Гейл Ханимен - Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine

‘Is it?’ I said, interested. ‘I don’t have a control situation to compare it with.’

He looked at me. ‘You’ve always been on your own, then?’ he said. ‘You mentioned that guy last week, the one that …’ I saw him reach for words, ‘the one that you were with when you were at uni?’

‘As you know, I was with Declan for a couple of years,’ I said. ‘And you also know how that turned out.’ More Magners. ‘You get used to being on your own,’ I said. ‘Actually, it really is much better than being punched in the face or raped.’

Raymond choked on his pint, and took a moment to recover himself. He spoke very gently.

‘You do realize, Eleanor, that those are not your only options, don’t you? Not all men are like Declan, you know.’

‘I do know!’ I said, brightly. ‘I’ve met one!’

In my mind’s eye, I saw the musician bringing me freesias, kissing the nape of my neck. Raymond looked uncomfortable, for some reason.

‘I’ll just nip to the bar,’ he said. ‘You still on the Magners?’ I felt strange, stirred up. ‘I’ll have a vodka with cola, please,’ I said, knowing from experience that vodka would be good for whatever ailed me. I watched Raymond shuffle off. If he would only stand up straight, and shave! He needed to buy some nice shirts and some proper shoes, and read a book or two instead of playing computer games. How could he ever hope to find a nice girl otherwise?

Keith came up to the table and thanked me for coming. I gave him his birthday present, which he seemed to find genuinely surprising. He looked at each item in turn with an expression that I found hard to read, but I quickly eliminated ‘boredom’ and ‘indifference’. I felt happy; it was a nice feeling, giving someone a gift, the kind of unique, thoughtful present that he wouldn’t have received from anyone else. He put the carrier bag on a nearby table.

‘Would you, eh, would you like to dance, Eleanor?’

My heart started to pump faster. Dance! Could I?

‘I’m not sure I know how,’ I said.

Keith laughed, and pulled me to my feet.

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘you’ll be fine.’

We’d only just reached the wooden dancing area when the music changed, and he groaned.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but there’s no way. I’m going to have to sit this one out. Birthday boy privileges!’

I watched as some people left the dance floor and others flocked to take their place. The music had a lot of brass instruments and a fast beat. Michelle, Gary’s girlfriend, beckoned me over and pulled me into a small group of women, around the same age, who smiled at me and looked very happy. I joined in with what seemed to be jigging on the spot. Some people moved their arms as though they were jogging, some people were pointing at nothing; it appeared that you were supposed to move your body around in any way you saw fit, as long as it was in time with the music, which was a steady eight beats, helpfully marked out by a drum. Then the beat changed abruptly and everyone started doing the same thing, making strange shapes with their arms above their head. It took me a moment or two to learn the shapes, and then I was able to copy them. Freeform jigging, communal shapes in the air; freeform jigging, communal shapes in the air. Dancing was easy!

I found myself not thinking about anything, sort of like how the vodka worked, but different, because I was with people and I was singing. YMCA! YMCA! Arms in the air, mimicking the letters — what a marvellous idea! Who knew that dancing could be so logical?

During the next freeform jigging section, I started to wonder why the band was singing about, presumably, the Young Men’s Christian Association, but then, from my very limited exposure to popular music, people did seem to sing about umbrellas and fire-starting and Emily Brontë novels, so, I supposed, why not a gender- and faith-based youth organization?

The song finished and another one began; this one was not nearly so much fun, being entirely freeform jigging with no communal arm patterns in between, but nevertheless I remained on the dance floor, with the same group of smiling women, feeling that I was in the swing of things now. I was beginning to understand why people might find dancing enjoyable, although I wasn’t sure I could manage an entire evening of it. I felt a quick tap on my shoulder and turned around, expecting Raymond to be there, a smile ready as I thought how he’d like to hear about the arm-shape dance, but it wasn’t him.

It was a man in his mid to late thirties, whom I’d never met before. He smiled and raised his eyebrows, like a question, and then simply started freeform jigging in front of me. I turned back to the group of smiling women, but the circle had reformed without me. The man, red-faced, short, with the pasty look of someone who has never eaten an apple, continued to jig enthusiastically, if somewhat unrhythmically. At a loss as to how to respond, I resumed my dancing. He leaned forward and said something, which, naturally, was rendered inaudible by the volume of the music.

‘I beg your pardon?’ I shouted.

‘I said,’ he shouted, much louder than before, ‘how do you know Keith?’

What a bizarre question to ask a stranger.

‘I assisted his father when he had an accident,’ I said. I had to repeat this twice before the man understood — perhaps he had some sort of hearing impairment. When it had finally penetrated, he looked intrigued. He lunged forward towards me with what I could only describe as a leer.

‘Are you a nurse?’ he said.

‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m a finance administration assistant.’ He seemed to be at a bit of a loss for words after that, and I looked ceiling-wards as we jigged in order to discourage further conversation; it was quite challenging to dance and speak at the same time.

When the song ended, I’d had enough for the time being, and felt in fairly urgent need of refreshment.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ the man yelled, over the top of the next song. I wondered whether the DJ had ever considered introducing a five-minute break between records, to allow people to go to the bar or the lavatory in peace. Perhaps I should suggest that to him later.

‘No thank you,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to accept a drink from you, because then I would be obliged to purchase one for you in return, and I’m afraid I’m simply not interested in spending two drinks’ worth of time with you.’

‘Eh?’ he said, cupping his hand around his ear. Clearly he had tinnitus or some other hearing impairment. I communicated via mime, simply shaking my head and waving my index finger, while mouthing NO. I turned around and went in search of the lavatory before he attempted any further conversation.

It was difficult to find, located down a corridor, and I could only see signs for a Powder Room. This, it eventually transpired, meant Lavatories. Why don’t people just call things what they are? It’s confusing. There was a queue, which I joined, standing behind a very inebriated woman who was dressed inappropriately for her age. I do feel that tube tops are best suited to the under twenty-fives, if, indeed, they are suited to anyone.

A sheer, sparkly jacket was doing an inadequate job of covering up her enormous, crepey bosom. Her makeup, which would have been subtle had it been intended for a stage performance in the Royal Albert Hall, had started to run. For some reason, I could imagine this woman sobbing on the stairs at the end of the night. I surprised myself with the insight, but there was something rather febrile about her demeanour which led one to this conclusion.

‘How much of your life do you think you’ve wasted queuing for the bogs?’ she asked, conversationally. ‘They never have enough of them, do they?’