Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine

by Gail Honeyman

  Ever since the session, all I could think about was Marianne. Marianne Marianne Marianne; I turned the name over and over in my mind like a coin between my fingers. Dr. Temple had asked me to prepare myself to talk about her again in our next session. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Is knowing always better than not knowing? Discuss.

  Raymond, untroubled by philosophical questions, was already there when I arrived at the Black Dog, reading the Sunday Mail and sipping a pint.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said.

  His face was paler than usual, and when he stood up to hug me, I could smell old as well as new beer, in addition to the usual reek of cigarettes.

  “How’s it going?” he said, his voice sounding scratchy.

  “How are you?” I said. He didn’t look well.

  He groaned. “I nearly texted you to cancel, to be honest,” he said. “Had a bit of a late one last night.”

  “Did you and Laura go on a date?” I said.

  He boggled at me. “How on earth did you know that?” he asked, sounding incredulous.

  I remembered something I’d seen Billy do in the office, and tapped the side of my nose with my index finger knowingly.

  He laughed. “I think you might have a bit of witch in you, Eleanor,” he said.

  I shrugged. I even had a black cat now to prove it.

  “I bumped into Laura a while back, actually,” I explained. “She told me you were seeing each other.”

  He took a big gulp of his pint.

  “Right. Yeah, she’s been in touch a few times, asking if I wanted to meet up. We went to see a film last night, had a couple of drinks afterward.”

  “That sounds nice,” I said. “Is she your girlfriend now, then?”

  He signaled to the waiter to bring him another pint.

  “Laura’s a lovely girl,” he said, “but I don’t think I’m going to be seeing her again.”

  A staff member brought Raymond’s beer and some menus, and I asked for a Dandelion and Burdock. Weirdly, considering it was a smart bar in the city center, they didn’t have any, so I had to make do with a Dr. Pepper.

  “Why not?” I said. “Laura’s very glamorous.”

  Raymond sighed. “It’s a bit more complicated than that, Eleanor, isn’t it?” he said. “I think she’s probably a bit . . . high maintenance for me, if you know what I mean?”

  “Not really, no,” I said.

  “She’s not my type, to be honest.” He took a noisy mouthful of beer. “I mean, looks are important, of course they are, but you’ve got to be able to have a laugh, enjoy each other’s company too, you know? I’m not sure me and Laura have got that much in common.”

  I shrugged, not knowing how best to respond. It was hardly my area of expertise.

  We were silent for a moment. He was looking terribly pale and uncomfortable. Classic hangover symptoms. Thankfully I never suffered from them, blessed as I am with an iron constitution.

  I ordered an omelet made by the chef, Arnold Bennett, and Raymond went for the full cooked breakfast with extra fried bread.

  “Had quite a lot of Jack Daniel’s with Desi after I got home last night,” he explained. “That should soak it up.”

  “Don’t make a habit of the drinks, Raymond,” I said sadly. “You don’t want to end up like me, do you?”

  Raymond reached for my arm, held it for a moment.

  “You’re doing just fine, Eleanor,” he said.

  The food came, and I tried not to look at Raymond as he ate. It was never a pretty sight. I wondered how Glen was doing. Would it be possible to bring her out somewhere like this, if she could sit in some sort of high chair at the table with us? I could see no reason against it but for the small-minded anti-feline contingent who might complain.

  “Look, Raymond!” I said, thrusting my phone in his face. He glanced at the first four pictures.

  “Ah, that’s nice, Eleanor,” he said. “She looks really settled at your place.”

  “Keep scrolling,” I said. He flicked through a few more in a desultory fashion; I could tell he was losing interest. Pearls before swine.

  We talked about inconsequential matters as we waited for our coffee. When it arrived, there was a lull in the conversation, and Raymond poured a sachet of sugar onto the table. He began to draw in the grains with his forefinger, humming tunelessly as he tended to do when he was feeling anxious. His cuticles were bitten and his nails didn’t look too clean—he could be such an annoying man sometimes.

  “Eleanor,” he said, “look, I’ve got something to tell you, and you’ve got to promise not to be angry with me.”

  I sat back and waited for him to continue.

  “I’ve been doing some research online about your mum, about what happened back then.”

  I stared at the grains of sugar. How could each one be so tiny, and yet so perfectly angular?

  “Eleanor?” he said. “I’m not sure if what I found is right, but I googled arson, and the year it happened, and London, and there are some newspaper articles you might want to take a look at. We don’t have to if you don’t want to. I just wanted you to know, in case . . . well, in case you changed your mind about finding stuff out.”

  I went to the happy place in my mind for a moment, the pink and white fluffy place with bluebirds and gentle babbling streams and, now, a semi-bald cat purring noisily.

  “Where did you say your mum is these days?” he asked, very gently.

  “I don’t know,” I mumbled. “She’s the one who contacts me. It’s never the other way around.” I tried to fathom his expression. I find it hard to work out people’s expressions sometimes. The cryptic crossword is much, much easier. If I had to guess what was showing on his face, I would have said: sadness, pity, fear. Nothing good. But the underlying feeling was one of kindness, gentleness. He was sad and afraid for me, but he wouldn’t hurt me, and didn’t have the slightest desire to do so. I took some comfort in that.

  “Look, we won’t talk about it anymore, OK? I just wanted to say that . . . if anything comes back to you . . . in counseling or whatever . . . I might be able to give you some answers, you know? But only if you want them,” he added quickly.

  I thought about this. I began to feel the vague inklings of irritation.

  “Raymond,” I said, “I really don’t think it’s appropriate for you to try to direct me toward this, not before I’m ready. I’m making perfectly good progress on my own, you know,” I told him. Be patient, Marianne. I’m coming. I looked at his face, which was even paler now than when he first sat down. His mouth hung open very slightly and his eyes were glassy and tired. It wasn’t an attractive look.

  “You’re not the only person who knows how to use a search engine, you know. It’s my life, and when I’m good and ready, I’m more than capable”—I treated him to one of my more direct looks—“of finding out exactly what happened for myself.”

  He nodded, and started to speak. I held up my hand, palm facing forward, to stop him. It was a very rude gesture and I must confess to an illicit thrill of pleasure as I made it. I followed this up by taking a long, pointed draft of my Dr. Pepper. Unfortunately, it was almost finished, and the straw made a very unpleasant slurping sound, but I think I managed to get my point across quite effectively nonetheless.

  After I finished my drink, I caught the waiter’s eye and indicated that I’d like him to bring the bill. Raymond had his head in his hands, not saying anything. I felt a rush of pain in my chest. I’d hurt his feelings—Raymond. I put my hand over my mouth and felt tears form. He looked up at me, then leaned over and took both my hands, quite assertively, in his. He puffed out some stale air from inside his hairy little beard.

  “I’m so sorry.” We both spoke the words at exactly the same time. We tried again, and the same thing happened. Suddenly, I laughed, and he did too. Short bursts, at first, and the
n for longer. It was proper, genuine laughter, the kind that makes your whole body shake. My mouth was wide open, my breath slightly wheezy, my eyes shut tight. I felt vulnerable, and yet very relaxed and comfortable. I imagined that vomiting or going to the lavatory in front of him would feel the same way.

  “Look, it’s totally my fault,” he said, when we’d finally calmed down. “I’m so sorry if I upset you, Eleanor. I shouldn’t even have brought it up, especially today when I’m hung over—my brain feels mashed,” he said. “You’re absolutely right. It’s your business, and your decision. One hundred percent.”

  He was still holding on to my hands. It was extremely pleasant.

  “It’s fine, Raymond,” I said, and I meant it. “I’m sorry if I overreacted. I know that you’re a kind man who means well, and you were only trying to help.” I ventured a small smile at the sight of his face, which was full of relief.

  He let go of my hands very gently. I hadn’t really noticed his eyes before. They were green, flecked with brown. Very unusual.

  He smiled again, then put his palms up to his face and rubbed it, groaning quietly.

  “Christ,” he said. “I can’t believe I’ve got to visit my mum now and see to the cats. I just want to crawl back to bed and sleep until Tuesday.”

  I tried not to smile, and paid the bill—he protested, but I took full advantage of his weakened state.

  “Do you want to come with me?” he said. “She’d love to see you.”

  I didn’t even consider it. “No thank you, not today, Raymond,” I said. “Glen will have had a bowel movement by now, and I don’t like to leave her feces in the tray for more than an hour or two, in case she needs to urinate again afterward.”

  Raymond stood up quickly. “Just nipping to the Gents,” he said.

  I bought some cat food for Glen on the way home. The thing about Glen is that, despite her offhand manner, she loves me. I know she’s only a cat. But it’s still love; animals, people. It’s unconditional, and it’s both the easiest and the hardest thing in the world.

  Sometimes, after counseling sessions, I desperately wanted to buy vodka, lots of it, take it home and drink it down, but in the end I never did. I couldn’t, for lots of reasons, one of which was that if I wasn’t fit to, then who would feed Glen? She isn’t able to take care of herself. She needs me.

  It isn’t annoying, her need—it isn’t a burden. It’s a privilege. I’m responsible. I chose to put myself in a situation where I’m responsible. Wanting to look after her, a small, dependent, vulnerable creature, is innate, and I don’t even have to think about it. It’s like breathing.

  For some people.

  35

  We had increased our counseling sessions to twice a week, which had sounded excessive when Maria first proposed it, but I was finding, to my surprise, that this was barely enough. I hoped I wasn’t turning into one of those needy people, though, the kind who are always droning on about themselves and their problems. Boring.

  I was slowly getting used to talking about my childhood, having spent the best part of thirty years studiously avoiding the subject. That said, every time the topic of Marianne came up, I sidestepped it. Before each session, I told myself that this would be the right time to talk about her, but then, when it came to it, I just couldn’t do it. Today, Dr. Temple had asked about Marianne again of course and, when I’d shaken my head, she suggested that it might be helpful to think about my childhood as two discrete periods; before and after the fire, as a way of getting to the topic of Marianne. Yes, I said, it might be helpful. But very, very painful.

  “So what’s your happiest memory from before the fire?” she said. I thought hard. Several minutes went by.

  “I remember moments here and there, fragments, but I can’t think of a complete incident,” I said. “No, wait. A picnic, at school. It must have been the end of term, or something like that—we all were outside, at any rate, in the sunshine.” It wasn’t much to go on, and certainly not a detailed recollection.

  “What was it about that day that made you feel so happy, d’you think?” She spoke gently.

  “I felt . . . safe,” I said. “And I knew Marianne was safe too.”

  Yes, that was it. Marianne—don’t think too hard—that’s right, her nursery class was there that day too. We all got a packed lunch, cheese sandwiches and an apple. The sunlight, the picnic. Marianne and I had walked home together after school, as we always did, going as slowly as we could and telling each other about our day. The walk home wasn’t long. It was never long enough. She was funny, a gifted mimic. It hurt to remember how much she’d made me laugh.

  School had been a place of refuge. Teachers asked how you got your cuts and bruises, sent you to the nurse to have them dressed. The nit nurse combed your hair gently, so gently, said you could keep the elastics because you’d been such a good girl. School dinners. I could relax at school, knowing Marianne was at nursery, safe and warm. The little ones had their own special peg to hang their coats on. She loved it there.

  It wasn’t long after the picnic that Mummy found out Mrs. Rose had been asking about my bruises. We were homeschooled after that, all day every day—no more escaping from nine till four, Monday to Friday. Worse and worse, quicker and quicker, hotter and hotter, fire. I’d brought it on myself as usual, my own stupid fault, stupid Eleanor, and, worst of all, I’d dragged Marianne into it too. She’d done nothing wrong. She’d never done anything wrong.

  Dr. Temple pushed the tissues toward me and I wiped the tears from my cheeks.

  “You mentioned Marianne a lot there,” she said gently, “when you were talking about your day-to-day life.”

  I was ready to say it out loud. “She’s my sister,” I said.

  We sat for a moment and I let the words crystallize. There she was: Marianne. My little sister. My missing piece, my absent friend. The tears were coursing down my cheeks now, and Maria let me sob until I was ready to speak.

  “I don’t want to talk about what happened to her,” I said. “I’m not ready to do that!”

  Maria Temple was very calm. “Don’t worry, Eleanor. We’ll take this one step at a time. Acknowledging that Marianne is your sister is a huge thing. We’ll get to the rest, in time.”

  “I wish I could talk about it now,” I said, furious with myself. “But I can’t.”

  “Of course, Eleanor,” she said, calmly. She paused. “Do you think that’s because you can’t remember what happened to Marianne? Or is it because you don’t want to?” Her voice was very gentle.

  “I don’t want to,” I said slowly, quietly. I rested my elbows on my knees and put my head in my hands.

  “Be gentle with yourself, Eleanor,” Maria said. “You’re doing incredibly well.”

  I almost laughed. It certainly didn’t feel like I was doing well.

  Before and after the fire. Something fundamental had gone missing in the flames: Marianne.

  “What do I do?” I said, desperate, suddenly, to move forward, to get better, to live. “How do I fix this? How do I fix me?”

  Dr. Temple put down her pen and spoke firmly but gently.

  “You’re doing it already, Eleanor. You’re braver and stronger than you give yourself credit for. Keep going.”

  When she smiled at me then, her whole face crinkled into warm lines. I dropped my head again, desperate to hide the emotion that flamed there. The lump in my throat. The pricking of more tears, the swell of warmth. I was safe here, I’d talk more about my sister soon, however hard it was going to be.

  “See you next week, then?” I said. When I looked up, she was still smiling.

  Later that day, Glen and I were watching a televisual game in which people with a fatally flawed understanding of statistics (specifically, of probability theory) selected numbered boxes, each containing a check, to be opened in turn, in the hope of unearthing a six-figure sum. They based thei
r selections on wildly unhelpful factors such as their birth date or that of a person they cared about, their house number or, worst of all, “a good feeling” about a particular integer.

  “Humans are idiots, Glen,” I said, kissing the top of her head and then burying my face into her fur, which had grown back with such resplendence that she could now afford to shed it all over my clothes and furniture with gay abandon. She purred her assent.

  The doorbell rang. Glen yawned extravagantly then jumped down from my lap. I wasn’t expecting anyone. I stood before the door, thinking that I ought to get one of those spy holes installed, so that I would know who was there before I unlocked it. I found the trite theatricality of it rather dull. Who’s behind the door? Boring. I don’t like pantomimes or whodunnits—I like to have all the relevant information at my disposal at the earliest opportunity, so that I can start to formulate my response. I opened the door to find Keith, Sammy’s son, standing on the doorstep and looking nervous. Mildly surprising. I invited him in.

  By the time Keith was sitting on my sofa with a cup of tea, Glen had disappeared. She only really enjoyed her own company. She tolerated mine, but fundamentally she was a recluse at heart, like J. D. Salinger or the Unabomber.

  “Thanks for the tea, Eleanor. I can’t stay long, though,” Keith said, after we’d finishing exchanging the usual pleasantries. “My wife’s got Zumba tonight, and so I need to get back for the kids.” I nodded, wondering who Zumba was. He reached into the backpack he’d brought with him, pushed a laptop to one side and took out a parcel, something wrapped in a carrier bag—a Tesco one, I noted with approval.

  “We’ve been clearing out Dad’s stuff,” he said, looking directly at me and keeping his voice even, as though he was telling himself to be brave. “This isn’t much, but we wondered if you might want it, as a keepsake? I remember Raymond saying how much you’d admired it, after that time you helped Dad . . .” The words snagged in his throat and he trailed off.