Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine(32)

“Come back anytime, Eleanor—I’m always in. You don’t have to come with”—she jabbed a finger Raymond-ward—“him, just come yourself, if you like. You know where I am now. Don’t be a stranger.”

On impulse, I leaned forward and brushed my cheek (not the scarred one, the normal one) close to hers. It wasn’t a kiss or an embrace, but it was as close as I was able to come.

“Cheerio!” she said. “Safe home, now!”

Raymond walked me to the end of the road to show me where the bus stop was located. I’d probably have a bit of a wait, it being Sunday, he said. I shrugged; I was used to waiting, and life has taught me to be a very patient person.

“See you tomorrow, then, Eleanor,” he said.

I took out my travel pass and showed it to him. “Unlimited travel!” I said. He nodded, gave a small smile. Miraculously, the bus arrived. I raised my hand and climbed on board. I stared straight ahead as the bus pulled away to avoid any awkwardness with waving.

It had been quite a day. I felt drained, but something had crystallized in my mind. These new people, new adventures . . . this contact. I found it overwhelming, but, to my surprise, not at all unpleasant. I’d coped surprisingly well, I thought. I’d met new people, introduced myself to them, and we’d spent problem-free social time together. If there was one thing I could take from today’s experiences, it was this: I was nearly ready to declare my intentions to the musician. The time for our momentous first encounter was drawing ever closer.





11





I didn’t see Raymond on Monday, or on Tuesday. I didn’t think about him, although my mind did return to Sammy and to Mrs. Gibbons on occasion. I could, of course, visit either or both of them without Raymond being there. Indeed, both had stressed that to me on Sunday. But would it be better if he were by my side? I suspected that it would, not least because he could always fill a silence with banal, inane comments and questions should the need arise. In the meantime, I’d gone to the mobile telephone emporium with the least garish fascia in the closest location to the office and, on the highly suspect advice of a bored salesperson, had eventually purchased a reasonably priced handset and “package” which allowed me to make calls, access the Internet and also do various other things, most of which were of no interest to me. He’d mentioned apps and games; I asked about crosswords, but was very disappointed with his response. I was familiarizing myself with the manual for the new device, rather than completing the VAT details on Mr. Leonard’s invoice, when, very much against my will, I became aware of the conversation going on around me, due to its excessive volume. It was, of all things, on the topic of our annual Christmas lunch.

“Yeah, but they have entertainment laid on there! And lots of other big groups go, so we can meet new people, have a laugh,” Bernadette was saying.

Entertainment! I wondered if that would involve a band, and, if so, might it be his band? A very early Christmas miracle? Was this fate interceding once again? Before I could ask for details, Billy jumped in.

“You just want to cop off with some drunk guy from Allied Carpets under the mistletoe,” Billy said. “There’s no way I’m paying sixty quid a head for a dry roast turkey dinner and a cheesy afternoon disco. Not just so’s you can scout for talent!”

Bernadette cackled and slapped him on the arm.

“No,” she said, “it’s not that. I just think it might be more fun if there’s a bigger crowd there, that’s all . . .”

Janey looked slyly at the others, thinking that I hadn’t seen her. I saw her eyes flick up to my scars, as they often did.

“Let’s ask Harry Potter over there,” she said, not quite sotto voce, and then turned to address me.

“Eleanor! Hey, Eleanor! You’re a bit of a girl about town, aren’t you? What do you reckon: where should we go for the office Christmas lunch this year?”

I looked pointedly at the office wall calendar, which, this month, displayed a photograph of a green articulated lorry.

“It’s the middle of summer,” I said. “I can’t say I’ve really given it any thought.”

“Yeah,” she said, “but we’ve got to get something booked up now, otherwise all the good places get taken and you get left with, like, Wetherspoons or a rubbish Italian.”

“It’s a matter of supreme indifference to me,” I said. “I shan’t be going anyway.” I rubbed at the cracked skin between my fingers—it was healing, but the process was painfully slow.

“Oh, that’s right,” she said, “you never go, do you? I’d forgotten about that. You don’t do the Secret Santa either. Eleanor the Grinch, that’s what we ought to call you.” They all laughed.

“I don’t understand that cultural reference,” I said. “However, to clarify, I’m an atheist, and I’m not consumer oriented, so the midwinter shopping festival otherwise known as Christmas is of little interest to me.”

I went back to my work, hoping it would inspire them to do the same. They are like small children, easily distracted, and content to spend what feels like hours discussing trivialities and gossiping about people they don’t know.

“Sounds like somebody had a bad experience in Santa’s grotto back in the day,” said Billy, and then, thankfully, the phone rang. I smiled sadly. He couldn’t even begin to imagine the sort of bad experiences I’d had, back in the day.