Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista (4 page)

Cassie Cavanagh
is flushed with success

I felt sick. I literally thought I was going to throw up all over my new Marc Jacobs dress, which would have been a shame since I paid close to a month’s salary for it. Plus, much as I hated to admit it, Ali had a point about the shoes. For some reason, while I was perfectly capable of dancing around my flat in them, some where on the descent down the highly polished marble stairs from the hotel lobby to the party venue, they had transformed themselves from objects of desire to potentially lethal instruments of torture. I was desperate for a drink to take the edge off but equally terrified that, given that I hadn’t had time to eat so much as a blueberry muffin all day, anything even vaguely alcoholic would increase the chances of me going arse over tit down the stairs.

My anxiety was only increased by the sight of Nicholas barrelling towards me, stuffed uncomfortably
into a tux that looked a size or three too small for him. His face was redder than usual.

‘Where the hell did you find the caterers, Cassie? The food looks . . . bizarre,’ he spat the word at me, ‘and the waitresses look like . . . well . . . like they’re all on smack.’

Actually they looked like models but I imagine that Nicholas’s taste runs closer to glamour model than supermodel.

‘The food does not look bizarre, it looks extraordinary. That’s the whole point,’ I said, realising that in my irritation I was speaking to him in a way that I might live to regret. ‘It’s modern Brit with a twist. Did you really want us to be serving up the same tired chicken satay and smoked salmon blinis that they serve at all of these events?’

‘I like chicken satay,’ he replied gruffly, grabbing a tiny, beautifully crafted foie gras club sandwich from an admittedly anorexic-looking waitress as she slithered past us. He munched on it, glaring at me.

‘Humph,’ he spluttered. ‘Bloody good actually. And you look nice. But I still think the waitresses look like drug addicts.’

That was a compliment! That was two compliments in one sentence. Tempered by one criticism, but still nothing short of miraculous coming from Nicholas. I breathed a sigh of relief. My nerves started to ease. I started to forget about how much my feet hurt. I drank a Kir Royal. Things were looking up.

The venue certainly looked the part, with heavily
subdued, ice-blue lighting, artful arrangements of white orchids on the tables and a huge, faded projection of
Wall Street
playing across the feature wall. I had initially been a little bit nervous about the film idea (was ‘greed is good’ a valid mantra in 2009?), but Nicholas loved it. The dance floor, on the far side of the room, was illuminated orange and screened from the rest of the room by a row of tall, leafy plants. To the left of the room were huge doors opening out to the stone steps which led up to the garden, an elongated rectangle of perfectly manicured lawn, subtly lit with dozens of tall church candles. Hiring the garden as well as the main venue was probably not completely necessary in October, but Ali, a confirmed pack-a-day girl, insisted that without a convenient smoking space there would be mutiny among the guests. Plus it offered a location for discreet canoodling.

And then the guests started to arrive. I had stashed the list of names and photos which Nicholas had so kindly given me just over twenty-four hours to memorise behind the little reception desk at the entrance so that I could glance it at from time to time. Mercifully, there was a surprising number of women and ethnic minorities among the early arrivals, and they of course were a great deal more memorable. Then things got a little more shaky – it’s amazing how similar men of a certain age look when they’re all in black tie, particularly when you’ve never met any of them before and you’re on your third glass of
champagne. Fortunately, none of them seemed in the slightest bit interested in actually speaking to me, so as long as I could get the names right I didn’t have to remember anything else about them, such as where they worked or how many children they had.

But there always has to be one, doesn’t there? Some guy who’s already been to another bar for a sharpener or three and who decides he’s going to make witty conversation with the girl on the door. In this case it was Paul Fitzgerald, an unbearably cocky hedge fund manager from Thornton & Bishop whom I had met before at one of Dan’s parties and who decided he would engage me in a lively debate on the pros and cons of quantitative easing – his plan clearly being to embarrass the dumb brunette on the door in front of his friends and, as luck would have it, in front of her boss, since Nicholas had just shown up at my side and was shifting awkwardly from foot to foot like a child in need of the toilet.

‘So, what did you think about the Chancellor’s announcement today, love?’ he asked, with a sly side ways glance to his friends, who all smirked appreciatively. ‘Is £75 billion enough to counter deflationary and systemic financial risks? Or are you one of those girls who thinks it’s never a good idea to print money?’ He was leaning in close to me, and I could smell the gin on his breath.

I smiled at him as sweetly as I could. Had Nicholas not been standing right there I would have simply told him to get lost, he was so obviously just trying to make
me feel bad. There was a moment of silence which seemed to go on for ever.

And then the best-looking man at the party came through the door, greeted Nicholas with a warm handshake and a smile, kissed me on the mouth and said, ‘You look bloody gorgeous.’ Then, turning to face Paul he muttered, ‘Stop hitting on my girlfriend, you pillock, she’s well out of your league.’

I wanted to kiss him. Again.

As they disappeared off towards the bar, Nicholas took me firmly by the elbow and steered me behind the reception desk.

‘No fuck-ups so far?’ he asked. He seemed to have got quite drunk very fast.

‘No, of course not. It’s all going really well.’

‘We don’t have any journalists at this thing, do we?’

‘No, you told me not to invite any.’

‘Good. Last thing we need is a bunch of bloody hacks here pissing and moaning about squandering investors’ money on champagne. Bunch of bloody freeloaders. If any turn up, just you make sure they aren’t allowed in.’

Great, so now I’m the bouncer?

‘Of course, Nicholas, it’s invitation only.’

‘Good. You look nice,’ he said, again, and stomped back to join the festivities.

Ali arrived late, looking impossibly tall and svelte in a very short black dress and sky-high red heels. If she wasn’t my best friend I would be terrified of her.

‘Meet you in the garden in five for a cigarette,’ she said as she kissed me hello, before heading off to the bar where she was immediately engulfed by a crowd of men. Moments later I’d summoned Christa, one of the other PAs, to take over meet-and-greet duty while I slipped out.

Ten minutes later I was still standing in the garden alone, freezing to death. And I don’t even smoke. I was just about to give up on her when Ali emerged.

‘I see Dan’s up to his old tricks,’ she said, nodding in his direction. He was standing near the bar, laughing at something someone had said, his hand placed on the lower back of the blonde standing next to him. I felt the horrible, jealous twist I get in my gut whenever I see him with someone else, and tried to shake it off.

‘He’s just flirting, it doesn’t mean anything,’ I said crossly. ‘It’s me he’s coming home with.’

‘I’m only joking,’ Ali said, a little half-heartedly. ‘Anyway. What a great party! The place looks amazing. And you look amazing. Well done, honey.’

‘Glad you think so,’ I said, trying to stop my teeth from chattering. ‘Now hurry up and smoke your fag before I freeze to death.’ A group of traders from Hamilton came out onto the balcony. Instead of coming over to say hello they remained huddled in their corner, talking in unusually subdued voices.

‘What’s up with that lot?’ I asked, inspecting the nearest floral arrangement, a collection of the most beautiful white orchids. I wondered whether I could
smuggle it out on the way home. It would look great on my coffee table.

‘They’re all shitting themselves,’ Ali whispered conspiratorially, ‘everyone is. Even your Dan the wunderkind.’

‘Why?’

‘God, Cass, where have you been all day? Last week it was Allen Brothers, this week it’s Grant & Waters. Investment banks are going tits up left, right and centre and even those that aren’t going under are making savage cutbacks. We’re next. The writing is well and truly on the wall now. Rumour has it around a quarter of the traders are looking at redundancy.’

‘Oh, my God. But you’ll be all right, won’t you? And Dan will be? I can’t believe this. It’s Hamilton Churchill, for God’s sake, it’s one of the oldest investment banks in the UK.’

‘So what? It doesn’t mean a thing. Believe me, the powers that be might not let Lloyds TSB go to the wall, but that’s because they aren’t prepared to let Joe Bloggs lose his life’s savings. If we fail, it’s just a bunch of rich people who lose their money. That’s the theory, anyway. No one gives a shit.’ She threw her cigarette to the floor and stomped on it viciously.

‘Anyway, come on, let’s not let it spoil the party,’ she said, trying to reassure me. ‘There’s a last-days-of-Rome atmosphere building in there and I for one plan to enjoy it.’

So, apparently, did Dan, who was now talking to not one but three blondes, all of whom seemed to be
hanging on his every word. Just as they were all squawking at some fantastically amusing comment he had made he caught my eye and abandoned them immediately, making his way through the crowd to my side.

‘Great job, babe. It’s quite a party,’ he said, giving me a kiss. ‘And you look beautiful. Have I told you that already?’ He escorted me over to a table in the corner and we sat down. He took hold of my hand but he wasn’t looking at me. His eyes were constantly roving the room.

‘Is everything OK?’ I asked him, slipping my hand into his. His palm felt clammy against mine.

‘Great, sure. Of course,’ he replied, but he was shaking slightly. Whether he was on edge because of the news from the markets or the cocaine he’d no doubt been snorting off the cistern in the men’s room all evening, I couldn’t be sure.

‘I see Ali’s hunting the Fox,’ Dan said, nodding in Ali’s direction. She was cosying up to one of the more dashing attendees at the party, one of the few who in his tux looked more like James Bond than a waiter.

‘Hunting a fox?’

‘That, as you should remember from your notes, is Jean-Luc Renard, aka the Fox, ridiculously rich French bloke. One of Ali’s clients. Married with three kids, not that you’d notice from the way he behaves.’

‘Oh, Christ. Does she know he’s married?’

Dan laughed and gave me a kiss on the forehead. ‘You’re so sweet sometimes,’ he said. Then all of a
sudden he jumped to his feet and said, ‘Just spotted someone I need to have a bit of a chat with. Back in a mo’.’

I didn’t see him again for about an hour, and when I did he was swaying a little, his arm draped (lovingly? or for support?) around the shoulder of a statuesque brunette in what looked from a distance like a Roland Mouret dress. I recognised her from the guest list – I couldn’t remember her name but I did know she was an American, a high-flyer from one of the US banks who managed a squillion-pound investment fund. That knot of jealousy in my stomach tightened just a little. I watched them cross the room together and find a table near the bar, where they continued to talk, their heads just a little too close together.

I was debating the pros and cons of marching over there and introducing myself (pro: I could let her know that he’s taken; con: I look like the neurotic jealous girlfriend), when Nicholas appeared, lurching through the crowd, clutching a pint of beer in his hand. Who drinks beer when there’s champagne on tap? Boorish, charmless Nicholas, that’s who.

‘What are you doing over here, all on your own?’ he slurred at me, slumping into the chair next to me. ‘You’ve done the hard work, you should be having fun.’

‘I was,’ I said. ‘I am. I’m just . . .’

‘Waiting for him.’ He jerked his head in Dan’s direction. ‘Never mind him. You’ve done a good job tonight. Go and enjoy yourself.’ And with that he
hauled himself to his feet and staggered off again, sloshing beer on to the floor and guests alike as he went.

For a moment or two, all thoughts of Dan and the American went out of my head. I did a good job.
I did a good job
. Nicholas Hawksworth thought I had done a good job. That was something worth celebrating. From that moment on, the rest of the evening passed in a bit of a blur. With Nicholas’s approval gained, I was finally able to relax, hit the bar and mingle.

Ali eventually tore herself away from the Frenchman for long enough for us to have a bit of a dance, the American woman disappeared and everyone finally seemed to forget that their jobs were on the line just long enough to enjoy themselves.

Officially, the party was over at 10.30 (it was just supposed to be cocktails, after all). Dan and a couple of his trader friends, Mick and James, ushered me into a taxi at around midnight. Back at Dan’s place in Clerkenwell I went straight to bed, while the boys stayed up playing poker. Dan came to bed at three. He slipped his arms around me and started kissing my neck.

‘It was a great night, Cass,’ he whispered to me. ‘Feel like celebrating?’