Гейл Ханимен - Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine

‘I’ll take them,’ I said, handing her the bar codes.

I had forgotten about the security devices clipped onto the clothes, however, and we had quite a struggle to remove them. I had to come behind the desk, in the end, and kneel backwards beside her so she could detach them using the magnetic machine fixed to the counter. We ended up laughing about it, actually. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed in a shop before. After I’d paid, trying not to think about how much money I’d spent, she came out from behind the desk again.

‘D’you mind if I say something? It’s just … shoes.’

I looked down. I was wearing my work shoes, the flat black comfortable pair with the Velcro fastenings.

‘What’s your name?’ she said. I was bemused. Why was my name relevant to a footwear purchase? She was waiting, expecting an answer.

‘It’s Eleanor,’ I admitted with great reluctance, having considered giving a false name or nom de plume. I certainly wasn’t going to tell her my surname.

‘The thing is, Eleanor, you need an ankle boot with skinny jeans, really,’ she said, as seriously as though she were a hospital consultant giving medical advice. ‘D’you want to come over to Footwear and take a look?’ I hesitated. ‘I’m not on commission or anything,’ she said quietly, ‘I just … I just think it’ll really finish off the outfit if you’ve got the right shoes.’

‘Accessories maketh the woman, eh?’ I said. She didn’t smile.

She showed me boots that made me laugh out loud, so ridiculous were they in both heel height and narrowness of fit. Finally, we agreed on a pair that were sufficiently stylish but in which I could also walk without risk of spinal injury, thereby meeting both of our requirements. Sixty-five pounds! Good grief, I thought, as I handed over my card again. Some people have to live on that for a week.

I shoved my black shoes into my shopper. I saw her eyeing that too, then looking over at the handbag section. ‘Oh, I’m afraid not,’ I said, ‘I’ve exhausted my funds for the time being.’

‘Ah well,’ she said, ‘just stash it in the cloakroom and you’ll be fine.’ I had no idea what she meant, but time’s winged chariot was hurrying near.

‘Thank you very much indeed for your assistance, Claire,’ I said, leaning forward to read her name badge. ‘It’s been invaluable.’

‘You’re welcome, Eleanor,’ she said. ‘One last thing: the store closes in ten minutes, but if you’re quick, you can nip down and get a wee makeover before you head out — Beauty’s on the ground floor beside the exit. Go to Bobbi Brown, tell them Claire sent you.’

With that she was off, the till already spewing out its reckoning of the day’s takings, bolstered in part by my own not inconsiderable contribution.

I asked to speak to Bobbi, and the woman at the makeup counter giggled.

‘We’ve got a right one here,’ she said, to no one in particular.

There were so many mirrors, I wondered if that might encourage a person to talk to themselves.

‘Sit yourself up there, my love,’ she said, pointing to a ridiculously high stool. I managed to clamber aboard, but it was not a dignified procedure, and I was somewhat hindered by my new boots. I sat on my hands, to hide them — the red, broken skin seemed to burn under the harsh overhead lighting, which showed up every flaw, every damaged inch.

She pushed my hair out of my face. ‘Right then,’ she said, looking me over, too close. ‘D’you know, that won’t even be a problem. Bobbi’s got some marvellous concealers that can match any skin tone. I can’t get rid of it, but I can certainly minimize it.’

I wondered if she always talked about herself in the third person.

‘Are you talking about my face?’ I said.

‘No, silly, your scar. Your face is lovely. You’ve got very clear skin, you know. Now, just watch this.’ She had a tool belt around her waist in the manner of a joiner or plumber, and her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth as she worked.

‘We’ve only got ten minutes till the store closes,’ she said, ‘so I’ll focus on camouflage and eyes. D’you like a smoky eye?’

‘I don’t like anything to do with smoking,’ I said, and, bizarrely, she laughed again. Strange woman.

‘You’ll see …’ she said, pushing my head back, asking me to look up, look down, turn to the side … there was so much touching, with so many different implements, and she was so close that I could smell her minty gum, not quite masking the coffee she’d drunk earlier. A bell rang, and she swore. The loudspeaker announced that the store was now closed.

‘Time’s up, I’m afraid,’ she said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. She passed me a hand mirror. I didn’t really recognize myself. The scar was barely noticeable, and my eyes were heavily rimmed and ringed with charcoal, reminding me of a programme I’d watched recently about lemurs. My lips were painted the colour of Earl Haig poppies.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘what do you think?’

‘I look like a small Madagascan primate, or perhaps a North American raccoon,’ I said. ‘It’s charming!’

She laughed so much she had to cross her legs, and she shooed me down from the chair and towards the door.

‘I’m supposed to try and sell you the products and brushes,’ she said. ‘If you want any, come back tomorrow and ask for Irene!’

I nodded, waved goodbye. Whoever Irene was, there was literally more chance of me purchasing weapons-grade plutonium from her.

THE MUSICIAN MUST HAVE been experiencing a maelstrom of emotions at this moment. A shy, modest, self-effacing man, a man who is forced to perform because of his talent, to share it with the world, not because he wants to, but because he simply has to. He sings in the way that a bird sings; his music is a sweet, natural thing that comes like rain, like sunlight, something that, perfectly, just is . I thought about this as I ate my impromptu dinner. I was in a fast-food restaurant for the first time in my adult life, an enormous and garish place just around the corner from the music venue. It was mystifyingly, inexplicably busy. I wondered why humans would willingly queue at a counter to request processed food, then carry it to a table which was not even set, and then eat it from the paper? Afterwards, despite having paid for it, the customers themselves are responsible for clearing away the detritus. Very strange.

After some contemplation, I had opted for a square of indeterminate white fish, which was coated in breadcrumbs and deep fried and then inserted between an overly sweet bread bun, accompanied, bizarrely, by a processed cheese slice, a limp lettuce leaf, and some salty, tangy white slime which bordered on obscenity. Despite Mummy’s best efforts, I am no epicure; however, surely it is a culinary truth universally acknowledged that fish and cheese do not go together? Someone really ought to tell Mr McDonald. There was nothing to tempt me from the choice of desserts, so I opted instead for a coffee, which was bitter and lukewarm. Naturally, I had been about to pour it all over myself but, just in time, had read the warning printed on the paper cup, alerting me to the fact that hot liquids can cause injury. A lucky escape, Eleanor! I said to myself, laughing quietly. I began to suspect that Mr McDonald was a very foolish man indeed, although, judging from the undiminished queue, a wealthy one.

I checked my watch, then picked up my shopper and put on my jerkin. I left the remains of my dinner where it was — what, after all, is the point of eating out if you have to clear up yourself? You might as well have stayed at home.

It was time.

The flaw in my plan, the hamartia , was this: there were no tickets available. The man at the box office actually laughed at me.