Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine

I nodded, trying to hold on to the feeling of my hands in his, cosy and safe, and the look of kindness and warmth in his eyes. I found, to my extreme consternation, that nascent tears were forming in my eyes, and I turned away to rub them before they could spill over. Annoyingly, Raymond, usually the least observant of men, had noticed.

‘What you doing for the rest of the day, Eleanor?’ Raymond asked gently. I looked at my watch. It was almost four.

‘I suppose I’ll return home, perhaps read for a while,’ I said. ‘There’s a radio programme on later where people write in to request excerpts of items they’ve enjoyed during the week. That can often be reasonably entertaining.’

I was also thinking that I might buy some more vodka, just a half-bottle, to top up what remained. I yearned for that brief, sharp feeling I get when I drink it – a sad, burning feeling – and then, blissfully, no feelings at all. I had also seen the date on Sammy’s newspaper and remembered that today was, in fact, my birthday. Annoyingly, I’d forgotten to ask the nurse where she had purchased her wasp socks – those could have been my present to myself. I decided that I might buy some freesias instead. I have always loved their delicate scent and the softness of their colours – they have a kind of subdued luminosity which is much more beautiful than a garish sunflower or a clichéd red rose.

Raymond was looking at me. ‘I’m going to my mum’s now,’ he said.

I nodded, blew my nose, and zipped up my jerkin in preparation for the journey home.

‘Listen – d’you fancy coming with me?’ Raymond said, just as I was turning towards the gate.

Under no circumstances, was my immediate thought.

‘I go over most Sundays,’ he went on. ‘She doesn’t get out much – I’m sure she’d love to see a new face.’

‘Even one like mine?’ I said. I couldn’t imagine that anyone would take any particular pleasure in looking at my face, either for the first or for the thousand-and-first time. Raymond ignored me and began to rummage in his pockets.

I thought about his suggestion while he lit up another cigarette. I could still purchase vodka and birthday flowers on the way home, after all, and it might be interesting to see the inside of another person’s home. I tried to think of the last time I had done so. I had stood in the hallway of my downstairs neighbours’ flat a couple of years ago, when I was delivering a parcel I’d taken in for them. The place had smelled strongly of onions, and there was an ugly standard lamp in the corner. A few years before that, one of the receptionists had hosted a party at her flat and invited all the women from work. It was a beautiful flat, a traditional tenement with stained glass and mahogany and elaborate cornices. The ‘party’, however, had merely been a pretext, a ruse of sorts to provide her with the opportunity to attempt to sell us sex toys. It was a most unedifying spectacle; seventeen drunken women comparing the efficacy of a range of alarmingly large vibrators. I left after ten minutes, having downed a tepid glass of Pinot Grigio and parried an outrageously impertinent question from a cousin of the host about my private life.

I’m familiar with the concept of bacchanalia and Dionysian revels, of course, but it strikes me as utterly bizarre that women should want to spend an evening together drinking and purchasing such items, and, indeed, that this should pass as ‘entertainment’. Sexual union between lovers should be a sacred, private thing. It should not be a topic for discussion with strangers over a display of edible underwear. When the musician and I spent our first night together, the joining of our bodies would mirror the joining of our minds, our souls. His otherness; the flash of dark hair in his armpit, the buttons of bone at his clavicle. The blood scent in the crook of his elbow. The warm softness of his lips, as he takes me in his arms and …

‘Erm, Eleanor? Hello? I was just saying … we’ll need to go now to catch the bus, if you’re coming to Mum’s?’

I dragged myself back to the unwelcome present and the squat figure of Raymond, with his grubby hooded sweatshirt and dirty training shoes. Perhaps Raymond’s mother would prove intelligent and charming company. I doubted it, based on the evidence of her progeny, but one never knew.

‘Yes, Raymond. I will accompany you to your mother’s house,’ I said.

10

OF COURSE RAYMOND DIDN’T have a car. I would guess he was in his mid thirties, but there was something adolescent, not fully formed, about him. It was partly the way he dressed, of course. I had yet to see him in normal, leather footwear; he wore training shoes at all times, and seemed to own a wide range of colours and styles. I have often noticed that people who routinely wear sportswear are the least likely sort to participate in athletic activity.