Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely - Gail Honeyman Page 0,127

clearly been nominated as spokeswoman. “We just wanted to say that we’re glad you’re feeling better, and, y’know, welcome back!” There were nods, murmured assent. As speeches went, it was hardly Churchillian, but it was yet another very kind and thoughtful gesture.

I wasn’t one for public oratory, but I sensed that they would not be satisfied without a few words.

“Thank you very much indeed for the flowers and the card and the good wishes,” I said, eventually, eyes on my desk while I spoke. There was a bit of a silence that no one, and certainly not me, quite knew how to fill. I looked up at them.

“Well,” I said, “I don’t suppose those overdue invoices are going to process themselves, are they?”

“She’s back!” Billy said, and there was laughter, including my own. Yes. Eleanor Oliphant was back.

40

Wednesday night. High time.

“Hello, Mummy,” I said. I heard my own voice—it sounded flat, emotionless.

“How did you know?” Sharp. Irritated.

“It’s always you, Mummy,” I said.

“Cheeky! Don’t be insolent, Eleanor. It doesn’t suit you. Mummy doesn’t like naughty girls who talk back, you know that.”

Old ground, this—a reprimand I’d heard so many times before.

“I don’t really care what you like anymore, Mummy,” I said.

I heard her snort; short, derisive.

“Oh dear. Someone’s in a strop. What is it—time of the month? Hormones, darling? Or something else . . . let me see. Has someone been filling your head with nonsense? Telling lies about me? How many times have I warned you about that? Mummy isn’t—”

I interrupted. “Mummy, I’m going to say good-bye to you tonight.”

She laughed. “Good-bye? But that’s so . . . final, darling. There’s no need for that, come along now. What would you do without our little chats? What about your special project—don’t you think you ought to keep Mummy updated on your progress, at least?”

“The project wasn’t the answer, Mummy. It was wrong of you, very wrong of you, to tell me that it was,” I said, not sad, not happy, just stating facts.

She laughed. “It was your idea, as I recall, darling. I merely . . . cheered you on from the sidelines. That’s what a supportive Mummy would do, isn’t it?”

I thought about this. Supportive. Supportive meant . . . what did it mean? It meant caring about my welfare, it meant wanting the best for me. It meant laundering my soiled sheets and making sure I got home safely and buying me a ridiculous balloon when I was feeling sad. I had no desire to recount a list of her failings, her wrongdoings, to describe the horrors of the life we’d led back then or to go over the things she’d done and not done to Marianne, to me. There was no point now.

“You set fire to the house while Marianne and I were asleep inside. She died in there. I wouldn’t exactly call that supportive,” I said, trying my best to keep my voice calm, not entirely succeeding.

“Someone has been telling you lies—I knew it!” she said, triumph in her voice. She spoke brightly, full of enthusiasm. “Look, what I did, darling—anyone would have done the same thing in my situation. It’s like I told you: if something needs to change, change it! Of course, there will be inconveniences along the way . . . you simply have to deal with them, and not worry too much about the consequences.”

She sounded happy, glad to be dispensing advice. She was, I realized, talking about killing us, Marianne and me, her inconveniences. In a strange way, it helped.

I took a breath, although I didn’t really need to.

“Good-bye, Mummy,” I said. The last word. My voice was firm, measured, certain. I wasn’t sad. I was sure. And, underneath it all, like an embryo forming—tiny, so tiny, barely a cluster of cells, the heartbeat as small as the head of a pin, there I was. Eleanor Oliphant.

And, just like that, Mummy was gone.

Better Days

41

Although I felt completely fine and, indeed, ready to get back into the thick of it all, HR had insisted on a “phased return,” whereby I only worked during the mornings for the next few weeks. More fool them—if they wished to pay me a full-time salary for part-time hours, it was their lookout. At lunchtime on Friday, the end of my brief working day and my first week back, I met Raymond for the second time that week.

Since then, we’d been communicating solely by electronic means. I had spent the previous evening searching online. It was so