Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine(87)

“It’s nothing much,” he said. I peered inside. There was a white cardboard box, from a bakery, tied with ribbon. There was also a tiny tin of “gourmet” cat food. “How lovely!” I said, delighted.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked, didn’t want to come empty-handed . . .” Raymond said, blushing. “I thought, well . . . you seem like the kind of person who likes nice things,” he said, looking up at me. “You deserve to have nice things,” he said firmly.

This was strange. I must confess I was somewhat lost for words for a moment or two. Did I deserve nice things?

“It’s funny, you know, Raymond,” I said. “Growing up with Mummy was very disorientating. Sometimes she gave us nice things, other times . . . not. I mean, one week we’d be dipping quail eggs in celery salt and shucking oysters, the next we’d be starving. I mean, you know, literally, deprived of food and water,” I said. His eyes widened.

“Everything was always extreme, so extreme, with her,” I said, nodding to myself. “I used to long for normal. You know, three meals a day, ordinary stuff—tomato soup, mashed potatoes, cornflakes . . .”

I untied the ribbons and looked inside the box. The sponge cake inside was an artful confection, chocolate ganache scattered with bright raspberry jewels. It was an ordinary luxury, which Raymond had chosen, especially for me.

“Thank you,” I said, feeling tears threaten to well up. There was really nothing else I needed to say.

“Thanks for inviting us, Eleanor,” he said. “Mum loves to get out, but she doesn’t often get the chance.”

“You’re welcome anytime, both of you are,” I said, and I meant it.

I set the cake on a tray with the tea things but, before I could pick it up, Raymond did the honors. I followed behind. He had had his hair cut, I noticed.

“How are you feeling, Eleanor?” Mrs. Gibbons asked, once we were all settled. “Raymond mentioned that you’d been a bit under the weather recently?”

She wore an expression of mild, polite concern, nothing more, and I realized, flushed with gratitude, that he hadn’t provided her with any details.

“I’m feeling much better, thank you,” I said. “Raymond’s been keeping an eye on me. I’m very lucky.” He looked surprised. His mother did not.

“He’s got a heart of gold, my boy,” she said, nodding. Raymond’s face looked like Glen’s did the time she noticed that I’d seen her trying and failing to jump from the sofa to the windowsill. I laughed.

“We’re embarrassing you!” I said.

“No, you’re embarrassing you,” he said, “rabbiting away about nothing like a proper pair of old biddies. Anyone want some more tea?” He reached forward for the teapot, and I saw he was smiling.

The Gibbons were easy, pleasant company. We were all slightly surprised at how quickly time had passed when the prebooked taxi honked its horn in irritation an hour later, I think, and their departure was, by necessity, somewhat rushed.

“Your turn to come to me next time, Eleanor,” she said, as they struggled out of the door with the walking frame, Raymond shrugging on his jacket at the same time. I nodded. She kissed me quickly on the cheek, the scarred one, and I didn’t even flinch.

“Come again with Raymond one Sunday, have your tea, stay for a while,” she whispered. I nodded again.

Raymond lumbered past me, then, before I could do anything about it, leaned in and kissed me on the cheek like his mother had done. “See you at work,” he said, and he was off, manhandling both her and her wheels down the stairs in a very precarious fashion. I put my hand to my face. They were quite a kissy family, the Gibbons—some families were like that.

I washed up the cups and plates, at which point Glen finally decided to make an appearance. “That wasn’t very sociable, Glen,” I said. She stared up at me and let out a short sound, not really a meow, more of a chirp, strangely. The import—namely, that she didn’t give a fig—was abundantly clear. I spooned the special cat food that Raymond had brought into her bowl. This was met with considerable enthusiasm, although, regretfully, her table manners were sadly reminiscent of her benefactor’s.

Raymond had left his tabloid newspaper behind on the chair in the living room—unfortunately, he often carried one rolled up in his back pocket. I leafed through it, just in case it had a halfway decent crossword, and stopped at page nine, my eyes drawn to the headline.

Glasgow Evening Times

Entertainment News

PILGRIM PIONEERS DISCOVER AMERICA: Glasgow band tipped to be “bigger than Biffy”

Scottish band Pilgrim Pioneers are celebrating this week after reaching number five in the American Billboard Top 100.

The Glasgow-based four-piece look set to crack the lucrative US market after years of gigging locally in pubs and clubs.

Their single “Don’t Miss You,” written after the acrimonious departure of their previous front man, was picked up last month by an industry insider via YouTube. Since then, it’s been broadcast nightly across the USA as the sound track to a big budget advert for a telecoms company.

The band is set to head Stateside next month on a coast-to-coast tour.

Reading this, I was taken straight back to another place, another person; the person I was trying to be and the changes I was trying and failing to make, to myself and in my life. The singer wasn’t ever the point, really; Maria Temple had helped me see that.