Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista (19 page)

Dr Dragovic read my notes. He read them again. He looked up at me. I smiled stupidly. He went back to his notes.

‘OK, Miss Cavanagh,’ he said in his delightfully brooding accent, ‘I’m just going to take a look here.’

Oh, sweet Jesus, he’s lifting up my robe.

‘Right, I see,’ he said, examining the area with a frown. I could no longer bear to look at him. I just lay back with my eyes closed, feeling my face turn puce.

‘I think there is some quite bad scalding there . . . And we will of course have to remove the . . . the material in order to treat . . .’ He stood up straight and I yanked the robe back down to my knees. He smiled, revealing a gold tooth which for some inexplicable reason made him even sexier. ‘It won’t be too bad. We just need to get the material off without damaging your skin. Don’t worry too much.’

He disappeared for a few minutes and returned with Josephine who now bore a range of unguents and something that looked like a heat pack that you’d put on a swollen ankle.

‘We need to soften the wax a bit, then we can remove it and treat the burn,’ Dr Dragovic explained kindly.
‘But first I will give you something so that you cannot feel it so much.’ Oh, thank God. Drugs. Unfortunately, all he gave me was a local anaesthetic which meant him inspecting my unwaxed upper thighs once again. I swore under my breath that if I ever came across Araminta Foster I would make her feel my wrath.

Fortunately, the procedure was relatively painless. There was a nasty red welt on my upper thigh which they covered with antiseptics and a bandage, and I was under strict instructions not to get the burn wet for three days.

‘No showers?’ I asked, incredulous.

‘No showers,’ Josephine replied firmly. ‘In three days you must come back and we’ll change the dressing and make sure everything’s OK.’ She smiled sweetly at me. ‘Next time, I would go to the beauty salon. I know a good one in Chingford if you’d like a recommendation.’

By the time I was finished, Ali had arrived. She was standing outside the A&E waiting room, smoking a cigarette. She started to laugh as soon as she saw me.

‘Oh, you poor thing,’ she giggled, giving me a hug. ‘That must have been a special experience.’

‘You have no idea,’ I replied. ‘You should have seen the doctor. Luka Kova
, only better.’

‘Jeez, can we go back in? Perhaps if I stub my cigarette out on my arm I’ll get to meet him.’

Ali bundled me into a cab and the two of us headed over to her flat near Angel. She was renting the most
fabulous, canal-side warehouse conversion (complete with roof terrace, hot tub and Porsche kitchen) which she’d snapped up last year just after getting her bonus.

‘Don’t think I’m going to be here much longer,’ she said miserably as we took the lift to the fifth floor.’

‘Worried about work?’ I asked.

‘It’s not so much that . . .’ she said.

We were barely through the door when she broke down in tears.

‘Oh, Cassie,’ she blubbed at me, collapsing in a heap on the sheepskin rug in the entrance hall, ‘I can’t believe what a mess I’ve made of everything.’

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Ali, stone-cold sober, totally losing the plot? It just didn’t happen. She was the strongest, most in-control woman I’d ever met; she was one of the most macho of traders at Hamilton, feared at poker games because she never, ever gave anything away.

‘What is it?’ I asked, kneeling down to put my arms around her. ‘What on earth’s happened?’

She continued to blub but didn’t say anything.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ I asked. ‘Vodka? Wine?’

‘Nooo!’ she wailed, and blubbed even harder.

When she’d finally stopped crying and I managed to move her from the floor to the sofa, she asked for a cup of tea. As I handed it to her, she said, ‘I’m pregnant.’ I almost dropped the scalding tea in her lap, the bluntness of her announcement caught me so by surprise. This entire time I had imagined that there was either something up with the Frenchman or
something up at work. Never for a moment did I think . . . And at that moment I cast my mind back to the wedding, to the way she reacted when I asked her why she wasn’t drinking. God, I could be stupid sometimes.

‘I take it this is the Frenchman’s?’ I asked, handing her a Kleenex.

She blew her nose loudly, nodding at the same time.

‘He’s been a total shit about everything. Doesn’t want to know about it and doesn’t want anything to do with me any more. He’s gone scampering back to wifey, his tail between his legs. God, it’s such a fucking cliché! Do you know what the first thing he asked me was?’ I shook my head. ‘“Are you sure it’s mine?”’

‘Jesus, what’s the French for wanker?’ I asked.

‘I know! And the thing is, it
is
his. I know it is. There hasn’t been anyone else for ages . . .’ she tailed off. ‘I didn’t tell anyone about it, but I’d been sleeping with him on and off for most of last year.’

‘Ali! I can’t believe you didn’t tell me . . .’

‘I know. It was just – I knew that the whole thing was stupid – he was married and everything, so it was never going to go anywhere. But I wanted it to. I liked him, Cass. I really liked him.’

‘And now? Do you love him? Are you in love with him?’

‘I was,’ she said sadly. ‘At least I thought I was. Funny how quickly you can go from being madly in love with someone to planning what track’s going to be playing when you dance on their grave.’ She put
down her cup of tea and lit a cigarette. ‘Help yourself to a real drink, by the way. Just because I’m on the wagon doesn’t mean you have to be.’

‘Ali . . .’ I said nervously. ‘You’re not drinking but you are smoking? What does this mean? What are you planning to do?’

‘I’m not smoking a lot,’ she said guiltily, stubbing it out in the ashtray in front of her.

‘So . . . you’re going to have the baby?’ I was astounded. I do love Ali, I love her to bits, but she’s about the least maternal person I know.

‘I think so,’ she said softly, without looking at me. I gave her a hug.

We talked for hours, me knocking back Chianti, her drinking endless cups of tea. I told her she ought to switch to herbal. She told me to fuck off. I suggested she at least stop smoking; she said she was down to just five a day, and was planning weaning herself off them over the next few weeks. I looked sceptical.

‘I will, Jesus, I promise. God, it’s not like I’m not prepared for my sacrifices. This will be the end of my career, you know. I’ll be mummy-tracked. If this were a good market I might be shoved into corporate finance. But today? I’ll be incredibly lucky to keep my job. If I were a bookie I’d be giving odds of around twelve to one against.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Still, I tell you what. If I am on my way out I’m going to use the remaining weeks and months I have at work to lose Jean-Luc all the money I’ve made him over the past year.’

Later on, with the help of a little Dutch courage, I asked her why she’d decided to keep it.

‘Why, when you know it’s going to be the end of your career, when the father doesn’t want to know, when you’re only twenty-seven . . . Why are you going to have the baby? Not that I think it’s a bad thing, I don’t,’ I added hastily. ‘I’m just . . . surprised, that’s all. You’ve never talked about wanting kids.’

‘Never thought I wanted them,’ she replied. ‘I mean, not even five or six years down the line, even if I were married and settled – which is, let’s face it, unlikely – even then, I didn’t picture myself with kids. And I have no problem with abortion. I can’t really explain it. It’s just that now that he or she is here, I don’t want him or her to not be here. Does that make sense?’

After that much wine, combined with some seriously strong painkillers, not a lot made sense. I certainly didn’t. Unable to persuade me to go to bed in the spare room, Ali laid me down on the sofa and covered me with a blanket before disappearing off to bed.

The next morning she woke me with coffee. Groggily accepting the mug, I pulled myself upright. My upper thigh hurt like hell. My head was almost as bad.

‘Christ, Ali,’ I groaned. ‘What time is it?’

‘Just after nine.’ Maybe it was just because I knew, maybe it was because she hadn’t had a drink in weeks, but she looked fabulous, a peachy glow illuminating her complexion. ‘

Why aren’t you at work?’

‘Took a sickie,’ she said with a grin. I don’t think Ali has ever taken a sickie in her life. ‘If I’m going to get fired or sidelined anyway, I don’t see the point in working like a dog for those bastards.’

‘Talking of dogs,’ I moaned, ‘I have to get back to Clapham. I have a ten thirty with a pair of dachshunds.’

I was very glad that the only dogs on my schedule that day were the smaller ones. It was a freezing day, a bone-chilling wind blowing in from the north, not a ray of sunshine to be felt. The Common wasn’t too muddy, thankfully, but there were treacherous patches of ice on the pavements and I didn’t fancy getting yanked left and right by some of the more powerful hounds on my rota. Particularly not with my injury, which was still very painful, industrial-strength Codeine tablets notwithstanding.

After the dachshunds there was a series of other small, yappy, annoying little creatures and it wasn’t until after lunchtime that I got home. I collapsed on the sofa with a (home-made) tuna sandwich and flicked on the TV. Nothing on. That’s what happens when you get rid of satellite TV. I checked my emails for job news.

Hallelujah! There was a message from a temp agency saying they needed someone to work Monday to Friday next week in a ‘mid-sized City investment bank’. Could I come in for an interview? Real work! I thought, ecstatic. I fired off an email saying I would be very happy to attend the interview on Friday morning. Then it struck me: I’d given away most of my City suits at the fated clothes swap. What the hell was I going to
wear? Then another thought struck me: Friday was two days away. I was under strict instructions not to shower for three days. I’d cross that bridge when I came to it.

I skipped into my bedroom (as best I could under the circumstances), feeling as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. This was it – this was the break I’d been waiting for. All I needed was to get my foot in the door. Then I could dazzle them all with how marvellously efficient, friendly and presentable I was, I would fetch the coffee, I would stay late in the office, I would go that all-important extra mile. I would make myself indispensable. And by the end of next week, I thought to myself, I could have a real job!

I was right in the middle of trawling through my wardrobe for something decent to wear to the interview when I realised I was having a sense of déjà vu. Looking through the wardrobe for something to wear . . . I had done this recently . . . very recently. Oh, shit. Jake. In less than five hours’ time I was supposed to be standing in the foyer of the Ritzy cinema wearing something casual-yet-sexy, preferably with my hair washed and blow-dried. I looked at myself in the mirror. Oh, God. There was no way I could get away with this. I had to cancel.

He picked up on the third ring.

‘Hey. How’s the washing machine?’ he asked when he answered. ‘No more floods? No more severe head injuries?’

I laughed weakly.

‘No, no, everything’s OK. It’s just . . . I’m really sorry to do this to you at such late notice, but I was wondering whether we could reschedule?’

Silence on the other end of the line.

‘The thing is . . .’ I really ought to have written something down before I made this call. Lying, I’ve found, is usually the best idea in these sorts of circumstances. ‘The thing is that I’ve just been offered a job interview – it’s tomorrow morning and I really need to focus, you know? I need to think about what I’m going to say and it would be a good idea to get an early night. I don’t think I’ll be able to relax if we go out this evening. I won’t be any fun. Could we do it another night?’

‘Course we can,’ he said. ‘That’s great news on the job interview. Good luck with it. Give me a ring when you’re done, let me know how it went and we can set something else up.’

‘That would be brilliant, Jake, thank you so much.’

Crisis averted.

I returned to the job at hand, which was to find an outfit for an interview and, assuming that I would get the job, trying to find a way of mixing and matching things so that I didn’t look as though I was wearing the same clothes all week. I was still in a frenzy of outfit consideration when Jude came home.