Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine

The drink I’d bought him was going to go to waste. I picked it up and drank it down, the whole pint, acrid and bitter tasting. I stood up and put on my jerkin. I’d visit the Powder Room one more time, and then I would get the train back into town. The party, it seemed, was over.

21

MONDAY, MONDAY. THINGS DIDN’T feel right; I hadn’t been able to relax yesterday, hadn’t been able to settle to anything. I just felt on edge, somehow. If my mood was a crossword clue, the answer would be ‘discombobulated’. I tried to think why, but was unable to arrive at a plausible conclusion. I’d ended up taking the bus into town in the afternoon (free of charge – thank you, travel pass) and gone back to see Bobbi Brown. Once again, Ms Brown herself had failed to report for duty – I feared her work ethic was somewhat lacking – and a different lady had made me up, almost the same as last time. On this occasion, I’d purchased the multiple products and tools required to recreate the same face at home.

The total cost exceeded my monthly council tax bill by some margin, but I was in such a strange mood that this did not deter me. I kept the painted face on all day, and had reapplied it this morning, in an almost exact facsimile. The lady had shown me what to do, including the careful blending of concealer over my scars. The smoky eye was a bit uneven today but that, she had said, was the beauty of a smoky eye – it didn’t need to be precise.

I’d forgotten I’d done it, until I got to the office and Billy whistled, a wolf whistle in fact, which made the others turn and look.

‘New hair, bit of lippy,’ he said, nudging me with his elbow. I shrank back. ‘Somebody’s hoping to get herself a bit of action, if I’m not mistaken?’

The women gathered round. I was wearing my new outfit too. ‘You look lovely, Eleanor!’ ‘Black really suits you.’ ‘I love those boots, where did you get them?’ I examined their faces, looking out for sly glances, waiting for a punchline. None was forthcoming.

‘Where did you get your hair done, by the way?’ Janey said. ‘It’s a very flattering cut.’

‘Heliotrope, in town,’ I said. ‘Laura did it. She’s a friend of mine,’ I said proudly. Janey looked impressed. ‘I might try them out,’ she said. ‘My hairdresser is moving up north, so I’m looking for someone new. Does your friend do wedding hair, d’you know?’

I rummaged in my shopper. ‘Here’s her card,’ I said, ‘why not give her a call?’

Janey beamed at me. Could this be right? I smiled back quickly – if in doubt, smile, remember – and made for my desk.

Was this how it worked, then, successful social integration? Was it really that simple? Wear some lipstick, go to the hairdressers and alternate the clothes you wear? Someone ought to write a book, or at least an explanatory pamphlet, and pass this information on. I had had more attention from them today (non-malevolent, positive attention, that is) than I’d had in the last few years. I smiled to myself, pleased that I’d unlocked part of the puzzle. An electronic message arrived.

You ran off on Saturday without saying cheerio – everything OK? R.

I hit reply.

Fine, thank you. I had simply had enough of the dancing and other people. E.

He replied instantly.

Lunch? Usual place, 12:30? R.

Much to my surprise, I realized that I actually liked the idea of having lunch with Raymond, and was genuinely pleased to be asked. We had a Usual Place! I steeled myself as best I could, and, with teeth gritted, using only one finger I typed:

C U there E.

I sat back, feeling a bit queasy. Illiterate communication was quicker, that was true, but not by much. I’d saved myself the trouble of typing four whole characters. Still, it was part of my new credo, trying new things. I’d tried it, and I very definitely did not like it. LOL could go and take a running jump. I wasn’t made for illiteracy; it simply didn’t come naturally. Although it’s good to try new things and to keep an open mind, it’s also extremely important to stay true to who you really are. I read that in a magazine at the hairdressers.

Raymond was already there when I arrived, chatting to a different yet almost identical young man with a beard from the one who’d served us last time. I ordered a frothy coffee and a cheese scone again, which made Raymond smile.

‘You’re a creature of habit, Eleanor, aren’t you?’

I shrugged.

‘You look nice, by the way,’ he said. ‘I like your …’ He gestured indistinctly at my face. I nodded.

‘People seem to like me better with makeup on, for some reason,’ I said. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged, apparently as stumped as I was.

The bearded man brought our food and Raymond began shovelling it into his face.

‘Did you have a good time on Saturday, then?’ he asked. I wished it had been between mouthfuls, but it was, in fact, horrifically, during one.

‘Yes, thank you,’ I said. ‘It was the first time I’ve tried dancing, and I quite enjoyed it.’ He kept forking the food into his mouth. The process, and the noise, seemed almost industrial in its relentlessness.