Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine

by Gail Honeyman

  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 with 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 turtledoves.

  “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.

  “I’ll just nip to the bar,” he said. “You still on the Magners?” I felt strange, stirred up. “I’ll have a vodka with cola, please,” I said, knowing from experience that vodka would be good for whatever ailed me. I watched Raymond shuffle off. If he would only stand up straight, and shave! He needed to buy some nice shirts and some proper shoes, and read a book or two instead of playing computer games. How could he ever hope to find a nice girl otherwise?

  Keith came up to the table and thanked me for coming. I gave him his birthday present, which he seemed to find genuinely surprising. He looked at each item in turn with an expression that I found hard to read, but I quickly eliminated “boredom” and “indifference.” I felt happy; it was a nice feeling, giving someone a gift, the kind of unique, thoughtful present that he wouldn’t have received from anyone else. He put the carrier bag on a nearby table.

  “Would you, eh, would you like to dance, Eleanor?”

  My heart started to pump faster. Dance! Could I?

  “I’m not sure I know how,” I said.

  Keith laughed, and pulled me to my feet.

  “Come on,” he said, “you’ll be fine.”

  We’d only just reached the wooden dancing area when the music changed, and he groaned.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but there’s no way. I’m going to have to sit this one out. Birthday boy privileges!”

  I watched as some people left the dance floor and others flocked to take their place. The music had a lot of brass instruments and a fast beat. Michelle, Gary’s girlfriend, beckoned me over and pulled me into a small group of women, around the same age, who smiled at me and looked very happy. I joined in with what seemed to be jigging on the spot. Some people moved their arms as though they were jogging, some people were pointing at nothing; it appeared that you were supposed to move your body around in any way you saw fit, as long as it was in time with the music, which was a steady eight beats, helpfully marked out by a drum. Then the beat changed abruptly and everyone started doing the same thing, making strange shapes with their arms above their head. It took me a moment or two to learn the shapes, and then I was able to copy them. Free-form jigging, communal shapes in the air; free-form jigging, communal shapes in the air. Dancing was easy!

  I found myself not thinking about anything, sort of like how the vodka worked, but different, because I was with people and I was singing. YMCA! YMCA! Arms in the air, mimicking the letters—what a marvelous idea! Who knew that dancing could be so logical?

  During the next free-form jigging section, I started to wonder why the band was singing about, presumably, the Young Men’s Christian Association, but then, from my very limited exposure to popular music, people did seem to sing about umbrellas and fire-starting and Emily Brontë novels, so, I supposed, why not a gender- and faith-based youth organization?

  The song finished and another one began; this one was not nearly so much fun, being entirely free-form jigging with no communal arm patterns in between, but nevertheless I remained on the dance floor, with the same group of smiling women, feeling that I was in the swing of things now. I was beginning to understand why people might find dancing enjoyable, although I wasn’t sure I could manage an entire evening of it. I felt a quick tap on my shoulder and turned around, expecting Raymond to be there, a smile ready as I thought how he’d like to hear about the arm-shape dance, but it wasn’t him.

  It was a man in his mid- to late thirties, whom I’d never met before. He smiled and raised his eyebrows, like a question, and then simply started free-form jigging in front of me. I turned back to the group of smiling women, but the circle had reformed without me. The man, red-faced, short, with the pasty look of someone who has never eaten an apple, continued to jig enthusiastically, if somewhat unrhythmically. At a loss as to how to respond, I resumed my dancing. He leaned forward and said something, which, naturally, was rendered inaudible by the volume of the music.

  “I beg your pardon?” I shouted.

  “I said,” he shouted, much louder than before, “how do you know Keith?”

  What a bizarre question to ask a stranger.

  “I assisted his father when he had an accident,” I said. I had to repeat this twice before the man understood—perhaps he had some sort of hearing impairment. When it had finally penetrated, he looked intrigued. He lunged forward toward me with what I could only describe as a leer.

  “Are you a nurse?” he said.

  “No,” I said, “I’m a finance administration assistant.” He seemed to be at a bit of a loss for words after that, and I looked ceiling-ward as we jigged in order to discourage further conversation; it was quite challenging to dance and speak at the same time.

  When the song ended, I’d had enough for the time being, and felt in fairly urgent need of refreshment.

  “Can I get you a drink?” the man yelled, over the top of the next song. I wondered whether the DJ had ever considered introducing a five-minute brea
k between records, to allow people to go to the bar or the lavatory in peace. Perhaps I should suggest that to him later.

  “No thank you,” I said. “I don’t want to accept a drink from you, because then I would be obliged to purchase one for you in return, and I’m afraid I’m simply not interested in spending two drinks’ worth of time with you.”

  “Eh?” he said, cupping his hand around his ear. Clearly he had tinnitus or some other hearing impairment. I communicated via mime, simply shaking my head and waving my index finger, while mouthing NO. I turned around and went in search of the lavatory before he attempted any further conversation.

  It was difficult to find, located down a corridor, and I could only see signs for a Powder Room. This, it eventually transpired, meant Lavatories. Why don’t people just call things what they are? It’s confusing. There was a queue, which I joined, standing behind a very inebriated woman who was dressed inappropriately for her age. I do feel that tube tops are best suited to the under twenty-fives, if, indeed, they are suited to anyone.

  A sheer, sparkly jacket was doing an inadequate job of covering up her enormous, crepey bosom. Her makeup, which would have been subtle had it been intended for a stage performance in the Royal Albert Hall, had started to run. For some reason, I could imagine this woman sobbing on the stairs at the end of the night. I surprised myself with the insight, but there was something rather febrile about her demeanor which led one to this conclusion.

  “How much of your life do you think you’ve wasted queuing for the bogs?” she asked, conversationally. “They never have enough of them, do they?”

  I didn’t speak, as I was trying to calculate the approximate queuing time, but she didn’t seem to mind that I hadn’t responded.

  “It’s all right for the men, isn’t it?” she went on, in an angry tone. “There’s never a queue for the Gents. Sometimes I feel like just going in there, squatting over the urinal. Ha!” she said. “Imagine their faces!” She laughed, a long, smoky laugh that turned into a protracted cough.

  “Oh, but I think it would be terribly unhygienic in the Gentlemen’s toilets,” I said. “They don’t seem to mind so much about cleanliness and that sort of thing.”

  “No,” she said, her voice full of bitterness, “they just come in, piss everywhere and then waltz off, leaving someone else to clean up after them.” She gazed unsteadily off into the distance, clearly with a specific individual in mind.

  “I feel quite sorry for them, actually,” I said. She glared at me, and I hurried to clarify my statement. “I mean, imagine having to micturate in a row, alongside other men, strangers, acquaintances, friends even? It must be dreadful. Just think how odd it would be if we had to display our genitals to one another when we finally reached the front of this queue!”

  She belched, very gently, and stared with uninhibited frankness at my scars. I turned my head away.

  “You’re a bit mental, aren’t you?” she said, not in the least aggressively, but slurring her words somewhat. It was hardly the first time I’d heard this.

  “Yes,” I said, “yes, I suppose I am.” She nodded, like I had confirmed a long-held suspicion. We didn’t talk after that.

  When I returned to the function suite, the mood had changed—the pace of the music was slower. I went to the bar and bought myself a Magners and a vodka and cola, and, after a moment’s thought, a pint of beer for Raymond. It was quite tricky to carry it all back to our little table, but I managed without spilling a drop. I was glad to sit down, after all the jigging and queuing, and finished my vodka in two gulps—dancing was thirsty work. Raymond’s denim coat was still slung over the back of his chair, but there was no sign of him. I thought he had perhaps gone outside to smoke. I had a lot to tell him, about the dancing, about the queue lady, and I was looking forward to doing so.

  The music changed again, and was now even slower. Lots of people left the floor, and those who remained drifted together. It was a strange sight, like something from the natural world; monkeys, perhaps, or birds. The women all put their arms around the men’s necks, and the men put their arms around the women’s waists. They swayed from side to side, shuffling their feet awkwardly, either looking into one another’s faces, or else resting their heads on each other’s shoulders.

  It was some sort of mating ritual, clearly. But then, might it not be quite pleasurable, to sway in time to slow music, pressed close against someone rather wonderful? I looked at them all again, the various sizes and shapes and permutations of them. And there, in the middle, was Raymond, dancing with Laura. He was speaking into her ear, close enough to be able to smell her perfume. She was laughing.

  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 re-create 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 punch line. 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 (nonmalevolent, 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 sur
prise, 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 shoveling 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.