Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine

I had somewhat neglected my self-improvement plans of late, distracted by Sammy’s unfortunate accident and the events which had resulted from it. But it was time to refocus on my goal: the musician. I indulged in the sin of pride for a moment. My nails grow exceedingly fast, and they are strong and shiny. I attribute this to a diet high in the requisite vitamins, minerals and fatty acids, which are obtained from my well-planned luncheon regime. My nails are a tribute to the culinary excellence of the British high street. Not being a vain person, I merely cut them with clippers when they grow too long to allow for comfortable data input, and file down the resulting sharp corners so that they do not snag on fabric or scrape my skin unpleasantly when I am bathing. So far, so perfectly adequate. My nails are always clean – clean nails, like clean shoes, are fundamental to self-respect. Whilst I am neither stylish nor fashionable, I am always clean; that way, at least, I can hold my head up when I take my place, however unexalted, in the world.

I headed into town during my lunch break, eating my sandwich on the way in order to save time. On reflection, I wished that I had selected a less obtrusive filling; egg and cress was perhaps not the most judicious choice for a busy, warm train carriage, and both the sandwich and I were attracting disapproving looks from our fellow travellers. I abhor eating in public at the best of times, so the eight-minute journey was not a pleasant experience for anyone concerned.

I found the nail concession at the rear of the Beauty Hall, a vast chandelier-lit barn of mirrors, scents and noise. I felt like a trapped animal – a steer or a rabid dog – and imagined the chaos I’d cause if, careering wildly, I was corralled in there against my will. I clutched the leaflet tight in my fist, balled up inside my jerkin pocket.

‘Nails Etcetera’ – to what extras did the Latin term refer, I wondered? – appeared to consist of two bored children in white tunics, a breakfast bar with four stools, and a rack of polishes in every hue from clear to tar. I approached with caution.

‘WelcomeToN‌ailsEtcetr‌aHowCanIHe‌lpYouToday,’ said the smaller girl child. It took me a moment to translate.

‘Good afternoon,’ I said slowly, and in an exaggeratedly modulated voice, to give her a clue as to how one ought to speak in order to communicate effectively. She and her companion were both staring, their expressions a combination of alarm and … well, alarm, mainly. I smiled in what I hoped was a reassuring manner. They were so young, after all – perhaps this was some sort of work experience and they were awaiting the return of their teacher.

‘I’d like a Deluxe Pamper Manicure, please,’ I said, as clearly as I could. There was a long, still pause where nothing happened. The shorter one was first to wake from her trance.

‘Take a seat!’ she said, indicating the nearest stool. Her companion remained transfixed. The shorter one (Casey, according to her name badge) bustled about distractedly and then perched opposite, having first set down a kidney bowl slopping with hot soapy water. She swivelled the rack of polishes towards me.

‘What colour would you like?’ she said. My eye was drawn to a bright green hue, the same shade as a poisonous Amazonian frog, the tiny, delightfully deadly ones. I handed it to her. She nodded. She wasn’t actually chewing gum, but her demeanour was very much that of a gum chewer.

She took my hands and placed the tips of all ten fingers into the warm water. I kept a watchful eye to ensure that no other flesh made contact with the unknown detergent substances, for fear of inflaming my eczema. I sat there for several minutes, feeling rather foolish, while she rummaged in a nearby drawer and returned with a variety of stainless steel tools, carefully laid out on a tray. Her catatonic companion had finally sprung to life and was chatting enthusiastically to a co-worker at a different concession; I couldn’t discern the topic, but it seemed to prompt some eye-rolling and shrugging.

Casey deemed the moment apposite to remove my hands from the water, and she then laid them on a folded flannel. She carefully patted each fingertip dry. I wondered why she hadn’t simply asked me to remove my hands, using her voice, and passed me the towel, so I could dry them using my hands, since I was enjoying, at current point of reporting, full use and motor function in all limbs and extremities. Perhaps that was what pampering meant, though – literally, not having to lift a finger.

Casey set to work with the tools, pushing back my cuticles and trimming them where required. I essayed some chitchat, aware that this was the done thing in the circumstances.

‘Have you worked here long?’ I asked.

‘Two years,’ she said, to my astonishment – she appeared to be around fourteen years of age and, to the best of my knowledge, child labour was still outlawed in this country.