Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine(59)

“I’m finishing up here at the end of the month,” he said.

“Oh!” I said. “That’s a pity.” Mikey was kind and gentle, and always brought truffles with the coffees, without being asked or seeking additional payment.

“Have you found a new position somewhere else?” I said.

“No,” he said, perching on a chair beside me. “Hazel’s really poorly again.” Hazel, I knew, was his girlfriend, and they lived nearby with their bichon frise and their baby, Lois.

“I’m very sorry to hear that, Mikey,” I said. He nodded.

“They thought they’d got rid of it all the last time, but it’s come back, spread to the lymph nodes and the liver. I just wanted to, you know . . .”

“You wanted to spend the time she has left with Hazel and Lois, rather than serving cheese scones to strange women,” I said, and, gratifyingly, he laughed.

“That’s about the size of it,” he said. I braced myself, then put my hand on his arm. I was going to say something, but then I couldn’t think what was the right thing to say, so I just kept silent, and looked at him, hoping he’d intuit what I meant—that I was desperately sorry, that I admired him for caring so much about Hazel and Lois and looking after them, that I understood, perhaps more than most, about loss, about how difficult things must be, and would continue to be. However much you loved someone, it wasn’t always enough. Love alone couldn’t keep them safe . . .

“Thanks, Eleanor,” he said gently. He thanked me!

Raymond arrived and threw himself into his seat.

“All right, mate?” he asked Mikey. “How’s Hazel doing?”

“Not bad, Raymond, not bad. I’ll get you a menu.” After he’d left, I leaned forward. “You knew already about Hazel?” I said. He nodded.

“It’s shite, isn’t it? She’s not even thirty, and wee Lois isn’t two yet.”

He shook his head. Neither of us spoke—there really wasn’t anything else to say. Once we had ordered, Raymond cleared his throat.

“I’ve got something to tell you, Eleanor. It’s more bad news—sorry.”

I sat back in my chair, and looked up at the ceiling, readying myself.

“Go on,” I said. There’s very little in life that I couldn’t imagine, or brace myself for. Nothing could be worse than what I’ve already experienced—that sounds like hyperbole, but it’s a literal statement of fact. I suppose it’s actually a source of strength, in a strange way.

“It’s Sammy,” he said.

I hadn’t been expecting that.

“He passed away at the weekend, Eleanor. A massive coronary. It was quick, at least.” I nodded. It was both a surprise and not a surprise.

“What happened?” I said. Raymond started eating, telling me the details between—and during—mouthfuls. I’m not sure what it would take to put that man off his food. The Ebola virus, perhaps.

“He was at Laura’s,” he said, “just watching the telly. No warning, nothing.”

“Was she there at the time?” I asked. Please God, let her have been spared that. Trying to live on afterward, trying to manage the guilt and the pain and the horror of it all . . . I would not wish that on another human being. I would happily assume her burden if I could. I’d barely notice it, I’m sure, on top of my own.

“She was upstairs, getting ready to go out,” he said. “Got a hell of a shock when she came down and found him on the sofa like that.”

So it wasn’t her fault. She couldn’t have saved him, even if she’d tried. It was fine—well, as fine as death could be. I considered the facts further.

“He was alone at the time death occurred, then,” I said, intrigued. “Do the police suspect foul play?”

He choked on his halloumi burger and I had to pass him a glass of water.

“For fuck’s sake, Eleanor!” he said.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “it was just something that popped into my mind.”

“Aye, well, sometimes best not to say the first thing that pops into your mind out loud, eh?” he said quietly, not looking at me.

I felt terrible. I felt terrible for Sammy and for his family, I felt terrible for upsetting Raymond without meaning to, I felt terrible for the waiter and his girlfriend and their poor little baby. All this death, all this suffering, happening to nice people, good people who’d done nothing to deserve it, and no one able to stop it . . . Tears came, and the more I tried to fight them, the more they came. The lump in my throat was burning, burning like fire, no please, not fire . . .

Raymond had slid around to the seat beside me and put his arm around my shoulders. He spoke in a soft, low voice.

“Ah please, Eleanor, don’t cry. I’m really sorry . . . I didn’t mean to snap at you, I really didn’t . . . please, Eleanor . . .”

The strange thing—something I’d never expected—was that it actually made you feel better when someone put their arm around you, held you close. Why? Was it some mammalian thing, this need for human contact? He was warm and solid. I could smell his deodorant, and the detergent he used to wash his clothes—over both scents there lay a faint patina of cigarettes. A Raymond smell. I leaned in closer.