Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine(89)

“That sounds nice,” I said. “Is she your girlfriend now, then?”

He signaled to the waiter to bring him another pint.

“Laura’s a lovely girl,” he said, “but I don’t think I’m going to be seeing her again.”

A staff member brought Raymond’s beer and some menus, and I asked for a Dandelion and Burdock. Weirdly, considering it was a smart bar in the city center, they didn’t have any, so I had to make do with a Dr. Pepper.

“Why not?” I said. “Laura’s very glamorous.”

Raymond sighed. “It’s a bit more complicated than that, Eleanor, isn’t it?” he said. “I think she’s probably a bit . . . high maintenance for me, if you know what I mean?”

“Not really, no,” I said.

“She’s not my type, to be honest.” He took a noisy mouthful of beer. “I mean, looks are important, of course they are, but you’ve got to be able to have a laugh, enjoy each other’s company too, you know? I’m not sure me and Laura have got that much in common.”

I shrugged, not knowing how best to respond. It was hardly my area of expertise.

We were silent for a moment. He was looking terribly pale and uncomfortable. Classic hangover symptoms. Thankfully I never suffered from them, blessed as I am with an iron constitution.

I ordered an omelet made by the chef, Arnold Bennett, and Raymond went for the full cooked breakfast with extra fried bread.

“Had quite a lot of Jack Daniel’s with Desi after I got home last night,” he explained. “That should soak it up.”

“Don’t make a habit of the drinks, Raymond,” I said sadly. “You don’t want to end up like me, do you?”

Raymond reached for my arm, held it for a moment.

“You’re doing just fine, Eleanor,” he said.

The food came, and I tried not to look at Raymond as he ate. It was never a pretty sight. I wondered how Glen was doing. Would it be possible to bring her out somewhere like this, if she could sit in some sort of high chair at the table with us? I could see no reason against it but for the small-minded anti-feline contingent who might complain.

“Look, Raymond!” I said, thrusting my phone in his face. He glanced at the first four pictures.

“Ah, that’s nice, Eleanor,” he said. “She looks really settled at your place.”

“Keep scrolling,” I said. He flicked through a few more in a desultory fashion; I could tell he was losing interest. Pearls before swine.

We talked about inconsequential matters as we waited for our coffee. When it arrived, there was a lull in the conversation, and Raymond poured a sachet of sugar onto the table. He began to draw in the grains with his forefinger, humming tunelessly as he tended to do when he was feeling anxious. His cuticles were bitten and his nails didn’t look too clean—he could be such an annoying man sometimes.

“Eleanor,” he said, “look, I’ve got something to tell you, and you’ve got to promise not to be angry with me.”

I sat back and waited for him to continue.

“I’ve been doing some research online about your mum, about what happened back then.”

I stared at the grains of sugar. How could each one be so tiny, and yet so perfectly angular?

“Eleanor?” he said. “I’m not sure if what I found is right, but I googled arson, and the year it happened, and London, and there are some newspaper articles you might want to take a look at. We don’t have to if you don’t want to. I just wanted you to know, in case . . . well, in case you changed your mind about finding stuff out.”

I went to the happy place in my mind for a moment, the pink and white fluffy place with bluebirds and gentle babbling streams and, now, a semi-bald cat purring noisily.

“Where did you say your mum is these days?” he asked, very gently.

“I don’t know,” I mumbled. “She’s the one who contacts me. It’s never the other way around.” I tried to fathom his expression. I find it hard to work out people’s expressions sometimes. The cryptic crossword is much, much easier. If I had to guess what was showing on his face, I would have said: sadness, pity, fear. Nothing good. But the underlying feeling was one of kindness, gentleness. He was sad and afraid for me, but he wouldn’t hurt me, and didn’t have the slightest desire to do so. I took some comfort in that.

“Look, we won’t talk about it anymore, OK? I just wanted to say that . . . if anything comes back to you . . . in counseling or whatever . . . I might be able to give you some answers, you know? But only if you want them,” he added quickly.

I thought about this. I began to feel the vague inklings of irritation.

“Raymond,” I said, “I really don’t think it’s appropriate for you to try to direct me toward this, not before I’m ready. I’m making perfectly good progress on my own, you know,” I told him. Be patient, Marianne. I’m coming. I looked at his face, which was even paler now than when he first sat down. His mouth hung open very slightly and his eyes were glassy and tired. It wasn’t an attractive look.

“You’re not the only person who knows how to use a search engine, you know. It’s my life, and when I’m good and ready, I’m more than capable”—I treated him to one of my more direct looks—“of finding out exactly what happened for myself.”