Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine(81)

“I’ve got clinical depression, Mummy,” I said, all in a rush.

She snorted.

“Stuff and nonsense!” she said. “There’s no such thing.”

I thought back to what the GP and Raymond had said, and how kind and understanding Bob had been. His sister had depression for years, he’d told me. I’d had no idea.

“Mummy,” I said, as defiantly as I dared, “I have clinical depression. I’m seeing a counselor and exploring what happened during my childhood, and—”

“NO!” she shouted, so loud and sudden that I took a step back. The next time she spoke, she was quiet—dangerously quiet.

“Now, you listen to me, Eleanor. Under no circumstances are you to discuss your childhood with anyone, especially not a so-called ‘counselor.’ Do you hear me? Don’t you dare. I’m warning you, Eleanor. If you start down that path, do you know what will happen? Do you know what I’ll do? I’ll—”



Dead air.



As always, Mummy was scary. But the thing was, this time—for the first time ever—she’d actually sounded scared too.





31





A few weeks passed, and the sessions with Maria Temple had become a natural part of my routine. It was nice to be out, despite the wind, and I decided to walk instead of taking the bus, enjoying what remained of the sun. There were plenty of other people with the same idea. It felt good to be part of a throng, and I took gentle pleasure in mingling. I dropped twenty pence into the paper cup of a man sitting on the pavement with a very attractive dog. I bought a fudge doughnut from Greggs and ate it as I walked. I smiled at a spectacularly ugly baby who was shaking his fist at me from a garish pushchair. Noticing details, that was good. Tiny slivers of life—they all added up and helped you to feel that you too could be a fragment, a little piece of humanity who usefully filled a space, however minuscule. I was pondering this as I waited for the lights to change. Someone tapped me on the arm, and I jumped.

“Eleanor?” It was Laura, looking cartoonishly glamorous as usual. I hadn’t seen her since Sammy’s service.

“Oh hello,” I said. “How are you? I’m sorry I didn’t manage to speak to you at your father’s funeral.”

She laughed. “Don’t worry about it, Eleanor—Ray explained that you were a bit tiddly that day,” she said.

I felt my face flush and looked down at the pavement. I suppose I had drunk rather a lot of vodka that afternoon. She punched my arm gently.

“Don’t be daft, that’s what funerals are for, aren’t they—a wee drink and a catch-up?” she said, smiling.

I shrugged, still averting my gaze.

“Your hair’s looking good,” she said brightly.

I nodded, glanced up into her kohl-rimmed eyes.

“Several people have remarked upon it, actually,” I said, feeling a bit more confident, “which leads me to think that you must have done a very good job.”

“Och, that’s nice to hear,” she said. “You can pop back into the salon anytime, you know—I’ll always try to fit you in, Eleanor. You were lovely to my dad, so you were.”

“He was lovely to me,” I said. “You were very lucky to have had such a delightful father.”

Her eyes started to brim, but she blinked the tears away, aided no doubt by the enormous artificial lashes she had glued along her upper lids. The lights at the pedestrian crossing started to flash.

“Raymond mentioned how fond of him you both were,” she said quietly. She checked her watch. “Oh God, sorry, I’ll need to run, Eleanor—the car’s on the meter, and you know what those wardens are like if you go a minute over.”

I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about, but I let it pass.

“I’m seeing Ray this weekend, actually,” she said, touching my arm. She smiled, “He’s actually quite nice, isn’t he? He kind of slipped under my radar at first but then, once you get to know him . . .” She smiled again. “Anyway, I’ll let him know you were asking after him on Saturday, Eleanor,” she said.

“No need,” I said, bristling slightly. “I’ve recently had luncheon with Raymond, as it happens. What unfortunate timing—I could have let him know that you were asking after him.”

She stared at me. “I wasn’t . . . I mean, I didn’t know you two were close,” she said.

“We lunch together weekly,” I said.

“Ah, right—lunch,” she said, looking happier, for some reason. “Well, like I said, got to run. Nice seeing you, Eleanor!”

I raised my hand and bade her farewell. It was incredible how she managed to run so nimbly in those heels. I feared for her ankles. Fortunately, they were rather on the chunky side.



Maria Temple was wearing yellow tights today, teamed with purple ankle boots. Yellow tights did not, I noticed, flatter a sporty calf.

“I wonder if we might revisit the subject of your mother, Eleanor? Is that perhaps something we could—”

“No,” I said. More silence.

“Fine, fine, no problem. Could you tell me a bit about your father, then? You haven’t really mentioned him so far.”

“I don’t have a father,” I said. More of that awful silence. It was so annoying, but in the end, it actually worked, her refusal to speak. The quiet went on for eons, and in the end I simply couldn’t bear it any longer.