human.’
8
Cassie Cavanagh is a paragon of virtue
Bank balance: -£193.50
Available overdraft: £1,800
Weeks to go until the money runs out: Four
Weeks to go until the social event of the year: Two
No clothes, no shoes, no cocktails, no lattes, not so much as a lipstick. My anti-extravagance drive was going exceptionally well, although there was one ugly black cloud looming on the horizon in the shape of Emily’s wedding. In two weeks’ time I would be attending the nuptials of Emily Conrad and Tristan Pilkington-Smythe, to be held at Bramley House, astonishingly expensive boutique hotel slash palace in the Cotswolds. I would be attending the wedding of the decade and I had absolutely nothing to wear.
When I mentioned this to Jude she got incredibly irritated with me, dragging me into my room and pulling out five or six dresses that would be suitablefor a winter wedding and flinging them on the bed, demanding, ‘What’s wrong with that one then?’ over and over again. She doesn’t understand.
Emily Conrad works in the corporate finance department at Hamilton. She’s the daughter of Sir Peter Conrad, media mogul and patron of the arts. Emily drives a bright red Mercedes, she wears Chanel, she holidays in Mustique. Her intended, whom I’ve never met, is terrifyingly posh, one hundred and sixth in line to the throne or something. So far, so daunting. But among the legions of posh and rich people I’ll have to face will be dozens of my erstwhile colleagues, including Nicholas, Christa and, worst of all, Dan. I’m praying, hoping against hope that he won’t be bringing the American woman. I don’t even know if he’s still seeing her. I de-friended him on Facebook after I found out about the infidelity. In any case, I have to look good. I have to look great, and I can’t be wearing a dress that he, or anyone else at work has already seen me in. I certainly can’t wear the Louboutins, which will for ever be tainted with his betrayal.
Still, with no job on the horizon and the redundancy money fast trickling away, dress-shopping is off the agenda. Not only that, but instead of staying at the lovely country house hotel with all the rich and posh guests, I’ve had to book myself a room in the distinctly average-looking B&B in the local village. I’ll just have to slope off quietly and hope that no one notices.
Unless of course I found myself a job quickly.
So you see, it was the wedding, anxiety about thebloody wedding, which made me agree to Jude’s ludicrous suggestion. Yesterday, she came bouncing into the room, grinning manically at me.
‘Great news!’ she announced. ‘I’ve got you a job!’
‘Really?’ I asked, trying to sound enthusiastic but feeling deeply sceptical.
‘Now, it’s not the sort of thing you would usually go for …’
No, I’ll bet it isn’t .
‘… but if you just hear me out. It’s just a part-time thing, it’ll give you some extra cash, tide you over until you find something more … suitable.’
‘OK then, I’m listening.’
‘Don’t just dismiss it out of hand.’
‘OK.’
‘You’ll think about it?’
‘Yes, yes, all right. What is it?’
‘Dog walking.’
‘Dog walking.’
‘Yes, dog walking.’
‘Absolutely no way in hell, Jude,’ I said. ‘I don’t like dogs. I’m a cat person, through and through. If you know of anyone who needs their cat walked, I’m there. But I’m not doing dogs.’
‘You said you’d think about it, you said you wouldn’t dismiss it out of hand,’ she complained.
‘That was before I knew what it was.’
‘But I’ve got it all set up,’ she said. ‘The thing is that my friend Lucy’s parents are going away for a couple of weeks, and they’ve got the lady next door to feed theirdogs, but she’s got a dodgy hip and she can’t take them out for walks. They live just across the Common. It’s really close. And I … well, I already said you’d do it.’
‘Jude! You can’t just hire me out to
8
Cassie Cavanagh is a paragon of virtue
Bank balance: -£193.50
Available overdraft: £1,800
Weeks to go until the money runs out: Four
Weeks to go until the social event of the year: Two
No clothes, no shoes, no cocktails, no lattes, not so much as a lipstick. My anti-extravagance drive was going exceptionally well, although there was one ugly black cloud looming on the horizon in the shape of Emily’s wedding. In two weeks’ time I would be attending the nuptials of Emily Conrad and Tristan Pilkington-Smythe, to be held at Bramley House, astonishingly expensive boutique hotel slash palace in the Cotswolds. I would be attending the wedding of the decade and I had absolutely nothing to wear.
When I mentioned this to Jude she got incredibly irritated with me, dragging me into my room and pulling out five or six dresses that would be suitablefor a winter wedding and flinging them on the bed, demanding, ‘What’s wrong with that one then?’ over and over again. She doesn’t understand.
Emily Conrad works in the corporate finance department at Hamilton. She’s the daughter of Sir Peter Conrad, media mogul and patron of the arts. Emily drives a bright red Mercedes, she wears Chanel, she holidays in Mustique. Her intended, whom I’ve never met, is terrifyingly posh, one hundred and sixth in line to the throne or something. So far, so daunting. But among the legions of posh and rich people I’ll have to face will be dozens of my erstwhile colleagues, including Nicholas, Christa and, worst of all, Dan. I’m praying, hoping against hope that he won’t be bringing the American woman. I don’t even know if he’s still seeing her. I de-friended him on Facebook after I found out about the infidelity. In any case, I have to look good. I have to look great, and I can’t be wearing a dress that he, or anyone else at work has already seen me in. I certainly can’t wear the Louboutins, which will for ever be tainted with his betrayal.
Still, with no job on the horizon and the redundancy money fast trickling away, dress-shopping is off the agenda. Not only that, but instead of staying at the lovely country house hotel with all the rich and posh guests, I’ve had to book myself a room in the distinctly average-looking B&B in the local village. I’ll just have to slope off quietly and hope that no one notices.
Unless of course I found myself a job quickly.
So you see, it was the wedding, anxiety about thebloody wedding, which made me agree to Jude’s ludicrous suggestion. Yesterday, she came bouncing into the room, grinning manically at me.
‘Great news!’ she announced. ‘I’ve got you a job!’
‘Really?’ I asked, trying to sound enthusiastic but feeling deeply sceptical.
‘Now, it’s not the sort of thing you would usually go for …’
No, I’ll bet it isn’t .
‘… but if you just hear me out. It’s just a part-time thing, it’ll give you some extra cash, tide you over until you find something more … suitable.’
‘OK then, I’m listening.’
‘Don’t just dismiss it out of hand.’
‘OK.’
‘You’ll think about it?’
‘Yes, yes, all right. What is it?’
‘Dog walking.’
‘Dog walking.’
‘Yes, dog walking.’
‘Absolutely no way in hell, Jude,’ I said. ‘I don’t like dogs. I’m a cat person, through and through. If you know of anyone who needs their cat walked, I’m there. But I’m not doing dogs.’
‘You said you’d think about it, you said you wouldn’t dismiss it out of hand,’ she complained.
‘That was before I knew what it was.’
‘But I’ve got it all set up,’ she said. ‘The thing is that my friend Lucy’s parents are going away for a couple of weeks, and they’ve got the lady next door to feed theirdogs, but she’s got a dodgy hip and she can’t take them out for walks. They live just across the Common. It’s really close. And I … well, I already said you’d do it.’
‘Jude! You can’t just hire me out to
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