Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine(76)

I knocked on the door—thin plywood, gray, no nameplate—and, too quickly, as though she had been standing right behind it, Maria Temple opened it and invited me in. The room was tiny, a dining chair and two institutional armchairs (the wipe-clean, uncomfortable kind) arranged opposite a small, low table, on which was placed a box of nonbranded “man-size” tissues. I was momentarily thrown. Their noses are, with a few exceptions, more or less the same size as our own, are they not? Did they really need a vastly bigger surface area of tissue, simply because they were in possession of an XY chromosome? Why? I suspected that I really did not want to know the answer to that question.

There was no window, and a framed print on the wall (a vase of roses, made using a computer by someone who was dead inside) was more offensive to the eye than a bare wall.

“You must be Eleanor?” she said, smiling.

“It’s Miss Oliphant, actually,” I said, taking off my jerkin and wondering what on earth to do with it. She pointed to a row of hooks on the back of the door, where I placed it as far away as possible from the very practical waterproof which hung there already. I sat down opposite her—the chair released a tired whump of stale air from its grubby cushions. She smiled at me. Her teeth! Oh, Ms. Temple. She had done her best, but nothing could change the size of them, I supposed. They belonged in a far bigger mouth, perhaps not even a human one. I was reminded of a photograph that the Telegraph had featured some time ago, of a monkey which had grabbed a camera and taken its own grinning photograph (a “selfie”). The poor woman; an adjective which one would never wish to have applied to one’s teeth was simian.

“I’m Maria Temple, Eleanor—erm, Miss Oliphant,” she said, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.” She looked intently at me, which made me sit forward in my seat, not wanting to show how uncomfortable I was feeling.

“Have you ever had counseling before, Miss Oliphant?” she said, taking out a notebook from her handbag. It had, I noticed, several accessories attached to it, key rings and the like—a pink, fluffy monkey, a giant metallic letter M, and, most hideous of all, a tiny, sequinned red stiletto shoe. I’d come across the type before. Ms. Temple was “fun.”

“Yes and no,” I said. She raised a quizzical eyebrow, but I declined to elaborate further. There was a silence, in which I heard the lift clattering again, although no further sound or evidence of human occupation followed. I felt marooned.

“OK then,” she said, brightly, too brightly. “I think we’ll get started. Now, first of all, I want to reassure you that everything we discuss in here together is absolutely confidential. I’m a member of all the relevant professional bodies, and we adhere to a very strict code of conduct. You should always feel comfortable and safe in this space, and, please, ask me anything, at any time, especially if you’re not clear about what we’re doing, or why.” She seemed to be waiting for some sort of response, but I had none to offer her. I shrugged.

She settled into her chair and began reading from her notebook. “You’ve been referred here by your GP, I see, and you’ve been suffering from depression.”

I nodded.

“Can you tell me a bit about how you’ve been feeling?” she said. Her smile had assumed a slightly fixed quality.

“I’ve been feeling a bit sad, I suppose,” I said. I stared at her shoes. They resembled golf shoes, only without spikes. They were gold. Unbelievable.

“How long have you been feeling sad, Ele— Miss Oliphant?” She tapped her enormous teeth with her pen. “Actually, would you mind if I called you Eleanor? It would just, you know, help the discussion flow a bit more freely if we were both on first-name terms, I think. Would that be OK?” She smiled.

“I prefer Miss Oliphant, but yes, I suppose so,” I said graciously. Titles were better, though. I didn’t know her from Adam, after all. She wasn’t my friend; she was someone who was being paid to interact with me. A bit of professional distance is highly appropriate, I feel, when, for example, a stranger is examining the back of your eyeballs for tumors, or rooting around in your dentin with a hooked instrument. Or, indeed, poking around in your brain, dragging out your feelings and letting them sit there in the room, in all their shameful awfulness.

“Great,” she said brightly, and I could tell that she had realized I was most decidedly not “fun.” We wouldn’t ever be going bungee jumping or to a fancy dress party together. What else is supposed to be fun? Sing-a-longs. Sponsored runs. Magicians. I’ve no idea; personally, I like animals and crosswords and (until very recently) vodka. What could be more fun than that? Not belly dancing classes in the community hall. Not murder mystery weekends. Hen dos. No.

“Was there something in particular that led you to seek help from your GP?” she said. “An incident, an interaction? Telling someone how you’re feeling can be a very difficult thing to do, but it’s great that you took such an important first step.”

“A friend suggested that I see my doctor,” I said, experiencing a tiny frisson of pleasure as I used the “F” word. “Raymond,” I clarified. I rather liked saying his name, the rhotic trill at the start. It was a nice name, a good name, and that at least seemed fair. He deserved some luck—after all, given his meager physical blessings, he already had enough to contend with, without being lumbered with, say, Eustace or Tyson as a first name.