"You take referrals on the phone. Then you make me a little timetable. Afterwards, you might have to type out three letters and bill people."
"How do I bill people, Mark?"
"I don't really know," he said. In retrospect, I should have resigned there and then. Last night, after barely two weeks in my new job, I slept in the spare bedroom, remembering how good things were in the olden days.
I used to think my marriage was perfect. I understood my role in it: to make life as stress-free as possible for a man whose days are so full-on it beggars belief.
Now, I've found myself being in the unenviable position of being married to my boss. And trust me when I say there's nothing worse. Of course, I still adore my husband. But I don't love my autocratic new boss who stomps about asking me to shred things or reprimands me for not being able to spell.
I find myself bridling, but how can I fight back? As a wife, I know what he has to go through. Mark gets up at 5.30am every day and cycles 20km to work. Some days, he operates all day. Other days, he has clinics, where he might see up to 40 people in one morning, each one requiring a letter to a GP. He's home by 7pm on a good day, inevitably exhausted.
Therefore, I am gentle with him. If he so much as empties the dishwasher, I am aghast at his generous spirit and thank him profusely. I am the cook and the nurturer in our marriage, and, whisper it, I am the one who keeps the show on the road.
But that first Monday, I lost sight of my easy-going self. I found I was as nervous as I had been when I took on a new temping job in my 20s all those years ago. Even then, my secretarial skills were ropy.
I couldn't understand the slight tremor in my hand as I picked up the phone to say "Hi" to the reception team at Mark's hospital.
But the first few moments were wonderful. The lady I spoke to was so warm. Yes, they knew I had taken over; not to worry, I'd soon get the hang of it. But then came the bombshell. "By the way, when you have a moment today, could you just email to give us the clinic list for Wednesday? Have you a pen?"
"I'll just get one," I said. Already my mouth was completely dry and I could hardly speak. None of the six pens on my desk seemed to work. The best bet, I thought, was to engrave the email addresses with a sharp nib as best as I could, and then hold the paper up to the light later.
I felt physically sick when the receptionist said goodbye. I had no idea how to prepare a clinic list. There were some illegible hand-written notes in a diary Mark had given me.
At my briefing the previous evening, I'd warned Mark that I didn't have a clue how to do those pretty boxes his previous secretary had magically created, which made it all look so very professional. Mark had assured me that I could do it my own way.
"Look, Olivia," he had said, "the important thing about the clinic list is that you tell the hospital who's coming and when. Nothing else matters. I promise you."
But, at that moment, it was the thing that mattered most in the world. Mark had promised the hospital I could do this job, but I could not. We were both on the cusp of total humiliation.
Just then the phone rang. Suddenly, it had become an object of fear. What if it was someone ringing to make an appointment? But my first "customer" was as lovely as could be. She told me she was ringing because friends had recommended him. I was delighted.
"Yes, and I'm his wife!" I said proudly. "And do you know what? If he had been my surgeon, I would have totally fallen in love with him."
There was a silence at the other end of the phone and I realised I had been a tad unprofessional - but I tried to correct it by telling her I would not only send her an appointment letter, but I would send her a map as well.
In the afternoon, I switched on the answerphone of my new business line and went to see Mark's previous secretary, Sharon. Her office was clean and new. She had trained as a medical secretary and had worked for 25 years.
Sharon and her son helped carry four large filing boxes to the car. Mark had never told me about any files. She had printed out for me a list of my duties: two pages' worth.
She told me how every procedure was billed differently through every health insurance company. She told me it was complicated, but that I'd soon get the hang of it. Everything was done digitally nowadays, she said.
"I don't even own a digital camera for fear of that word 'digital'," I wailed.
I felt so angry with Mark for doing this to me that in the evening I could barely speak. Mark, exhausted as ever after performing a seven-hour operation, wasn't used to this new wife of his.
"I can't believe you're like this after doing so little," he said. I had no energy to shout and scream, and just stomped off to the kitchen.
We had a few brief moments of tenderness together on the Wednesday morning, when I gave him some covering letters for his patients. But that night it soon became apparent I was a worse typist than he was.
He was writing letters till 10.30 at night and he asked me to proof read them at 6.30 in the morning. I got up and did my best, asking him how to spell "phlebosclerotherapy". He shouted at me for the first time in our entire marriage, saying that he was astonished at my stupidity.
When I gave him the letters to sign, he couldn't find a pen that worked, and one by one he threw them across the room, shouting, "Why do you keep these pens if they don't work? Put them in the bin!"
Worse was to follow. He asked me to shred some confidential documents. I reminded him that we didn't have a shredder, but said I had a brilliant way of disposing of private data.
I don't put it in the recycling pile, I told him proudly: I put it in the proper dustbin and then find some mouldy soup from the fridge to pour on top of it.
"You do what?!" he said to me.
"It's a brilliant plan," I retorted. "No one fishes through old soup!"
"I'll take them to the office," he said coldly. "They can shred them there."
That Thursday, I guiltily left my desk and went to have lunch with old friends. When they asked me why I was looking so miserable, all I could manage was: "I'm working for Mark."
There was a chorus of "Are you crazy?" A couple of them had worked for their husbands, too, and their verdict was: "Never again."
That evening I reported this back to Mark. He didn't even bother to reply. We went on a weekend away at the end of the first week, where he begged me not to mention work. I didn't dare. I had already resigned twice and been sacked once. Where do you go from there?
I followed his example. I managed to shelve all work-related anxiety as we sat down on the beach together and gazed out to sea.
At the end of my second week, I now have Microsoft Office installed on my computer and I understand about templates. I have learned there's no point asking Mark about anything: he hasn't a clue about what goes on behind the scenes.
In fact, he hasn't a clue about what I've been through. Last night, he said over supper: "I've noticed that you're much more stressed than you used to be. Do you think that's because you're getting older?"
I needed a good solitary sulk after that. Women of Britain: however much you love your husband, think very carefully before you let him become your boss.
- Daily Mail
