Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine(54)

“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 break 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.