Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine(75)

I wondered if that’s what it would be like in a family—if you had parents, or a sister, say, who would be there, no matter what. It wasn’t that you could take them for granted, as such—heaven knows, nothing can be taken for granted in this life—it was simply that you would know, almost unthinkingly, that they’d be there if you needed them, no matter how bad things got. I’m not prone to envy, as a rule, but I must confess I felt a twinge when I thought about this. Envy was a minor emotion, however, in comparison to the sorrow I felt at never having a chance to experience this . . . what was it? Unconditional love, I supposed.

But there was no use in crying over spilled milk. Raymond had shown me a little of what it must be like, and I counted myself lucky to have had the opportunity. Today, he’d arrived with a box of After Eight mints and, improbably, a helium-filled balloon.

“I know it’s daft,” he said, smiling, “but I was passing the market in the square, and I saw a guy selling these when I was going for my bus. I thought it might cheer you up.”

I saw what he was holding and I laughed, an unexpected burst of feeling, unfamiliar. He passed me the ribbon, and the balloon soared toward my low ceiling, then bobbed against it as though it was trying to escape.

“What is it supposed to be?” I said. “Is it . . . is it cheese?” I had never been given a helium balloon before, and certainly not one this odd-looking.

“It’s SpongeBob, Eleanor,” he said, speaking very slowly and clearly as though I were some sort of idiot. “SpongeBob SquarePants?”

A semi-human bath sponge with protruding front teeth! On sale as if it were something completely unremarkable! For my entire life, people have said that I’m strange, but really, when I see things like this, I realize that I’m actually relatively normal.

I made tea for us. Raymond had put his feet up on the coffee table. I was considering asking him to remove them, but then the thought came to me that he must feel at home in my house, comfortable enough to relax here and make full use of the furniture. The idea was actually rather pleasing. He slurped his tea—a much less pleasant intrusion—and asked about the GP. Earlier in the week, after Raymond had delivered a persuasive argument about the importance of obtaining an expert, objective view of my emotional state, and of the efficacy of modern treatments should any mental health issues be diagnosed, I’d finally agreed to make an appointment at the surgery.

“I’m going tomorrow,” I said. “Half past eleven.”

He nodded. “That’s good, Eleanor,” he said. “Now, promise me you’ll be completely honest with the doctor, tell her exactly what you’ve been feeling, what you’ve been going through.”

I thought about this. I would tell her almost everything, I’d decided, but I wasn’t going to mention the little stockpile of pills (which no longer existed in any case—Raymond had, with scant concern for the environment, flushed them down the lavatory. I’d professed irritation but was secretly glad to be rid of them), and I had also decided to say nothing about the chats with Mummy or our ridiculous, abortive project. Mummy always said that information should be divulged to professional busybodies on a need-to-know basis, and these topics weren’t relevant. All the doctor needed to understand was that I was very unhappy, so that she could advise me how best to go about changing that. We didn’t need to start digging around in the past, talking about things that couldn’t be changed.

“Promise,” I said. I had my fingers crossed, though.





29





When the GP signed me off work, I wondered how a life of indolence would suit me. I’ve always had a full-time job, having started with Bob the week after I received my degree, and in all the years since then, I’ve never once had cause to call in sick. Fortunately, I’ve been blessed with an extremely robust constitution.

That first week, the week immediately after the incident with the vodka and the visit from Raymond, I slept a lot. I must have done other things, normal things too, like going out to buy milk or having a shower, but I can’t recall them now.

The doctor had somehow managed to deduce that I was suffering from depression, even with only a few scant details to go on. I managed to keep all of my most important secrets to myself. She suggested that medication and talking therapy combined was the most effective form of treatment, but I insisted that I did not wish to take any tablets, at least initially. I was worried that I might start to rely on them in the same way that I’d been relying on vodka. I did, however, reluctantly agree to see a counselor as a first step, and the inaugural session had been scheduled for today. I had been assigned to a Maria Temple—no title provided. I cared nothing for her marital status, but it would have been helpful to know in advance whether or not she was in possession of any formal medical qualifications.

Her office was located on the third floor of a modern block in the city center. The lift had transported me back in time to that least belle of époques—the 1980s. Gray gray gray, sludgy pastels, dirty plastic, nasty carpets. It smelled like it hadn’t been cleaned since the 1980s either. I had been reluctant to attend the counseling session from the outset, and to do so in this setting made it even less enticing, if such a thing were possible. Sadly, the environment was all too familiar, and this was, in its own way, a comfort. The institutional corridors with floral friezes and Artex ceilings down which I have walked in my life are legion.