Read Online Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista by Amy Silver - Free Book Online
Authors: Amy Silver
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Avenue. I buzzed the intercom and waited. No answer. I buzzed again. No one came. Up on the second floor, where Dan’s bedroom is, I thought for a moment that I saw the blinds move, though I couldn’t be sure. I rang his mobile. I left a message.
‘Dan, it’s me. I’ve come to see you. Please ring me back. I’m going to go to the Ambassador and wait for an hour or so, so please come and find me. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry about the job, about everything. Please come and find me, I really want to talk to you.’
Eventually I gave up standing around in the street like a lovesick puppy and headed for the pub. I ordered an orange juice. Half an hour later, I ordered a coffee. Half an hour after that, I thought, oh fuck it, and went for a gin and tonic. Hair of the dog. No sign of Dan, no texts and no missed calls. Eventually, at around three, I gave up and started to wend my weary way home. The prospect of going back to an empty flat (or worse, a flat occupied by Jude, who would have me making lists and fine-tuning the Plan of Action), was too depressing to contemplate, so instead of changing to the Northern Line at Embankment, I just kept going, all the way round to South Ken. I got out of the tube, hopped on a bus, and within minutes was standingoutside the gloriously dramatic window display at Harvey Nichols.
Some people drink, some people take drugs. I shop. I realise that it is incomprehensible to many people (most of them straight men), but there is something incredibly hopeful about buying new clothes. Yes, it is ridiculous to imagine that a garment can change your life, but there can be no doubting the mood-enhancing, confidence-boosting power of a beautiful new coat, or a killer pair of heels, or, as turned out to be the case that afternoon, an incredibly flattering pair of size eight jeans. Size eight! My heart soared. All the stress of the past couple of weeks must have been taking its toll. They weren’t cheap. 7 For All Mankind jeans do not come cheap – but it could have been worse. I could have gone for the McQueen ones which were around three times the price.
I was standing in the changing room, admiring my form and congratulating myself on my thrift, when my mobile rang. At long last! It was Dan.
‘Hey baby,’ I said, ‘how are you? Where are you? I want to see you.’
‘Hi, Cass,’ he said, his voice sounding small and far away. ‘I’m OK. I’m just … out and about, you know.’
It didn’t sound like he was out and about. I couldn’t hear any background noise, no pub hubbub, no traffic.
‘Are you going home soon? Can I meet you there? Or you could come round to mine?’
There was a long pause, so long I thought we might have been cut off.
‘Dan? Are you still there?’
‘Cassie, it’s just been a really shit day.’
‘I know, I know it has, it’s awful. I just want to see you.’
Another long pause.
‘Cassie. I’m really sorry.’
‘Tomorrow then?’
‘No, Cassie …’ he gave a long, heartfelt sigh. ‘I can’t … do this at the moment.’
‘You can’t do what?’ A lump rose to my throat.
‘Do the whole relationship thing, you know? Things are just … really weird at the moment and I need to be on my own, focus one hundred per cent on myself, on finding a new job. You know how it is.’
‘No, I don’t know, Dan,’ I said, trying as hard as I could to stop the tears coming. ‘I really don’t.’
There was a long, painful silence.
‘I have to go, Cassie. I’m really sorry.’
He hung up.
I took the 7 For All Mankind jeans off, sat down on the floor and burst into tears. Seconds later, a rail-thin sales assistant wearing crimson lipstick yanked the curtain open, revealing me, sitting cross-legged on the floor in my halter neck and purple knickers, to most of the Womenswear (Casual) section.
‘Is everything all right?’ she asked, plummily.
‘No, it bloody well isn’t,’ I sobbed, grabbing at the curtain and attempting to cover myself up
‘Dan, it’s me. I’ve come to see you. Please ring me back. I’m going to go to the Ambassador and wait for an hour or so, so please come and find me. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry about the job, about everything. Please come and find me, I really want to talk to you.’
Eventually I gave up standing around in the street like a lovesick puppy and headed for the pub. I ordered an orange juice. Half an hour later, I ordered a coffee. Half an hour after that, I thought, oh fuck it, and went for a gin and tonic. Hair of the dog. No sign of Dan, no texts and no missed calls. Eventually, at around three, I gave up and started to wend my weary way home. The prospect of going back to an empty flat (or worse, a flat occupied by Jude, who would have me making lists and fine-tuning the Plan of Action), was too depressing to contemplate, so instead of changing to the Northern Line at Embankment, I just kept going, all the way round to South Ken. I got out of the tube, hopped on a bus, and within minutes was standingoutside the gloriously dramatic window display at Harvey Nichols.
Some people drink, some people take drugs. I shop. I realise that it is incomprehensible to many people (most of them straight men), but there is something incredibly hopeful about buying new clothes. Yes, it is ridiculous to imagine that a garment can change your life, but there can be no doubting the mood-enhancing, confidence-boosting power of a beautiful new coat, or a killer pair of heels, or, as turned out to be the case that afternoon, an incredibly flattering pair of size eight jeans. Size eight! My heart soared. All the stress of the past couple of weeks must have been taking its toll. They weren’t cheap. 7 For All Mankind jeans do not come cheap – but it could have been worse. I could have gone for the McQueen ones which were around three times the price.
I was standing in the changing room, admiring my form and congratulating myself on my thrift, when my mobile rang. At long last! It was Dan.
‘Hey baby,’ I said, ‘how are you? Where are you? I want to see you.’
‘Hi, Cass,’ he said, his voice sounding small and far away. ‘I’m OK. I’m just … out and about, you know.’
It didn’t sound like he was out and about. I couldn’t hear any background noise, no pub hubbub, no traffic.
‘Are you going home soon? Can I meet you there? Or you could come round to mine?’
There was a long pause, so long I thought we might have been cut off.
‘Dan? Are you still there?’
‘Cassie, it’s just been a really shit day.’
‘I know, I know it has, it’s awful. I just want to see you.’
Another long pause.
‘Cassie. I’m really sorry.’
‘Tomorrow then?’
‘No, Cassie …’ he gave a long, heartfelt sigh. ‘I can’t … do this at the moment.’
‘You can’t do what?’ A lump rose to my throat.
‘Do the whole relationship thing, you know? Things are just … really weird at the moment and I need to be on my own, focus one hundred per cent on myself, on finding a new job. You know how it is.’
‘No, I don’t know, Dan,’ I said, trying as hard as I could to stop the tears coming. ‘I really don’t.’
There was a long, painful silence.
‘I have to go, Cassie. I’m really sorry.’
He hung up.
I took the 7 For All Mankind jeans off, sat down on the floor and burst into tears. Seconds later, a rail-thin sales assistant wearing crimson lipstick yanked the curtain open, revealing me, sitting cross-legged on the floor in my halter neck and purple knickers, to most of the Womenswear (Casual) section.
‘Is everything all right?’ she asked, plummily.
‘No, it bloody well isn’t,’ I sobbed, grabbing at the curtain and attempting to cover myself up
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