Гейл Ханимен - Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine

I didn’t speak, as I was trying to calculate the approximate queuing time, but she didn’t seem to mind that I hadn’t responded.

‘It’s all right for the men, isn’t it?’ she went on, in an angry tone. ‘There’s never a queue for the gents. Sometimes I feel like just going in there, squatting over the urinal. Ha!’ she said. ‘Imagine their faces!’ She laughed, a long smoky laugh that turned into a protracted cough.

‘Oh, but I think it would be terribly unhygienic in the gentlemen’s toilets,’ I said. ‘They don’t seem to mind so much about cleanliness and that sort of thing.’

‘No,’ she said, her voice full of bitterness, ‘they just come in, piss everywhere and then waltz off, leaving someone else to clean up after them.’ She gazed unsteadily off into the distance, clearly with a specific individual in mind.

‘I feel quite sorry for them, actually,’ I said. She glared at me, and I hurried to clarify my statement. ‘I mean, imagine having to micturate in a row, alongside other men, strangers, acquaintances, friends, even? It must be dreadful. Just think how odd it would be if we had to display our genitals to one another when we finally reached the front of this queue!’

She belched, very gently, and stared with uninhibited frankness at my scars. I turned my head away.

‘You’re a bit mental, aren’t you?’ she said, not in the least aggressively, but slurring her words somewhat. It was hardly the first time I’d heard this.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘yes, I suppose I am.’ She nodded, like I had confirmed a long-held suspicion. We didn’t talk after that.

When I returned to the function suite, the mood had changed — the pace of the music was slower. I went to the bar and bought myself a Magners and a vodka and cola, and, after a moment’s thought, a pint of beer for Raymond. It was quite tricky to carry it all back to our little table, but I managed without spilling a drop. I was glad to sit down, after all the jigging and queuing, and finished my vodka in two gulps — dancing was thirsty work. Raymond’s denim coat was still slung over the back of his chair, but there was no sign of him. I thought he had perhaps gone outside to smoke. I had a lot to tell him, about the dancing, about the queue lady, and I was looking forward to doing so.

The music changed again, and was now even slower. Lots of people left the floor, and those who remained drifted together. It was a strange sight, like something from the natural world; monkeys, perhaps, or birds. The women all put their arms around the men’s necks, and the men put their arms around the women’s waists. They swayed from side to side, shuffling their feet awkwardly, either looking into one another’s faces, or else resting their heads on each other’s shoulders.

It was some sort of mating ritual, clearly. But then, might it not be quite pleasurable, to sway in time to slow music, pressed close against someone rather wonderful? I looked at them all again, the various sizes and shapes and permutations of them. And there, in the middle, was Raymond, dancing with Laura. He was speaking into her ear, close enough to be able to smell her perfume. She was laughing.

The drink I’d bought him was going to go to waste. I picked it up and drank it down, the whole pint, acrid and bitter tasting. I stood up and put on my jerkin. I’d visit the Powder Room one more time, and then I would get the train back into town. The party, it seemed, was over.

MONDAY, MONDAY. THINGS DIDN’T feel right; I hadn’t been able to relax yesterday, hadn’t been able to settle to anything. I just felt on edge, somehow. If my mood was a crossword clue, the answer would be ‘discombobulated’. I tried to think why, but was unable to arrive at a plausible conclusion. I’d ended up taking the bus into town in the afternoon (free of charge — thank you, travel pass) and gone back to see Bobbi Brown. Once again, Ms Brown herself had failed to report for duty — I feared her work ethic was somewhat lacking — and a different lady had made me up, almost the same as last time. On this occasion, I’d purchased the multiple products and tools required to recreate the same face at home.

The total cost exceeded my monthly council tax bill by some margin, but I was in such a strange mood that this did not deter me. I kept the painted face on all day, and had reapplied it this morning, in an almost exact facsimile. The lady had shown me what to do, including the careful blending of concealer over my scars. The smoky eye was a bit uneven today but that, she had said, was the beauty of a smoky eye — it didn’t need to be precise.

I’d forgotten I’d done it, until I got to the office and Billy whistled, a wolf whistle in fact, which made the others turn and look.

‘New hair, bit of lippy,’ he said, nudging me with his elbow. I shrank back. ‘Somebody’s hoping to get herself a bit of action, if I’m not mistaken?’

The women gathered round. I was wearing my new outfit too. ‘You look lovely, Eleanor!’ ‘Black really suits you.’ ‘I love those boots, where did you get them?’ I examined their faces, looking out for sly glances, waiting for a punchline. None was forthcoming.

‘Where did you get your hair done, by the way?’ Janey said. ‘It’s a very flattering cut.’

‘Heliotrope, in town,’ I said. ‘Laura did it. She’s a friend of mine,’ I said proudly. Janey looked impressed. ‘I might try them out,’ she said. ‘My hairdresser is moving up north, so I’m looking for someone new. Does your friend do wedding hair, d’you know?’

I rummaged in my shopper. ‘Here’s her card,’ I said, ‘why not give her a call?’

Janey beamed at me. Could this be right? I smiled back quickly — if in doubt, smile, remember — and made for my desk.

Was this how it worked, then, successful social integration? Was it really that simple? Wear some lipstick, go to the hairdressers and alternate the clothes you wear? Someone ought to write a book, or at least an explanatory pamphlet, and pass this information on. I had had more attention from them today (non-malevolent, positive attention, that is) than I’d had in the last few years. I smiled to myself, pleased that I’d unlocked part of the puzzle. An electronic message arrived.

You ran off on Saturday without saying cheerio — everything OK? R.

I hit reply.

Fine, thank you. I had simply had enough of the dancing and other people. E.

He replied instantly.

Lunch? Usual place, 12:30? R.

Much to my surprise, I realized that I actually liked the idea of having lunch with Raymond, and was genuinely pleased to be asked. We had a Usual Place! I steeled myself as best I could, and, with teeth gritted, using only one finger I typed:

C U there E.

I sat back, feeling a bit queasy. Illiterate communication was quicker, that was true, but not by much. I’d saved myself the trouble of typing four whole characters. Still, it was part of my new credo, trying new things. I’d tried it, and I very definitely did not like it. LOL could go and take a running jump. I wasn’t made for illiteracy; it simply didn’t come naturally. Although it’s good to try new things and to keep an open mind, it’s also extremely important to stay true to who you really are. I read that in a magazine at the hairdressers.

Raymond was already there when I arrived, chatting to a different yet almost identical young man with a beard from the one who’d served us last time. I ordered a frothy coffee and a cheese scone again, which made Raymond smile.

‘You’re a creature of habit, Eleanor, aren’t you?’

I shrugged.

‘You look nice, by the way,’ he said. ‘I like your …’ He gestured indistinctly at my face. I nodded.