Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine

‘And did you always want to be a …’ I grappled for the word ‘… manicurist?’

‘Nail technician,’ she corrected me. She was intent on her task and did not look at me while she talked, which I approved of enormously. There is categorically no need for eye contact when the person concerned is wielding sharp implements.

‘I wanted either to work with animals or to be a nail technician,’ she continued. She had moved onto a hand massage now. More deluxe pampering, presumably, although I found it rather pointless and ineffectual, and was concerned for potential allergic reactions. Her hands were tiny, almost as small as mine (which are, unfortunately, abnormally small, like a dinosaur’s). I would have preferred a man’s hands to massage mine; larger, stronger, firmer. Hairier.

‘So yeah,’ she said, ‘I couldn’t decide between animals or nails, so I asked my mum, and she said I should go for nail technician.’ She picked up an emery board and began to shape my nails. It was an awkward process, one that would have definitely been easier to do oneself.

‘Is your mother an economist or a qualified careers advisor?’ I said. Casey stared at me. ‘Because, if not, then I’m not sure that her advice was necessarily informed by the latest data on earnings projections and labour market demand,’ I said, quite concerned for her future prospects.

‘She’s a travel agent,’ Casey said firmly, as if that settled the matter. I let it drop – it was no concern of mine, after all, and she seemed happy enough at her work. The thought did strike me, as she painted on various coats of various varnishes, that she could have perhaps combined the two professions by becoming a dog groomer. However, I elected to keep my counsel on the matter. Sometimes, when you tried to help with suggestions, it could lead to misunderstandings, not all of them entirely pleasant.

She placed my hands into a small machine which was, I assumed, a hairdryer for nails, and a few minutes later the deluxe pampering was done. All in all, the experience had been rather underwhelming.

She advised me of the price – it was, frankly, extortionate. ‘I have a leaflet!’ I said. She nodded, not even asking to check it, and deducted the requisite one-third, stating the revised amount, which still left me reeling. I reached for my shopper. She said ‘Stop!’ in a very alarming fashion. I did.

‘You’ll smudge them,’ she said. She leaned forward. ‘I’ll get your purse out for you, if you like?’

I was concerned that this might be some elaborate ruse to part me from even more of my hard-earned cash, so I watched her like the proverbial hawk as she reached inside my bag. Too late, I remembered the unfinished remains of the egg sandwich which lay within – she gagged ostentatiously as she removed my purse. A slight overreaction, I felt – yes, the odour which escaped was somewhat sulphurous, but still, no need for pantomime. I kept my eyes fixed on her fingers (unpainted, I noticed) as she extracted the required notes and replaced the purse in the shopper very carefully.

I stood up, ready to take my leave. Her erstwhile companion had returned, and cast a glance at my hands, their tips gleaming green. ‘Nice,’ she said, her tone and body language implying strongly that she had little interest in the topic. Casey became slightly more animated. ‘Would you like a loyalty card?’ she said. ‘Have five manicures and the sixth one’s free!’

‘No, thank you,’ I said. ‘I shan’t be having a manicure again. I can do the same thing myself at home, better, for nothing.’ Their mouths fell open slightly, but with that I was off, making my way back out into the world, dodging the squirters and the sample-pushers on my way past the perfume counters. I longed to be outside in natural light and fresh air again. The gilded confines of the Beauty Hall were not my preferred habitat; like the chicken that had laid the eggs for my sandwich, I was more of a free-range creature.

I got home after work and opened my wardrobe. What to wear to a party? I had two pairs of black trousers and five white blouses – well, they were white originally – which I wore to work. I had a comfortable pair of slacks, two T-shirts and two jumpers, which I wore at weekends. That left my special occasion outfit. I’d bought it for Loretta’s wedding reception years ago, and had worn it on a handful of occasions since, including a special visit to the National Museum of Scotland. The exhibition of newly discovered Roman trove had been tremendous; the journey to Edinburgh, far less so.