Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine(57)

“No, Mummy, oh no, no, no . . .” I said, gabbling. I heard her take in a breath, and forced my words into order. “What I mean, Mummy”—I heard the hiss as she released the air trapped in her lungs—“is that it’s very kind of you to offer, but I think I’m going to decline.”

“Might one ask why?” she said, sounding somewhat put out.

“It’s just . . . I really do think I’ve got everything under control here,” I said. “I think it’d be better if you . . . stayed put, as it were. I’m not sure there’s anything more you can do at this point.”

“Well, darling . . . if you’re sure. But I’m very efficient, you know? And, to be frank, you’re a bit of a bumbling idiot at times.”

I sighed, as quietly as I could.

“And furthermore,” she went on, “I’m getting rather impatient now. Things need to move forward with this man, you know? A bit more action, Eleanor—that’s what’s needed, darling.” She was starting to sound calmer now.

“Yes, Mummy. Yes, you’re absolutely right of course.” It was true that, since the time when I’d first seen the musician, my interest and therefore my progress had been subsumed by more pressing matters over the last few weeks. There were so many other things to be getting on with—Raymond, the new job, Sammy and his family . . . But she was right.

“I’ll try to move things along a bit faster,” I said. That had placated her, I hoped, and she started to say her good-byes.

“Oh wait, Mummy—hang on a second. You said there were two things—what was the second thing you were thinking about?”

“Oh yes,” she said, and I heard her dismissive sideways hiss of cigarette smoke. “It was just that I wanted to tell you that you’re a pointless waste of human tissue. That was all. Bye then, darling!” she said, bright as a knife.

Silence.





@johnnieLrocks

   Newsflash! Am leaving Pilgrim Pioneers. No hard feelings TOTALLY respect those guys #soloartist #astarisborn (1/2)

   @johnnieLrocks

   I’m going solo in a different, strongermusical direction. More soon. Peace out #iconoclast (2/2)





22





Mummy got in touch again on Wednesday as usual, the interval between our conversations all too brief.

“What ho!” she said. “Me again! Anything new to share with Mummy?”

In the absence of any other salient news since Monday, I told her about Keith’s birthday party.

“Quite the social butterfly these days, aren’t you, Eleanor?” she said, her voice unpleasantly sweet.

I said nothing; it’s usually the safest course of action.

“What did you wear? I bet you looked ridiculous. For the love of God, please tell me you didn’t attempt to dance, daughter mine.” She somehow intuited the answer from my tense silence.

“Oh dear,” she said. “Dancing’s for the beautiful people, Eleanor. The thought of you, lumbering about like a walrus . . .” She laughed long and hard. “Oh, thank you, thanks very much, darling. That’s made my night, it really has.” She laughed again. “Eleanor, dancing!”

“How are you, Mummy?” I said quietly.

“Fine, darling, just fine. It’s chili night tonight, always a treat. We’re going to watch a film later. The wonder of Wednesdays!” Her tone was breezy, cheerful—it had a borderline manic quality that I recognized.

“I got promoted, Mummy,” I said, unable to keep a little flash of pride from my voice. She snorted.

“Promoted! How incredibly impressive, darling. What does that mean—an extra five pounds a month?”

I said nothing.

“Still,” she said, her voice dripping with patronizing sweetness, “good for you, darling. I mean it, really, well done.” I looked at the floor, felt tears come.

She spoke to someone else, a semi-snarl; “Naw, ah fucking didnae! Ah said Sex and the City 2! Aye, I did! I thought we were taking a vote. Eh? Again? Oh, for fuck’s . . .” She spoke directly to me again.

“My fellow residents have elected to watch the Shawshank Redemption yet again, if you can believe it; it’s only been, oooh, twenty consecutive Wednesdays now . . .

“Listen—don’t go getting sidetracked from your project with all this new job and birthday party nonsense. There’s a task in hand, and you need to remain focused on it. Faint heart never won fair chap, you know. Imagine if you were to provide me with a handsome, appropriate son-in-law, Eleanor. That would be normal, darling, wouldn’t it? We’d be a normal family then.”

She laughed, and I did too—the concept was just too bizarre to contemplate.

“I was cursed with daughters,” she said sadly, “and yet I always wanted a son. A son-in-law will do at a push—so long as he’s suitable. You know: polite, thoughtful, considerate, well behaved. He is all of those things, isn’t he, this project of yours, Eleanor? A well-dressed man? Well spoken? You know I’ve always tried to impress upon you how appropriate it is to talk properly and look the part.”

“He seems very nice, Mummy,” I said. “Very suitable. Handsome and talented and successful. Glamorous!” I said, warming to my theme. Obviously, I knew next to nothing about him, so I was embellishing the scant information I’d gleaned about Johnnie Lomond from my research. It was quite fun.