Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine

by Gail Honeyman

  “Go ahead,” I said, bracing myself. My experience of surprises is limited and not particularly positive. He fetched the cardboard box from the hall and placed it on the floor.

  “Now,” he said, “you don’t have to do this. My mum will be more than happy to oblige. I just thought . . . well . . .”

  He opened the lid very gently, and I instinctively took a step back.

  “Come on, darling,” he said, in a soft, crooning voice that I’d never heard him use before. “Don’t be frightened . . .”

  He reached in and lifted out the fattest cat I’d ever seen. It was, in theory, jet black, the darkness extending even to its nose and whiskers, but its thick fur was covered in bald patches which looked all the paler by comparison. He held it close to his chest and continued to whisper endearments in its ear. The creature looked distinctly underwhelmed.

  “What do you think?” he said.

  I stared into its green eyes, and it stared back. I took a step forward and he offered her to me. There was a bit of awkwardness as he passed her over, trying to transfer her bulk from his arms into mine, and then, all at once, it was done. I held her like a baby, close against my chest, and felt, rather than heard, her deep, sonorous purring. Oh, the warm weight of her! I buried my face in what remained of her fur and felt her turn her head toward me as she gently sniffed my hairline.

  Eventually, I looked up. Raymond was unpacking the other bag, which contained a disposable litter tray, a squishy cushion bed and a small box of kibble. The cat squirmed in my arms and landed on the carpet with a heavy thump. She strolled over to the litter tray, squatted down and urinated loudly, maintaining extremely assertive eye contact with me throughout. After the deluge, she lazily kicked over the traces with her back legs, scattering litter all over my freshly cleaned floor.

  A woman who knew her own mind and scorned the conventions of polite society. We were going to get along just fine.

  Raymond declined all of the biscuits on offer and also the tea. He requested beer or coffee, but I had neither. Taking care of guests was more challenging than I’d thought. Eventually, he settled for a glass of water, which he didn’t even drink. Desi, one of his flatmates, had rescued the cat from the back court of his flats last night, he told me. Someone had put her in a metal dustbin and set it alight—Desi had heard the screams when he was returning home from work. I stood up and ran toward the bathroom, where I vomited up the pink wafers. Raymond knocked gently on the door, but I shouted at him to leave me alone. When I came back, both he and the cat were sitting separately on the sofa. I sat down in the chair opposite, and they both watched me carefully.

  “Who would do such a thing, Raymond?” I said, when I could finally speak. Both he and the cat looked sad.

  “Sick fucks,” said Raymond, shaking his head. “Desi brought her in and we made sure she was OK. He’s allergic, though, so we can’t keep her. I was going to take her to the Cats Protection, or see if my mum wanted another one, but then . . . I dunno, I thought she might be a nice bit of company for you, Eleanor? Just say if not. It’s a big deal, having a pet—a lot of responsibility . . .”

  This was tricky. On the one hand, I could not deny that I was drawn to her. She had an undeniably rakish, alopecia-based charm and a devil-may-care attitude that would melt the hardest of hearts. I could tell that she was a cat that brooked no nonsense. She was, at the same time, a vulnerable creature, one which needed looking after. Therein lay the rub. Was I up to the task?

  I thought back to the counseling sessions, how we’d talked about thinking things through rationally, recognizing unhelpful patterns of behavior and being brave enough to try doing things differently. Come on, Eleanor, I said to myself. Be brave. This is not the same as before, not even close to it. She’s a cat, and you’re a grown woman. You’re more than capable of doing this.

  “I will assume the mantle of care, Raymond,” I said, firmly. “This creature will be looked after assiduously.”

  He smiled.

  “I’m sure she will be. She looks at home here already, right enough,” he said. The cat was now sprawled across the sofa cushions, for all intents and purposes asleep, although one ear twitched intermittently as she monitored the conversation.

  “What are you going to call her?” he said.

  I put my head on one side while I considered this. After a while, Raymond stood up.

  “I’m going to nip downstairs for a fag. I’ll leave the door on the latch,” he said.

  “Don’t blow the smoke toward my windows!” I shouted after him.

  When he came back ten minutes later, I told him that her name was Glen. He laughed.

  “Glen? That’s a boy’s name, surely?”

  I thought about all of those red labels, all those empty bottles. “She’s named after an old friend,” I said.

  The next day I woke with a start to find Glen lying beside me, her head on the pillow and her body under the covers, just like a human. Her huge green eyes were staring intently at me, as though she had willed me awake. She followed me into the kitchen and I gave her some water, which she ignored, and some kibble, which she bolted down and promptly vomited back up onto the kitchen floor. I turned away to get some cleaning materials from under the sink, but when I looked around, she was eating her sick back up again.

  “Good girl, Glen,” I said. Low maintenance.

  Raymond had only brought the bare minimum for her to spend the night, so, while she was snoozing on top of the duvet, I snuck out of the flat and took the bus to the retail park, where I knew that there was a big pet supplies store. I bought her a bigger, comfier bed, a proper litter tray with a covered roof for privacy, four different kinds of wet and dry food, and a sack of organic cat litter. I picked up a bottle of oil that was supposed to be good for her coat—a teaspoon was to be mixed in with her food every day. I didn’t care if her coat grew back or not, because she was fine just as she was, but I felt that she might be more comfortable without the bare patches of skin. She didn’t strike me as the type to enjoy playing with toys, but just in case, I bought a glittery ball and a huge fluffy mouse, the size of an old man’s slipper, which was stuffed with catnip. When I took the trolley to the till, I realized that I was going to have to call a taxi to get it all home. I felt quite proud of myself.

  The driver wouldn’t help me carry it upstairs, so it took me a few trips, and I was sweating by the time I got everything indoors. The expedition had taken over two hours, from start to finish. Glen was still asleep on the duvet.

  I spent the day pottering around the flat. Glen was good company: quiet, self-contained, mostly asleep. That evening, as I sat with a cup of tea and listened to a play on the radio, she jumped onto my lap and began kneading my thighs with her paws, claws partially unsheathed. It was slightly uncomfortable, but I could tell that she meant it kindly. After doing that for a minute or so, she settled herself carefully onto my lap and went to sleep. I needed to go to the bathroom about twenty minutes later, a necessity exacerbated by the fact that she was far from slender and was lounging with her full body weight directly atop my bladder. I tried to gently shift her to one side; she resisted. I tried again. On the third attempt, she got to her feet slowly, arched her back and then shuddered out a long, judgmental sigh, before dropping down onto the floor and waddling off toward her new bed. Once ensconced there, she glared at me as I left the room, maintaining the expression when I returned, and continued to glower at me throughout the evening. I wasn’t worried. I’d dealt with far, far worse things than an irritated feline.

  Raymond paid a visit again a few days later to see how Glen was settling in. I’d invited him and his mother, as he’d mentioned that she was keen and I imagined, as a cat obsessive, she’d enjoy meeting Glen. In any case, there were still plenty of biscuits left over from his previous visit, so it was not as though it was any trouble.

  They arrived in a black cab, which M
rs. Gibbons was very pleased about.

  “The driver was lovely, Eleanor, wasn’t he, Raymond?” she said. Raymond nodded, and I thought I detected a hint, just a tiny one, of weariness, as though it wasn’t the first time she’d gone over the topic during their short journey from the south to the west of the city. “Oh, he couldn’t have been nicer, helped me in—and out!—of the taxi, held the door open while I got my walking frame . . .”

  “That’s right, Mum,” he said, tucking her walking frame into the corner of the living room while she settled herself on the sofa. Glen, ever the iconoclast, had immediately gone to bed—my bed—as soon as they arrived, and there was nothing to see of her but a lightly snoring lump under the duvet. Mrs. Gibbons was disappointed, but I left her to peruse some photos on my phone while I went to make tea. Raymond joined me in the kitchen, leaning against the work top while he watched me pour. He placed a carrier bag next to me.

  “It’s nothing much,” he said. I peered inside. There was a white cardboard box, from a bakery, tied with ribbon. There was also a tiny tin of “gourmet” cat food. “How lovely!” I said, delighted.

  “I wasn’t sure what you liked, didn’t want to come empty-handed . . .” Raymond said, blushing. “I thought, well . . . you seem like the kind of person who likes nice things,” he said, looking up at me. “You deserve to have nice things,” he said firmly.

  This was strange. I must confess I was somewhat lost for words for a moment or two. Did I deserve nice things?

  “It’s funny, you know, Raymond,” I said. “Growing up with Mummy was very disorientating. Sometimes she gave us nice things, other times . . . not. I mean, one week we’d be dipping quail eggs in celery salt and shucking oysters, the next we’d be starving. I mean, you know, literally, deprived of food and water,” I said. His eyes widened.

  “Everything was always extreme, so extreme, with her,” I said, nodding to myself. “I used to long for normal. You know, three meals a day, ordinary stuff—tomato soup, mashed potatoes, cornflakes . . .”

  I untied the ribbons and looked inside the box. The sponge cake inside was an artful confection, chocolate ganache scattered with bright raspberry jewels. It was an ordinary luxury, which Raymond had chosen, especially for me.

  “Thank you,” I said, feeling tears threaten to well up. There was really nothing else I needed to say.

  “Thanks for inviting us, Eleanor,” he said. “Mum loves to get out, but she doesn’t often get the chance.”

  “You’re welcome anytime, both of you are,” I said, and I meant it.

  I set the cake on a tray with the tea things but, before I could pick it up, Raymond did the honors. I followed behind. He had had his hair cut, I noticed.

  “How are you feeling, Eleanor?” Mrs. Gibbons asked, once we were all settled. “Raymond mentioned that you’d been a bit under the weather recently?”

  She wore an expression of mild, polite concern, nothing more, and I realized, flushed with gratitude, that he hadn’t provided her with any details.

  “I’m feeling much better, thank you,” I said. “Raymond’s been keeping an eye on me. I’m very lucky.” He looked surprised. His mother did not.

  “He’s got a heart of gold, my boy,” she said, nodding. Raymond’s face looked like Glen’s did the time she noticed that I’d seen her trying and failing to jump from the sofa to the windowsill. I laughed.

  “We’re embarrassing you!” I said.

  “No, you’re embarrassing you,” he said, “rabbiting away about nothing like a proper pair of old biddies. Anyone want some more tea?” He reached forward for the teapot, and I saw he was smiling.

  The Gibbons were easy, pleasant company. We were all slightly surprised at how quickly time had passed when the prebooked taxi honked its horn in irritation an hour later, I think, and their departure was, by necessity, somewhat rushed.

  “Your turn to come to me next time, Eleanor,” she said, as they struggled out of the door with the walking frame, Raymond shrugging on his jacket at the same time. I nodded. She kissed me quickly on the cheek, the scarred one, and I didn’t even flinch.

  “Come again with Raymond one Sunday, have your tea, stay for a while,” she whispered. I nodded again.

  Raymond lumbered past me, then, before I could do anything about it, leaned in and kissed me on the cheek like his mother had done. “See you at work,” he said, and he was off, manhandling both her and her wheels down the stairs in a very precarious fashion. I put my hand to my face. They were quite a kissy family, the Gibbons—some families were like that.

  I washed up the cups and plates, at which point Glen finally decided to make an appearance. “That wasn’t very sociable, Glen,” I said. She stared up at me and let out a short sound, not really a meow, more of a chirp, strangely. The import—namely, that she didn’t give a fig—was abundantly clear. I spooned the special cat food that Raymond had brought into her bowl. This was met with considerable enthusiasm, although, regretfully, her table manners were sadly reminiscent of her benefactor’s.

  Raymond had left his tabloid newspaper behind on the chair in the living room—unfortunately, he often carried one rolled up in his back pocket. I leafed through it, just in case it had a halfway decent crossword, and stopped at page nine, my eyes drawn to the headline.

  Glasgow Evening Times

  Entertainment News

  PILGRIM PIONEERS DISCOVER AMERICA: Glasgow band tipped to be “bigger than Biffy”

  Scottish band Pilgrim Pioneers are celebrating this week after reaching number five in the American Billboard Top 100.

  The Glasgow-based four-piece look set to crack the lucrative US market after years of gigging locally in pubs and clubs.

  Their single “Don’t Miss You,” written after the acrimonious departure of their previous front man, was picked up last month by an industry insider via YouTube. Since then, it’s been broadcast nightly across the USA as the sound track to a big budget advert for a telecoms company.

  The band is set to head Stateside next month on a coast-to-coast tour.

  Reading this, I was taken straight back to another place, another person; the person I was trying to be and the changes I was trying and failing to make, to myself and in my life. The singer wasn’t ever the point, really; Maria Temple had helped me see that.

  In my eagerness to change, to connect with someone, I’d focused on the wrong thing, the wrong person. On the charge of being a catastrophic disaster, a failed human being, I was starting to find myself, with Maria’s help, not guilty.

  The story didn’t mention what Johnnie Lomond was doing now. It really didn’t matter. I folded up the newspaper—I could line Glen’s litter tray with it later.

  @johnnieLrocks 7h

  Massive congrats to the guys—great news and really, really well deserved. So chuffed for them #usa #bigtime

  [no likes]

  @johnnieLrocks 44m

  Fuck. Fuck fuck fuckety fuck fuck.

  [later deleted]

  33

  Maria seemed in a good mood when I arrived at her office, and I was too. It was an effort to switch my brain to alert mode when she started talking about the past again.

  “We haven’t spoken much about the fire. I wonder . . . are you happy to talk a bit about it?”

  I nodded, warily.

  “Good. Now, can you try closing your eyes for me, please, Eleanor? Sometimes it’s easier to access memories that way. Take a deep breath in, and then let it all out. Great. And another . . . good. Now, I want you to think back. You’re at home, and it’s the day before the fire. What do you remember? Anything? Take your time . . .”

  I’d been feeling so light and free earlier, so centered in myself, that I hadn’t had a chance to prepare myself properly for this. As I closed my eyes and exhaled to Maria’s count, I had the worrying realization that, before I was even properly aware of it, my br
ain was off accessing memories in places I didn’t want it to go, scurrying into rooms before I’d had a chance to block them off. My body felt heavy, in contrast to my mind, which floated, balloon-like, just beyond my reach. Now that it was happening, though, I accepted it with equanimity. There was a certain pleasure in ceding control.

  “Mummy. She’s angry. Mummy was sleeping but we’ve woken her up again. Mummy’s had enough of us now.” I feel tears on my cheeks as I relate this, but I don’t feel particularly sad. It’s as though I’m describing a film.

  “That’s great, Eleanor, you’re doing really well,” Maria said. “Can you tell me more about Mummy?”

  My voice is tiny. “I don’t want to,” I say.

  “You’re doing great, Eleanor. Let’s try to keep going. So, about Mummy . . . ?”

  I said nothing for the longest time, allowing my mind to wander where it needed to go in that house, letting the memories out like trapped birds. Finally, I whispered. Two words.

  “Where’s Marianne?”

  34

  Sunday. I had to leave the house at twelve to meet Raymond for lunch. Glen was dozing in her new bed, and I used the camera function on my mobile telephone to take some more shots of her. In the final picture, she had one paw covering her eyes as if to block out the light. I knelt down on the floor beside her and buried my face in the biggest patch of fur. She wriggled slightly, then increased the volume of her purring. I kissed the softness on the top of her head.

  “See you later, Glen,” I said. “I won’t be long.” She appeared blissfully untroubled by my imminent departure.

  When I was ready to leave, I opened the door as quietly as I could and tiptoed into the living room to check if she was still asleep. I found her on top of the giant catnip-stuffed mouse, both she and the rodent facing me, its glazed button eyes staring straight ahead. She had her front paws thrown over its mousy shoulders and was lazily kneading them while she humped it energetically from behind. I left them to it.