Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely - Gail Honeyman Page 0,30

opened a newspaper or watched a film, were they presented with nothing but exceptionally handsome young men, and did this make them feel intimidated, inferior, because they were not as young, not as handsome? Did they then read newspaper articles ridiculing those same handsome men if they gained weight or wore something unflattering?

These were, of course, rhetorical questions.

I looked at myself again. I was healthy and my body was strong. I had a brain that worked fine, and a voice, albeit an unmelodious one; smoke inhalation all those years ago had damaged my vocal cords irreparably. I had hair, ears, eyes and a mouth. I was a human woman, no more and no less.

Even the circus freak side of my face—my damaged half—was better than the alternative, which would have meant death by fire. I didn’t burn to ashes. I emerged from the flames like a little phoenix. I ran my fingers over the scar tissue, caressing the contours. I didn’t burn, Mummy, I thought. I walked through the fire and I lived.

There are scars on my heart, just as thick, as disfiguring as those on my face. I know they’re there. I hope some undamaged tissue remains, a patch through which love can come in and flow out. I hope.

9

Raymond was waiting outside the front door of the hospital. I saw him bend down to light the cigarette of a woman in a wheelchair—she’d brought her drip out with her, on wheels, so that she could destroy her health at the same time as taxpayers’ money was being used to try and restore it. Raymond chatted to her as she smoked, puffing away himself. He leaned forward and said something and the woman laughed, a harridan’s cackle that ended in a prolonged bout of coughing. I approached with caution, fearing the noxious cloud might envelop me to deleterious effect. He spotted me coming, stubbed out his cigarette then ambled toward me. He was wearing a pair of denim trousers which were slung unpleasantly low around his buttocks; when his back was turned I saw an unwelcome inch of underpant—a ghastly imperial purple—and white skin covered in freckles, reminding me of a giraffe’s hide.

“Hiya, Eleanor,” he said, rubbing his hands on the front of his thighs as though to clean them. “How’re you doing today?”

Horrifically, he leaned forward as though to embrace me. I stepped back, but not before I’d had a chance to smell the cigarette smoke and another odor, something unpleasantly chemical and pungent. I suspected it was an inexpensive brand of gentleman’s cologne.

“Good afternoon, Raymond,” I said. “Shall we go inside?”

We took the lift to Ward 7. Raymond recounted the events of the previous evening to me at tedious length; he and his friends had apparently “pulled a late one,” whatever that meant, completing a mission on Grand Theft Auto and then playing poker. I wasn’t sure why he was telling me this. I certainly hadn’t asked. He finally finished speaking and then inquired about my evening.

“I conducted some research,” I said, not wishing to sully the experience by recounting it to Raymond.

“Look!” I said. “Ward 7!” Like a child or a small pet, he was easily distracted, and we took turns to use the alcohol hand rub before we went in. Safety first, although my poor ravaged skin had barely recovered from the previous dermatological onslaught.

Sammy was in the last bed nearest to the window, reading the Sunday Post. He glared at us over the top of his spectacles as we approached; his demeanor was not friendly. Raymond cleared his throat.

“Hi there, Mr. Thom,” he said. “I’m Raymond, and this is Eleanor.” I nodded at the old man. Raymond kept talking. “We, eh, we found you when you had your funny turn, and I went with you in the ambulance to hospital. We wanted to come by today and say hello, see how you were doing . . .”

I leaned forward and extended my hand. Sammy stared at it.

“Eh?” he said. “Who did you say you were?” He looked quite perturbed, and not a little aggressive. Raymond started to explain again, but Sammy held up his hand, palm facing forward, to silence him. Given that he was wearing candy-striped pajamas and his white hair was as fluffy and spiky as a baby pigeon’s, he nevertheless cut a surprisingly assertive figure.

“Now hold on, wait a minute,” he said, and leaned toward his bedside cabinet, grabbing something from the shelf. I took an involuntary step back—who knew what