upset about. Far more important is this business with Ali. Boyfriends come and go, it’s the girlfriends that count. I know she’s upset you, but you need to talk to her about it – the sooner the better.’

She was right about that, too. Although I had tried to talk to Ali the night before, perhaps she would be more willing to confide in me if I wasn’t so busy moaning about my own problems all the time. I was just going to have to be persistent.

‘The other thing, Cass, is that you need to start focusing on what you want to do with your life,’ Mum said. ‘I won’t ever regret being a full-time mum to you and Celia, but I can tell you that I wish I’d started teaching much earlier on in life. Doing something you actually care about, something that absorbs you, that you can commit to, that’s invaluable. I know you enjoyed the last job – but that was mostly about the perks, wasn’t it?’ She knows me so well. ‘Now you’ve got an opportunity to figure out what you really want. And if that means going back to college or something like that, then we would be prepared to help financially – and in any other way we can. So long as you are absolutely sure that it’s what you want to do …’

‘What about the conservatory and the camper van?’ I asked.

She just smiled at me. ‘We’d work something out.’

So all I had to do was figure out what I wanted to do with my life.

Cassie Cavanagh
wonders what she’s done to deserve this

Weeks to go until the money runs out: One

Weeks to go until my rent is due: Two

They were right. My parents were right. My sister, much as I hate to admit it, was right. I had to change my ways. When I got home, I logged onto my email account to see if I’d had any job offers (I had not) and then onto my bank account to get an update on the state of my finances. Not good. Really, not good. I was drifting into the red, next month’s rent was due in two weeks’ time and I had to make the payment on my credit card, too.

Cutbacks of the severest possible nature were going to have to be made. For as long as I was unemployed, for as long as this blasted recession lasted, I was going to have to stop living like a rich person. I sat down at the kitchen counter with a cup of (instant!) coffee and made a list of the luxuries I was going to have to cut out of my life.

1. Sky Plus – the thought of living without it filled me with horror (I would have to watch adverts again), but I figured it would be a double saving: first on the cost of the service and second because I’d be forced to stay in and watch my TV shows when they’re on instead of going out all the time.

2. The gym – the park would have to do.

3. Massages, manicures and pedicures – home treatments only from now on.

4. Taking my shirts to the dry cleaner’s – I would have to learn to iron.

5. Starbucks, Pret, etc. – must make own coffee, sandwiches, smoothies, etc.

6. Shoreditch House membership – the risk of bumping into Dan/Christa/Emily/the rest of the awful people from Hamilton Churchill was too high for me to be able to enjoy it any more anyway.

7. Champagne – nothing wrong with Prosecco. One bottle a week max.

8. Marks & Spencer’s food – from now on all shopping to be done weekly, on the Internet, from Tesco.

9. Decleor face cream – the stuff from Superdrug is probably just as good.

10. Nights out – must start having people round for dinner instead.

Simple enough? Like hell. The thing you notice when you try to stop spending money is that the people who you usually give money to are extremely reluctant to let you stop giving them money. They
plead and cajole, they coax and flatter, they seem to take everything so personally. It’s rather like breaking up with somebody.

First off, Sky. I rang the customer service helpline and explained that I wished to cancel my subscription. Why did I want to discontinue Sky Plus? the man asked. Was it something they had done wrong? Was I aware of the advantageous features of Sky Plus? Was I aware that if I discontinued the service I would have to pay for a reconnection fee? That’s right, once you’ve left us you can’t just come waltzing back. Was there someone else? Was I being lured away to another provider? What exactly was that provider offering? They doubted very much that the other provider could offer the service that they did. No one could offer me the things that they had, no one would love me like they did. They seriously advised me to reconsider. Please, please stay. Eventually I told them that I had already cancelled the direct debit and hung up.

Next up, the gym. Having spent what seemed like an hour on the phone with the TV people, I decided that I would do my next bout of breaking up in person. The fit, tanned and extremely attractive young man on the reception desk in Holmes Place looked at me, aghast, disbelieving. Obviously, no one had ever broken up with him before. Let’s face it, why would they?

‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘You want to cancel your membership?’

I was sure. His expression changed, from disbelief to
disappointment with just a hint of disapproval. He looked me up and down, his eyes resting just a moment too long on my waist, which he clearly regarded to be insufficiently slender.

‘Are you really sure you don’t want to carry on exercising?’ He didn’t actually call me a fat cow, but he may as well have done. Breaking up with people really does bring out the worst in them. With a histrionic sigh, the receptionist called over a colleague (petite, blonde, lycra-clad) to explain to me in great detail the benefits of regular exercise. Attractive receptionist guy listened attentively, every now and again looking pointedly at her rock-hard abs before returning his gaze to her tits.

Excruciating, humiliating mission accomplished, I staggered home. There were no decent jobs to apply for, so I decided to make myself useful around the flat instead. I stripped the beds, collected towels and stuffed everything into the washing machine. Coming home to freshly laundered linens would put Jude in a good mood.

I rang Shoreditch House with a heavy heart. I had such good memories of the place: sitting by the pool, drinking gin and tonics with Ali on hot July afternoons, dinner by the fireplace on the rooftop with Dan, chaotically drunken ten-pin-bowling sessions with the traders from Hamilton … it was one breakup I really wasn’t looking forward to.