Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine(56)

“Did you enjoy yourself?” I asked.

“Mmm,” he said. “It was fun, wasn’t it?” He wasn’t using a knife, but held a fork in his right hand like a child or an American. He smiled.

I considered asking whether he and Laura had danced again that evening, whether he’d escorted her home, but decided against it. It was none of my business, after all, and intrusive questions are very ill-mannered.

“Eh, so . . . did you decide about the promotion? Are you going to take it?”

I had, of course, been pondering this in spare moments throughout the preceding days. I had looked for signs, clues—none were forthcoming, however, except that, last Friday, twelve across had read: in favor of (upward) movement (9). I had taken this as an encouraging omen.

“I’m going to say yes,” I said.

He smiled, put down his fork and held up his hand. I realized I was meant to place mine against his in what I now recognized as a “high five.”

“Nice one,” he said, resuming his lunch. “Congratulations.”

I felt a flash of happiness, like a match being struck. I couldn’t recall ever having been congratulated on anything before. It was very pleasant indeed.

“How’s your mother, Raymond?” I asked him, having enjoyed the moment and the last of the scone. He talked about her for a while, told me she’d been asking after me. I felt slightly concerned about this, a default anxiety pertaining to maternal inquisitiveness, but he put my mind at rest.

“She really liked you—said to tell you to pop over anytime,” he said. “She’s lonely.”

I nodded. I had recognized that. He excused himself and plodded off to the bathroom, and I gazed around the café while I awaited his return. Two women around my age were seated at the table next to me, each with a brightly dressed baby. Both infants were in car seats; one was asleep, the other stared dreamily at a beam of sunlight as it danced on the wall. The coffee machine hissed into life behind us, and I watched alarm ripple in waves across his face. In slow motion, his sweet pink mouth puckered into a kiss and then opened wide to release a wail at quite momentous volume. His mother glanced down and, reassured that he was fine despite the noise, continued her conversation. The crying got louder. It made evolutionary sense, I supposed, that a baby’s cries of distress would be tuned to precisely the right pitch and volume to make them impossible for an adult human to ignore.

He was winding himself up now, fists balled furiously, his face getting redder by the minute. I closed my eyes, tried and failed to ignore the noise. Please stop crying, please stop crying. I don’t know why you are crying. What do I need to do to make you stop? I don’t know what to do. Are you hurt? Are you ill? Hungry. I don’t know what to do. Please don’t cry. There isn’t anything to eat. Mummy will be back soon. Where’s Mummy? My hand was shaking as I picked up my coffee cup, and I breathed as slowly as I could, staring at the tabletop.

The crying ceased. I looked up and saw the baby, lying quietly in his mother’s arms now as she covered his face with kisses. I breathed out. My heart soared for him.



When Raymond returned, I paid for lunch, since he had paid last time; I was really starting to get the hang of the concept of a payment schedule. He insisted on leaving the tip, however. Five pounds! All the man had done was carry our food from the kitchen to the table, a job for which he was already being recompensed by the café owner. Raymond was reckless and profligate—no wonder he couldn’t afford proper shoes or an iron.

We walked back slowly to the office, and Raymond told me in detail about some computer server issue that I did not understand (and didn’t particularly care to) that he would have to deal with that afternoon. In the lobby, he turned toward the stairs, where his office was located.

“See you soon, yeah?” he said. “Take care.”

He actually sounded like he meant both; that he would indeed see me soon, and that he wished me to take care of myself. I felt a warmth inside, a cozy, glowy feeling like hot tea on a cold morning.

“Take care yourself, Raymond,” I said, and I meant it.



That evening, I had planned to relax with a cup of Bovril and listen to a very interesting radio program about South American politics, after completing my usual checks on what Johnnie Lomond was up to. He’d sent a desultory tweet about a character in a television program and posted a photograph on Facebook of a new pair of boots he wanted. A slow news day, then. Hearing from Mummy on a Monday was an unexpected, unwelcome surprise.

“Eleanor, darling. Not our usual time to talk, I know, but I was thinking about you. Just wanted to say hello, see how you were getting on, you know the sort of thing.”

I was silent, shocked by the unscheduled intrusion into my evening.

“Well?” she said. “I’m waiting, darling . . .”

I cleared my throat.

“I, er . . . I’m fine, Mummy. You were—thinking about me?” This was a first.

“Mmm. Two things really: first of all, do you want me to see if I can give you a hand with your project? I can’t do much from where I am, obviously, but I might be able to, I don’t know, pull some strings? Might there perhaps be some way I could engineer a little visit, come and help you? I mean, I know it sounds impossible, but one never knows . . . mountains can always be moved and so on—”