He wrote a sum on a Post-it note, tore it from the pad and passed it across to me.
I gasped. “In addition to my current salary?” I had visions of taking taxis to work rather than getting the bus,
of upgrading to Tesco Finest everything, and of drinking the kind of vodka that comes in chunky opaque bottles.
“No, Eleanor,” he said. “That amount would be your new salary.” “Ah,” I said.
If that were the case, then I would need to consider the risk/reward ratio carefully.
Would the increase in salary compensate adequately for the increased amount of tedious administration work I’d be required to undertake,
the augmented levels of responsibility for the successful functioning of the office and, worse still,
for the significantly increased degree of interaction that I’d need to undertake with my colleagues?
“May I take a few days to consider it, Bob?” I said. He nodded.
“Of course, Eleanor. I expected you to say that.” I looked at my hands.
“You’re a good worker, Eleanor,” he said. “How long has it been now— eight years?”
“Nine,” I said. “Nine years, and you’ve never had a day off sick, never used all your annual leave.
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