Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine

When I sat back down at my computer, I stared at the screen for some time, not actually reading the words. I felt slightly sick at the thought of all the dilemmas I faced, to the extent that, although it was almost lunchtime, I had no desire to buy and eat my Meal Deal. It might be helpful to talk to someone about it all, I realized. I remembered that from the past. Apparently, talking was good; it helped to keep anxieties in perspective. People had kept saying that. Talk to someone, do you want to talk about it, tell me how you feel, anything you want to share with the group, Eleanor? You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Miss Oliphant, can you tell us in your own words what you recall of the events that took place that evening?

I felt a tiny trickle of sweat run down my back, and a fluttering in my chest like a trapped bird. The computer made that annoying ping which indicates the arrival of an electronic message. I clicked on it without thinking. How I despise these Pavlovian responses in myself!

Hi E, you still on for Keith’s party Saturday? Meet you at the station 8ish? R

He had attached a graphic: a photograph of a famous politician’s face, next to a head shot of a dog that looked exactly like him. I snorted – the resemblance was uncanny. Underneath he’d written Wednesday morning LOLs, whatever that meant.

Impulsively I typed straight back:

Good morning, Raymond. The canine/ministerial graphic was most amusing. Would you happen to be free for lunch at 12.30 by any chance? Regards, Eleanor

There was no reply for almost fifteen minutes, and I began to regret my impulsive decision. I hadn’t ever invited anyone to join me for lunch before. I conducted my usual online checks for any updates from the musician – there was nothing new on Facebook, Twitter or Instagram, sadly. It made me feel anxious when he went quiet. I suspected it meant he was either very sad, or, perhaps more worryingly, that he was very happy. A new girlfriend?

I felt queasy, and was thinking that perhaps I wouldn’t go for the full Meal Deal today, just an antioxidant smoothie and a small bag of wasabi peanuts, when another message arrived.

Soz – had to deal with a helpdesk call. Told him to switch it off and switch it back on again LOL. Yeh, lunch would be good. See you out front in 5? R.

I hit reply.

That would be fine. Thank you.

Daringly, I didn’t put my name, because I realized he’d know it was from me.

Raymond was late, arriving in eight rather than the promised five minutes, but I decided not to make anything of it on this one occasion. He suggested we went to a café he liked around the corner.

It wasn’t the sort of place I would normally frequent, being rather bohemian and shabby-looking, with mismatched furniture and a lot of cushions and throws. What was the likelihood of them being laundered on any sort of regular basis, I wondered. Minimal at best. I shuddered at the thought of all those microbes; the warmth of the café and the dense fibres of the cushions would be a perfect breeding ground for dust mites and perhaps even lice. I sat at a table with ordinary wooden chairs and no soft furnishings.

Raymond seemed to know the waiter, who greeted him by name when he brought the menus. The staff seemed to be the same sort of person as him: unkempt, scruffy, badly dressed, both the men and the women.

‘The falafel’s usually good,’ he said, ‘or the soup –’ pointing to the Specials board.

‘Cream of cauliflower and cumin,’ I said, reading aloud. ‘Oh no. No, I really don’t think so.’

I was still in gastric turmoil after my meeting with Bob, and so I simply ordered a frothy coffee and a cheese scone. Whatever Raymond was eating smelled disgusting, like gently reheated vomit. He ate noisily with his mouth partially open, so that I had to look away. It made it easier to broach the subject of Bob’s offer and the task he had entrusted me with.

‘May I ask you something, Raymond?’ I said. He slurped his cola and nodded. I looked away again. The man who had served us was lounging at the counter, nodding his head in time with the music. It was a cacophonous din, with too many guitars and not enough melody. It was, I thought, the sound of madness, the kind of music that lunatics hear in their heads just before they slice the heads off foxes and throw them into their neighbour’s back garden.

‘I’ve been offered a promotion, to the position of office manager,’ I said. ‘Do you think I should accept?’

He stopped chomping and took another slurp of his drink.