Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely - Gail Honeyman Page 0,23

linguine. She stared at me.

“That all sounds quite . . . fancy,” she said.

“Oh no, sometimes it’s just something really simple,” I said, “like sourdough toast with Manchego cheese and quince paste.”

“Right,” she said, exchanging a glance with little Danielle, who was gawping at me, revealing a mouthful of partially masticated beans. Neither spoke, and Mrs. Mearns placed a glass bottle of thick red liquid on the table, which Danielle then proceeded to shake violently and slather all over the orange and beige food.

Of course, after I was taken into care, I rapidly became acquainted with a new culinary family; Aunt Bessie, Captain Birdseye and Uncle Ben all featured regularly, and now I can distinguish HP Sauce from Daddies by smell alone, like a sauce sommelier. It was one of the innumerable ways in which my old life and my new life differed. Before and after the fire. One day I was breakfasting on watermelon, feta and pomegranate seeds, the next I was eating toasted Mother’s Pride smeared with margarine. That’s the story Mummy told me, at any rate.

The bus stopped right outside the hospital. There was a shop on the ground floor selling an eclectic assortment of goods. I was aware that it was very much the done thing to take a gift when visiting a patient, but what to purchase? I didn’t know Sammy from Adam. Comestibles seemed pointless, since the purpose of my visit was to bring him his own food, items that he’d only very recently selected for himself. Given that he was in a coma, reading material seemed somewhat irrelevant. There wasn’t much else that might be suitable, however. The shop carried a small range of toiletries, but it seemed inappropriate for me, a stranger of the opposite sex, to present him with items pertaining to his bodily functions and, anyway, a tube of toothpaste or a packet of disposable razors did not strike me as very charming gifts.

I tried to remember the nicest gift I’d ever received. Apart from Polly the plant, I couldn’t think of anything. Alarmingly, Declan came into my mind. My first and only boyfriend, I’d very nearly succeeded in erasing him from my memory altogether, so it was rather distressing to be reminded of him. I recalled an incident when, on seeing the single birthday card I’d received one year (from a journalist who’d somehow managed to track me down, with a note inside reminding me that she’d pay a substantial sum for an interview, anytime, anywhere), he claimed that I deliberately hadn’t told him the date of my birthday. For my twenty-first birthday gift, he therefore punched me in the kidneys, kicked me as I lay on the floor until I passed out and then gave me a black eye when I came round, for “withholding information.” The only other birthday I could recall was my eleventh. I received a sterling silver bracelet from the foster family I was living with at the time, with a teddy bear charm attached. I was very grateful to receive a present, but I didn’t ever wear it. I’m not really a teddy bear sort of person.

I wondered what sort of gift the handsome singer might give me, for an anniversary, say, or for Christmas. No, wait—for Valentine’s Day, the most special, romantic day of the year. He’d write a song for me, something beautiful, and then play it for me on his guitar while I sipped perfectly chilled champagne. No, not on his guitar, that was too obvious. He’d surprise me by learning the . . . bassoon. Yes, he’d play the melody on the bassoon for me.

Back to more prosaic matters. For want of anything more suitable, I bought some newspapers and magazines for Sammy, thinking that I could at least read them aloud to him. They stocked a passable selection. From his appearance and the contents of his shopping bag, I divined that Sammy was more Daily Star than Daily Telegraph. I bought a few tabloids, and decided to take him a magazine too. That was more difficult. There were so many. Condé Nast Traveler, Yachts and Yachting, Now!—how would I know which one to choose? I had no idea what interested him. I thought carefully and rationally in order to deduce the answer. The only thing I knew for sure about him was that he was an adult male; anything else would be pure speculation. I went with the law of averages, stood on tiptoe and reached up for