Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine(48)

“What’s wrong with it?” I said.

“Nothing’s wrong with it. It looks . . . it looks nice,” he said, smiling and nodding. There was a moment’s awkwardness. Neither of us was used to Bob commenting on my appearance.

“I had it cut,” I said, “obviously.”

He nodded.

“Sit down, Eleanor.” I looked around. To say Bob’s office was untidy was rather to understate the degree of chaos in which it was always to be found. I lifted a pile of brochures from the chair which faced his desk and placed them on the floor. He leaned forward. Bob has aged very badly during the time that I’ve known him; his hair has almost all fallen out and he has put on quite a lot of weight. He looks rather like a dissolute baby.

“You’ve worked here for a long time, Eleanor,” he said. I nodded; that was factually correct. “Did you know that Loretta is going off on leave for the foreseeable?” I shook my head. I am not interested in the petty tittle-tattle of quotidian office life. Unless it’s gossip about a certain singer, of course.

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” I said. “I always doubted her grasp of the basic principles of value-added tax,” I shrugged, “so perhaps it’s for the best.”

“Her husband’s got testicular cancer, Eleanor,” he said. “She wants to look after him.”

I thought about this for a moment.

“That must be very difficult for them both,” I said. “But, if detected early enough, the survival and recovery rates for cancer of the testes are good. If you’re male and you are unfortunate enough to get any sort of cancer, that’s probably the best type to have.”

He fiddled with one of his fancy black pens. “So,” he said. “I’m going to be needing a new office manager, for the next few months at least.” I nodded. “Would you be interested, Eleanor? It’d mean a bit more money, a bit more responsibility. I think you’re ready for it, though.”

I considered this.

“How much more money?” I asked. He wrote a sum on a Post-it note, tore it from the pad and passed it across to me. I gasped. “In addition to my current salary?”

I had visions of taking taxis to work rather than getting the bus, of upgrading to Tesco Finest everything, and of drinking the kind of vodka that comes in chunky opaque bottles.

“No, Eleanor,” he said. “That amount would be your new salary.”

“Ah,” I said.

If that were the case, then I would need to consider the risk/reward ratio carefully. Would the increase in salary compensate adequately for the increased amount of tedious administration work I’d be required to undertake, the augmented levels of responsibility for the successful functioning of the office and, worse still, for the significantly increased degree of interaction that I’d need to undertake with my colleagues?

“May I take a few days to consider it, Bob?” I said.

He nodded. “Of course, Eleanor. I expected you to say that.”

I looked at my hands.

“You’re a good worker, Eleanor,” he said. “How long has it been now—eight years?”

“Nine,” I said.

“Nine years, and you’ve never had a day off sick, never used all your annual leave. That’s dedication, you know. It’s not easy to find these days.”

“It’s not dedication,” I said. “I simply have a very robust constitution and no one to go on holiday with.”

He looked away and I stood up, ready to leave.

He cleared his throat. “Oh, one other thing, Eleanor. Because Loretta’s so busy preparing all the handover stuff . . . could I ask you to help out with something?”

“Ask away, Bob,” I said.

“The office Christmas lunch—do you think you could organize it this year?” he said. “She won’t have time before she finishes up, and I’ve already had people in my office whingeing that if we don’t book somewhere now . . .”

“. . . they’ll end up in Wetherspoons,” I said, nodding. “Yes, I’m familiar with the issues, Bob. If you wish it, I’d certainly be willing to organize the lunch. Do I have carte blanche with regard to venue, menu and theme?”

Bob nodded, already busy at his computer again.

“Sure,” he said. “The company will chip in a tenner per head—after that, it’s up to you guys to choose where to go and how much extra you want to pay.”

“Thank you, Bob,” I said. “I won’t let you down.”

He wasn’t listening, engrossed with whatever was on his screen. My head was buzzing. Two major decisions to make. Another party to go to. And handsome, talented Johnnie Lomond, chanteur extraordinaire and potential life partner on the horizon. Life was very intense.

When I sat back down at my computer, I stared at the screen for some time, not actually reading the words. I felt slightly sick at the thought of all the dilemmas I faced, to the extent that, although it was almost lunchtime, I had no desire to buy and eat my Meal Deal. It might be helpful to talk to someone about it all, I realized. I remembered that from the past. Apparently, talking was good; it helped to keep anxieties in perspective. People had kept saying that. Talk to someone, do you want to talk about it, tell me how you feel, anything you want to share with the group, Eleanor? You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Miss Oliphant, can you tell us in your own words what you recall of the events that took place that evening?