Гейл Ханимен - Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine

She brought me more magazines, but the pleasure had waned — I had quickly tired of celebrity gossip, and it seemed that the salon didn’t take Which? or BBC History , much to my disappointment. A thought kept nudging me, and I ignored it. Me, brushing someone else’s hair? Yes. Someone smaller than me, sitting on a chair while I stood behind and combed out the tangles, trying my best to be gentle. She hated the snags and tugs. Thoughts of this type — vague, mysterious, unsettling — were precisely the sort that vodka was good for obliterating, but unfortunately I’d only been offered a choice of tea or coffee. I wondered why hair salons didn’t provide anything stronger. A change of style can be stressful, after all, and it’s hard to relax in such a noisy, bright environment. It would probably encourage customers to give bigger tips too. Tipsy equals tips, I thought, and laughed silently.

When the buzzer sounded on the heat lamp, the colour-mixing girl came over and led me to the ‘backwash’, which was, by any other name, a sink. I allowed the tinfoil to be unwrapped from my hair. She ran warm water through it, and then shampooed it clean. Her fingers were firm and deft, and I marvelled at the generosity of those humans who performed intimate services for others. I hadn’t had anyone else wash my hair since as far back as I could remember. I suppose Mummy must have washed it for me when I was an infant, but it was hard to imagine her performing any tender ministrations of this type.

After the shampoo was rinsed away, the girl performed a ‘shiatsu head massage’. I have never known such bliss. She kneaded my scalp with firm tenderness and precision, and I felt the hairs stand up on my forearms, then a bolt of electricity run down my spine. It ended about nine hours before I would have liked it to.

‘You had a lot of tension in your scalp,’ she said sagaciously, while she rinsed out the conditioning cream. I had no idea how to respond, and opted for a smile, which serves me well on most occasions (not if it’s something to do with death or illness, though — I know that now).

Back in the same chair, my shorter, coloured hair combed out, Laura returned with her sharp scissors.

‘You can’t see the colour properly when it’s wet,’ she said. ‘Just you wait!’

In the end, the cutting only took ten minutes or so. I admired her dexterity and the confidence with which she undertook the task. The drying took much longer, with considerable and elaborate hairbrush action. I read my magazine, electing, at her prompting, not to look up until the styling was finished. The dryer was switched off, chemicals were sprayed, lengths and angles were examined and a few additional snips undertaken here and there. I heard Laura’s laugh of delight.

‘Look, Eleanor!’ she said.

I raised my head from Marie Claire ’s in-depth report into female genital mutilation. My reflection showed a much younger woman, a confident woman with glossy hair that brushed her shoulders and a fringe that swept across her face and sat just over her scarred cheek. Me? I turned to the right and then to the left. I looked in the hand mirror Laura was holding behind my head so that I could see the back, smooth and sleek. I swallowed hard.

‘You’ve made me shiny, Laura,’ I said. I tried to stop it, but a little tear ran down the side of my nose. I wiped it away with the back of my hand before it could dampen the ends of my new hair. ‘Thank you for making me shiny.’

BOB HAD CALLED ME in for a meeting. He stared at me when I went into his office. I wondered why.

‘Your hair!’ he said, eventually, as though guessing the answer to a question. I hadn’t found it easy to style this morning, but I thought I’d made a fair attempt. I put my hands to my head.

‘What’s wrong with it?’ I said.

‘Nothing’s wrong with it. It looks … it looks nice,’ he said, smiling and nodding. There was a moment’s awkwardness. Neither of us was used to Bob commenting on my appearance.

‘I had it cut,’ I said, ‘obviously.’

He nodded.

‘Sit down, Eleanor.’ I looked around. To say Bob’s office was untidy was rather to understate the degree of chaos in which it was always to be found. I lifted a pile of brochures from the chair which faced his desk and placed them on the floor. He leaned forward. Bob has aged very badly during the time that I’ve known him; his hair has almost all fallen out and he has put on quite a lot of weight. He looks rather like a dissolute baby.

‘You’ve worked here for a long time, Eleanor,’ he said. I nodded; that was factually correct. ‘Did you know that Loretta is going off on leave for the foreseeable?’ I shook my head. I am not interested in the petty tittle-tattle of quotidian office life. Unless it’s gossip about a certain singer, of course.

‘I can’t say I’m surprised,’ I said. ‘I always doubted her grasp of the basic principles of Value Added Tax,’ I shrugged, ‘so perhaps it’s for the best.’

‘Her husband’s got testicular cancer, Eleanor,’ he said. ‘She wants to look after him.’

I thought about this for a moment.

‘That must be very difficult for them both,’ I said. ‘But, if detected early enough, the survival and recovery rates for cancer of the testes are good. If you’re male and you are unfortunate enough to get any sort of cancer, that’s probably the best type to have.’

He fiddled with one of his fancy black pens. ‘So,’ he said. ‘I’m going to be needing a new office manager, for the next few months at least.’ I nodded. ‘Would you be interested, Eleanor? It’d mean a bit more money, a bit more responsibility. I think you’re ready for it, though.’

I considered this.

‘How much more money?’ I asked. He wrote a sum on a Post-it note, tore it from the pad and passed it across to me. I gasped. ‘In addition to my current salary?’

I had visions of taking taxis to work rather than getting the bus, of upgrading to Tesco Finest everything, and of drinking the kind of vodka that comes in chunky opaque bottles.

‘No, Eleanor,’ he said. ‘That amount would be your new salary.’

‘Ah,’ I said.

If that were the case, then I would need to consider the risk/reward ratio carefully. Would the increase in salary compensate adequately for the increased amount of tedious administration work I’d be required to undertake, the augmented levels of responsibility for the successful functioning of the office and, worse still, for the significantly increased degree of interaction that I’d need to undertake with my colleagues?

‘May I take a few days to consider it, Bob?’ I said.

He nodded. ‘Of course, Eleanor. I expected you to say that.’

I looked at my hands.

‘You’re a good worker, Eleanor,’ he said. ‘How long has it been now — eight years?’

‘Nine,’ I said.

‘Nine years, and you’ve never had a day off sick, never used all your annual leave. That’s dedication, you know. It’s not easy to find these days.’

‘It’s not dedication,’ I said. ‘I simply have a very robust constitution and no one to go on holiday with.’

He looked away and I stood up, ready to leave.

He cleared his throat. ‘Oh, one other thing, Eleanor. Because Loretta’s so busy preparing all the handover stuff … could I ask you to help out with something?’

‘Ask away, Bob,’ I said.

‘The office Christmas lunch — do you think you could organize it this year?’ he said. ‘She won’t have time before she finishes up, and I’ve already had people in my office whingeing that if we don’t book somewhere now …’

‘… they’ll end up in Wetherspoons,’ I said, nodding. ‘Yes, I’m familiar with the issues, Bob. If you wish it, I’d certainly be willing to organize the lunch. Do I have carte blanche with regard to venue, menu and theme?’