One day Liz walked in after being out all afternoon
and startled me by saying she had got herself a job.
I didn’t think she was up to it. “What kind of a job?”
“Receptionist/manager of a photographic studio in
Debenhams in The Square,” she said.
“But sweetheart, are you sure you’re up to it?”
“Max,” she said, “I’m tired of watching you killing
yourself trying to bring in money. It’s my turn to put bread on the table.
Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
The job entailed her wearing a suit and meeting and
greeting people, and no one was better qualified than she was. She could work a
roomful of people better than almost any one I knew. And she had negotiated
herself a fixed salary. What she would earn wouldn’t do much more than pay for
our food and a few incidentals, but I was enormously proud of her.
“If you’re sure,” I said.
“I’m sure.”
On her first day on the job she left at nine in the
morning and came home at six in the evening. She was exhausted. She had been on
her feet all day. She lay on the sofa while I made dinner and I had to wake her
to eat it. She went to bed immediately afterwards.
After a week of this, I told her I was going back into
business. I couldn't think of any other way of bringing in money.
“Alright,” she said. “But I’m not leaving my job until
you do.”
Extract from my book WILL YOU TELL HER, OR SHALL I? A true story. My story. The story of how I lived with the ten-year terminal illness of my wife. Available on www.booksthepublishersmissed.com
Twitter: Maximillian19
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