We’re on our daily walk and Lizzie is telling me about the first job interview she’s had, post-chemo.
It’s to do concept-work on a new historical television drama. Sounds glamorous, doesn’t it? It is glamorous – compared to my shit-shovelling job on the boring side of film production.
‘The lady I had the interview with – the production designer on the show – couldn’t get her Zoom to work properly,’ says Lizzie, as we stride along the muddy path. ‘So I only saw her for the first thirty seconds of the interview.’
‘How old was she?’ I ask, expecting anyone who can’t work Zoom in this day and age to probably be over seventy.
‘Younger than us,’ shrugs Lizzie.
‘Huh,’ I say. ‘So did it go well?’
Lizzie nods. ‘Until she asked me what I’d been doing for the last eight months – ’cause there’s nothing on my LinkedIn.’
‘Ah,’ I reply. ‘So what did you say?’
‘I said the truth,’ says Lizzie. ‘I said I’d had grade three ovarian cancer.’
That’s quite a bombshell to drop in a job interview, I can’t help but think.
I try to look for positives in the situation. ‘So do you think they’ll hire you now out of pity?’ I ask.
‘Quite the opposite,’ says Lizzie. ‘Would you want to hire someone if you thought there’s a good chance they might die, before they’ve finished?’
I shrug. ‘It would be a conundrum, all right.’
We continue through the fields, past a recently-fallen tree which is blocking the path.
‘So how did the woman look,’ I now ask Lizzie, ‘when you told her you’ve had cancer?’
‘I don’t know,’ replies Lizzie. ‘She couldn’t get her Zoom to work.’
‘Probably no bad thing,’ I say.
We continue walking.
P. D. Clifton 
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