Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely - Gail Honeyman Page 0,26

at me and then slowly poured the brown liquid over the ice and put it down quite hard; indeed, he practically slammed the bottle onto the counter.

“Eight pound seventy,” he said, in a most unfriendly manner. I handed over a five-pound note and four pound coins, then took my change and carefully put it in my purse.

“Would you by any chance have a tray?” I asked. He tossed down a filthy, sticky tray and watched as I placed the drinks on it before turning his back on me. There is such a paucity of good manners on display in the so-called service sector!

Raymond thanked me for the drink and took a big gulp. The Magners was quite pleasant, and I revised my opinion of the young barman. Yes, his customer service skills were poor, but he did at least know how to make appropriate beverage recommendations. Unprompted, Raymond started to tell me about his mother, how he was going to visit her tomorrow, something he did every Sunday. She was a widow and not terribly well. She had a lot of cats, and he helped her care for them. On and on and on he droned. I interrupted him.

“Raymond,” I said. “Can I ask you something?”

He sipped his pint. “Sure.”

“If I were to purchase a ‘smart phone,’ which type would you advise? I have been looking into the relative merits of iPhones as compared with Android devices, and I’d appreciate an insider’s perspective on the cost-benefit ratio, as it were.”

He looked somewhat surprised at my question, which was odd, given that he worked in IT and therefore must be asked technological questions quite frequently.

“Right, well . . .” He shook his head in a slightly canine way, as though he were clearing thoughts from it “. . . that depends on a lot of factors.” He expounded on these factors at some length—without reaching any kind of useful conclusion—and then looked at his watch.

“Shit! I better run—I need to pick up some beers before I head over to Andy’s, and it’s nearly ten.” He drained his pint, stood up and put on his jacket, even though it wasn’t in the least bit cold.

“You going to be OK getting home, Eleanor?” he said.

“Oh yes,” I said, “I’ll walk—it’s such a beautiful evening, and it’s still light.”

“Right then, I’ll see you on Monday,” he said. “Enjoy the rest of your weekend.” He turned to leave.

“Raymond, wait!” I said. He turned back toward me, smiling.

“What is it, Eleanor?”

“The Guinness, Raymond. It was three pounds fifty.” He stared at me. “It’s OK,” I said, “there’s no rush. You can give it to me on Monday, if that’s easier.”

He counted out four pound coins and put them on the table. “Keep the change,” he said, and walked off. Extravagant! I put the money in my purse, and finished my Magners. Emboldened by the apples, I decided to take a detour on the way home. Yes. Why not? It was time for a spot of reconnaissance.

8

There is no such thing as hell, of course, but if there was, then the sound track to the screaming, the pitchfork action and the infernal wailing of damned souls would be a looped medley of “show tunes” drawn from the annals of musical theater. The complete oeuvre of Lloyd Webber and Rice would be performed, without breaks, on a stage inside the fiery pit, and an audience of sinners would be forced to watch—and listen—for eternity. The very worst among them, the child molesters and the murderous dictators, would have to perform them.

Save for the exquisite oeuvre of a certain Mr. Lomond, I have yet to find a genre of music I enjoy; it’s basically audible physics, waves and energized particles, and, like most sane people, I have no interest in physics. It therefore struck me as bizarre that I was humming a tune from Oliver! I mentally added the exclamation mark, which, for the first time ever, was appropriate. Who will buy this wonderful evening? Who indeed?

One of the foster carers kept a video library of musicals that we worked our way through en famille at weekends, and so, although I fervently wish that I wasn’t, I’m very familiar with the work of Lionel Bart, Rodgers and Hammerstein et al. Knowing I was here on the street where he lived was giving me a funny feeling, fluttery and edgy, verging on euphoric. I could almost understand why that frock-coated buffoon from My Fair Lady had felt the need to