Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista (16 page)

‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel my membership.’

‘What’s the membership number?’

I gave it to him, steeling myself for the inevitable barrage of questions and attempts at persuasion.

‘Ms Cavanagh?’ he asked.

‘Yes, that’s me.’

‘That’s fine then, from next month your membership is terminated.’ He hung up. Just like that! Just like that – it was like telling someone you wanted to end a relationship only for them to say, ‘Fine, great. I never liked you that much anyway.’

I was still smarting from this rejection when I heard a loud and ominous rattling sound coming from the washing machine. There was a horrible grinding noise and a flashing red light appeared on the display. This did not look good. The grinding continued for a bit and then stopped. The light continued to flash. The machine fell silent. Oh, shit.

At the bottom of the bookshelf in the living room I found a copy of the Yellow Pages. It was from 1998. Why did we have an eleven-year-old Yellow Pages in our flat when we’d only lived here for a year? I found a local washing machine repair service on the Internet. Yes, they could come round, the call-out fee was £75 and they would then charge a further £66 an hour for labour (plus VAT). Parts would be extra. I rang another firm. No, they didn’t have a call-out fee, no, they couldn’t come round today. There was an opening on Thursday. But we have no sheets, no towels! Sorry, Thursday was the earliest they could do.

My problem, I reasoned, is that I always try and
spend my way out of trouble. That’s what everyone keeps telling me. Whatever happens, I throw money at the problem. How about this time I try to sort things out myself, using just my own skill and ingenuity? After turning the house upside down looking for the washing machine manual, I eventually Googled the make and found it online. I clicked on the trouble-shooting section. Various problems were listed: the washing machine will not switch on, the wash cycle does not start, the washing machine leaks. Nowhere did it say: the washing machine starts, the wash cycle starts, the washing machine makes a weird grinding noise, a red flashing light comes on. It did say that if the orange indicator light (perhaps they were colour blind) started to flash rapidly I should try switching the machine off, unplugging it, waiting for a minute and then turning it back on again. They always say that though, don’t they? Have you tried turning it off and then back on again?

It was worth a try. I marched back into the kitchen but didn’t get as far as the machine: I skidded on a rapidly expanding pool of water accumulating on the tiles, slipped over and smacked my head on the counter.

This just wasn’t funny any more.

I looked up the symptoms of concussion on the Internet: headaches (not yet), dizziness (no), nausea (not at the moment), vision disturbance (no), memory loss (no), irritability (yes), anxiety (yes), low mood (yes). Three out of eight, but my irritability, anxiety
and low mood could possibly be explained by other factors. I decided I would live.

Back to the issue of the my non-functioning washing machine and the kitchen flood, which was about to become a living room flood. I needed to mop up the water. I needed towels. All the towels were in the washing machine. Crap. I dashed into Jude’s room and grabbed an armful of the sarongs she has collected from her travels to Thailand and Vietnam and East Africa. I managed to form them into a sort of dam on the border between our open-plan kitchen and living room. It wouldn’t hold for long. I needed to switch off the water. Where is the tap to turn the water off? Is it under the sink? I looked under the sink. Nope. The landlord would know. I scrolled through my phone, looking for the landlord’s number. Why don’t I have the landlord’s number? Because Jude always deals with him. The dam is about to break. Crap, crap, crap. I would have to call Jude. First, I ran back to her room and grabbed the remaining sarongs to shore up the barrier. She was not going to be happy.

With mounting trepidation, I rang her number.

‘Hi, Cassie,’ she said curtly. We had barely spoken since the row over the dress for the wedding and despite my capitulation she was still pissed off with me.

‘Jude, I’ve got a bit of a problem. I need to call the landlord. Do you have his number?’

‘You can’t pay next month’s rent, can you? Christ, Cassie …’

‘No, it’s not that. It’s not that. It’s the washing machine. It’s not working.’

‘OK, have you called a repair service? Some of them don’t charge a call-out fee.’

‘Yes, I know, but they can’t come until Thursday.’ A trickle of water had made it over the barrier and onto the laminate flooring of the living room. With my phone wedged between my ear and my shoulder, I tried to pull the designer rugs out of harm’s way.

‘Well, Thursday’s OK,’ Jude was saying. ‘We can wait until then, can’t we? You could always go to the launderette if you need to wash stuff before then …’

‘No, you don’t understand! I’ve already started the wash. All our sheets and towels are in there … and the thing is … we need to do something urgently.’

‘Why?’ she asked nervously. ‘What else is wrong?’

‘It’s leaking!’ I wailed. ‘There’s water everywhere and I don’t know what to do!’

‘For God’s sake, Cassie, why didn’t you say that? Turn the water off!’

‘I don’t know how!’

‘There’s a tap next to the boiler, in the airing cupboard. Hurry!’

Crisis averted, I set about the clean-up. I wrung out the sodden sarongs and used them to mop up the rest of the water. They were in a fairly sorry state by the time I was finished, just in time for Jude to come crashing through the front door with Jake in tow. Oh, perfect.

‘You couldn’t have used something of yours, of course,’ she said crossly, surveying the mass of filthy wet rags that her prized sarong collection had been reduced to.

‘I’m sorry, I panicked and your room was closer.’

‘Honestly, Cassie, how can you not know where to turn the bloody water off? You infuriate me sometimes.’ She grabbed the armful of sarongs from me and stomped off to the bathroom to rinse them in clean water. Jake was crouching down in front of the washing machine, looking at the display.

‘Lots of people don’t know where the water in the house turns off,’ he said, shifting the machine slightly so that he could take a look around the back. ‘So what happened? Did it just stop midway?’

‘It made a kind of grinding noise and then it stopped. And then there was water everywhere.’

‘You didn’t open the door, did you?’

‘Of course I didn’t! I’m not completely stupid.’ He got to his feet and grinned at me.

‘I know you’re not stupid.’ His smile faded and he stepped towards me, reaching out a hand as if to touch my face. More in surprise than anything else I flinched.

‘No, hang on, it’s just … you’re bleeding. You’ve hurt yourself,’ he said. He looked concerned. I told him I’d fallen and hit my head.

‘I don’t think it’s serious,’ I said.

‘Let me take a look.’ He pushed my hair back away from my face, leaning in to inspect the injury. He was standing very close to me. He smelt clean, like soap
and water. Or perhaps that was just the laundry detergent. I could hear my heart thudding in my chest. Very gently, he slipped his hand under my chin and lifted my face to look at him.

‘I think you’ll pull through.’ I had to admit he has a very sexy smile. Infuriatingly, I could feel myself blushing. I looked away. ‘You should clean it up, though. Put some antiseptic on it,’ he said.

‘On what?’ Jude asked, reappearing in the doorway, eyeing us suspiciously.

‘Cassie slipped on the water, she fell and cut her head,’ Jake said. I liked the way my name sounded when he said it.

‘Oh, Cass,’ Jude said, her brow furrowing with concern. ‘I’m so sorry. Are you all right? I’m so sorry I yelled at you, you poor thing.’ Jude can switch from strict schoolmarm to concerned parent in an instant. Taking my hand, she escorted me to the bathroom to clean up my cut. As she dabbed Savlon on my head, I noticed a small smile playing on her lips.

‘What are you smiling at?’ I asked. ‘You think it’s Karma, don’t you, me cracking my skull open on the kitchen counter?’

‘No,’ she laughed, ‘of course not. I was just wondering if I interrupted something, back then, in the kitchen? Between you and Jake?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said, but I felt my stomach flip excitedly at the thought.

By the time we got back to the kitchen, Jake was on his knees on the floor, fiddling with something at the
back of the washing machine. Apparently, the drum had not been unlocked correctly, which had caused the machine to vibrate excessively (or something) and because of the movement, the water inlet hose had become loose, allowing the machine to leak. It wouldn’t take him long to fix it.

‘That’s really sweet of you, Jake,’ Jude said, edging towards the front door. ‘Is it OK if I leave you here? It’s just I’ve got to be getting back to college.’ She flashed me a wicked grin.

I made small talk while he fidgeted around at the back of the washing machine.

‘So, you’re doing cultural studies, are you?’

‘Digital media,’ he corrected me.

‘Oh,’ I said, trying to think of something intelligent to say, which was tricky since I didn’t really know what the study of ‘digital media’ entailed.

‘The course challenges technological determinism and over-optimistic visions of the technological future,’ he said, deadpanning. I gulped. He started to laugh. ‘It’s all bollocks really. I’m just interested in photography and film and I like gadgets, so I thought it might be fun.’ He got to his feet and slapped his hands together. ‘There you go. That should work now.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You’re a life saver. Can I offer you a cup of tea?’

‘I’d better be off, actually,’ he said.

‘OK then. Well, thanks again for helping.’ I tried to
sound as breezy as possible. I didn’t want to show that I was a little disappointed.

‘Any time,’ he said, putting on his coat. ‘If you ever have a plumbing emergency, I am at your service.’ I opened the front door for him to go. He just stood there, looking at me.

‘What?’ I asked. ‘Changed your mind about the tea?’

‘Do you like films?’ he asked.

‘Everyone likes films, don’t they?’

‘Yeah, OK. How about French films? It’s just there’s a thing on at the Ritzy, called
Entre les Murs
. It’s supposed to be very good. I wondered if you fancied going one night?’

‘Sounds lovely,’ I said. A bit cultural for a first date, but I suppose it would give us something to talk about afterwards in case conversation dried up.

‘Good. I’ll call you, then.’

Yes, yes, yes!

That evening Jude came back from college laden with gifts: a Thai curry, a bottle of wine and a book called
Less is More! How to be Happy Without Spending Money
.

‘What have I done to deserve all this?’ I asked, delighted (with the takeout and the booze, in any case).

‘I just thought you needed spoiling,’ she said. ‘I am sorry that you hurt yourself this morning …’

‘Jude, it’s nothing …’

‘No, but it could have been much worse. And I’ve
been hard on you lately. I know. I think I’m just stressed with college stuff and missing Matt …’

For the second time in as many days I realised how selfish I could be. Just because Jude doesn’t make a fuss about it doesn’t mean that it isn’t hard for her to spend nine months of the year away from the man she loves.

The two of us flicked through the book over dinner. It was written by someone called Araminta Foster who was clearly much too posh ever to have done a day’s work, or indeed to worry about money, throughout her entire life. Most of it was ridiculous, a lot of guff about making jam and sewing skirts with elasticated waistbands. There were some useful things, though. The addresses of websites with cheap, organic beauty products, for example, or companies like ArmCandy that let you hire a statement handbag instead of buying one. Araminta also suggested clothes swapping parties.

‘I love that idea,’ I said to Jude. ‘I was thinking I should have people round more, you know, entertain at home instead of going out, and I desperately need to revamp my wardrobe.’ Jude rolled her eyes. As far as she’s concerned I am the lovechild of Carrie Bradshaw and Imelda Marcos.

‘No, I do, I really do. I need job interview outfits, something to wear for my date with Jake …’

‘Oh, my God, he asked you out!’ she shrieked excitedly, almost choking on her Pad Thai. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!’

‘Well, I’m telling you now. We’re going to the cinema sometime next week.’

‘Then we’ll have to do the clothes swap party this weekend.’

Cassie Cavanagh
will never be a sushi chef

When I signed up for those market research groups a few weeks back, I’d hoped that I would never actually have to attend them. But desperate times call for desperate measures. With time and money running out fast, I had no choice but to turn up at the nondescript building in Borough where, apparently, teams of marketers attempt to find out why we buy the mayonnaise we do in the quantities that we buy it.