Free Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista by Amy Silver Page B

I got into the shower and scrubbed, trying to wash away the pain, humiliation and smell of gin.
    An hour or so later, I emerged from my bedroom, with clean hair, wearing jeans, Uggs, a lovely leather jacket given to me for my birthday by the boyfriend before Dan (whom I was now seriously considering calling, just to say hello) and just enough make-up to transform my complexion from pasty to perfect. Jake, sitting on the sofa next to Jude, looked gratifyingly impressed as I swept into the room. Jude, on the other hand, eyed me disapprovingly.
    ‘That doesn’t look much like an interview outfit, Cass. How’s the job search going?’
    ‘It’s not,’ I replied. ‘Look, I lost my job on Monday. My boyfriend broke up with me on Tuesday. On Wednesday, I did nothing but lie in bed watchingrubbish films and eating cheese. That was the high point of my week. Yesterday, I discovered that my ex has been shagging some thirty-seven-year-old American woman, so today, if you don’t mind, I’m going shopping. I’ll start looking for a job on Monday.’
    I love shopping for winter clothes. OK, I love shopping for summer, spring and autumn clothes, too, but there’s something effortless about winter wear. It’s so forgiving. No need for toned arms and shaved legs, it’s all about wrapping yourself up in layers, swathing yourself in woollens, donning cute hats and colourful scarves and amazing, to-die-for, sex-kittenish over-the-knee boots.
    On Friday, I spent a very satisfying afternoon on the Kings Road, with just the briefest of detours down Sloane Street. (I needed some gloves and they have lovely ones in Chanel. Yes, they’re pricey but they’ll last for ever.)
    On Saturday, I went to the gym for the first time in a week. Running on the treadmill, I noticed that in my plain black tracksuit bottoms and faded grey T-shirt, I looked a little drab. Particularly compared to the girl next to me who was sporting blue leggings with a pink stripe down the side and matching pink vest.
    ‘Like your outfit,’ I gasped at her, reducing my speed from eight miles per hour to seven.
    ‘Thanks,’ she huffed back. ‘Sweaty Betty, on the high street. They’ve got some really good stuff. Nice trainers, too.’
    So on my way home I popped in to take a look. She was right, they did have good stuff. I left with two new running outfits, two sports bras, a yoga mat and a pair of trainers.
    I was hoping that Jude would be out when I got home, but there she was, sitting at the counter in the kitchen, reading the paper and sipping camomile tea. I loathe the smell of camomile tea. She looked at me as I came in, sighed, shook her head sadly and went back to her paper.
    ‘What?’ I said, dropping my packages in the living room. ‘What now?’
    ‘Cassie, you just lost your job and as far as I can make out, you have done nothing but shop ever since. I’m just worried, that’s all. I’m worried about you and, to be honest, I’m worried about the rent.’
    God, her and the bloody rent. Anyone would have thought we had an eviction notice attached to the front door.
    ‘Jude,’ I said, gritting my teeth, ‘I will have the money to pay the rent, I promise. You don’t have to worry about that.’ She sighed and went back to her newspaper. She was worried, I could tell, and it wasn’t long before she spoke up again.
    ‘I know that I’m nagging at you, Cass, but I am concerned. I know you’re having a terrible time, but you have to remember that this isn’t just about you. If you can’t pay up then I’ll have to find someone else to move in. Or we’ll both have to find somewhere else to go.’
    ‘I know, you’re right, I know . . .’
    ‘Maybe,’ she cut in, ‘maybe you ought to think about moving home for a little while, just while you sort yourself out. And we could sublet your place for a few months.’
    ‘No!’ I cried. ‘Anything but that! I can’t move home, Jude, I really can’t. I’d go mad.’ I sat down next to her at the