Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine

There was quite a queue, but I was enjoying the atmosphere. Blessed relief – the DJ was taking a break, and I could see him over in the corner, swigging from a can and talking morosely into his mobile telephone. There was a background hum of noise, male and female voices, and a lot of laughter. The children seemed to have multiplied, and had gravitated towards one another in order to form a merry band of mischief makers. It was clear that the adults were all occupied with the party, so they could run and whoop and chase each other with unsupervised abandon. I smiled at them, envied them slightly.

All of the people in the room seemed to take so much for granted: that they would be invited to social events, that they would have friends and family to talk to, that they would fall in love, be loved in return, perhaps create a family of their own. How would I celebrate my own fortieth birthday, I wondered. I hoped I would have people in my life to mark the occasion with me when the time came. Perhaps the musician, the light of my new life? One thing was certain, however: I would not, under any circumstances, be celebrating in a golf club.

When I returned to our table, it was empty. I put Raymond’s pint down and sipped my Magners. I supposed he’d found someone more interesting to talk to. I sat and watched the dancing – the DJ was back behind the decks, and had selected a cacophonous racket from a silver box of records, something about a man after midnight. I allowed my mind to wander. I’ve found this to be a very effective way of passing the time; you take a situation or a person and start to imagine nice things that might happen. You can make anything happen, anything at all, inside a daydream.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and jumped.

‘Sorry,’ Raymond said. ‘I nipped to the gents, got talking to someone on the way back.’

I felt the heat where his hand had been; it was only a moment, but it left a warm imprint, almost as though it might be visible. A human hand was exactly the right weight, exactly the right temperature for touching another person, I realized. I’d shaken hands a fair bit over the years – more so recently – but I hadn’t been touched in a lifetime.

Of course, Declan and I had had regular sexual intercourse, whenever he wanted to, but he never really touched me. He made me touch him, told me how and when and where, and I did so. I had no choice in the matter, but I remembered feeling like another person at those times, like it wasn’t my hand, like it wasn’t my body. It was simply a case of waiting for it to be over. I was thirty years old, I realized, and I had never walked hand in hand with anyone. No one had ever rubbed my tired shoulders, or stroked my face. I imagined a man putting his arms around me and holding me close when I was sad or tired or upset; the warmth of it, the weight of it.

‘Eleanor?’ Raymond said.

‘Sorry, I was miles away,’ I said, sipping my Magners.

‘Seems to be going well,’ he said, gesturing around the room. I nodded.

‘I was chatting to Sammy’s other son, Gary, and his girlfriend,’ he said. ‘They’re a good laugh.’

I looked around again. What would it be like in future, going to events like this on the arm of the musician? He’d make sure I was comfortable, dance with me if I wanted to (unlikely), make friends with the other guests. And then, at the end of the evening, we’d slip away together, home, to nest like turtle doves.

‘We seem to be the only people here who aren’t part of a couple,’ I told him, having observed the other guests.

He screwed up his face. ‘Aye – listen, thanks for coming with me. It’s shite going to stuff like this on your own, isn’t it?’

‘Is it?’ I said, interested. ‘I don’t have a control situation to compare it with.’

He looked at me. ‘You’ve always been on your own, then?’ he said. ‘You mentioned that guy last week, the one that …’ I saw him reach for words, ‘the one that you were with when you were at uni?’

‘As you know, I was with Declan for a couple of years,’ I said. ‘And you also know how that turned out.’ More Magners. ‘You get used to being on your own,’ I said. ‘Actually, it really is much better than being punched in the face or raped.’

Raymond choked on his pint, and took a moment to recover himself. He spoke very gently.

‘You do realize, Eleanor, that those are not your only options, don’t you? Not all men are like Declan, you know.’

‘I do know!’ I said, brightly. ‘I’ve met one!’

In my mind’s eye, I saw the musician bringing me freesias, kissing the nape of my neck. Raymond looked uncomfortable, for some reason.