Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely - Gail Honeyman Page 0,42
typically disorganized, went into the shop on the ground floor. There really is no excuse for being unprepared. I had already gone to Marks & Spencer before meeting him, and had purchased some choice items there, including a tub of pumpkin seeds. I suspected Sammy was in dire need of zinc. Raymond came out swinging a carrier bag. In the lift, he opened it and showed me what he’d bought.
“Haribo, the Evening Times, big tub of sour cream and chive Pringles. What more could a man ask for, eh?” he said, looking quite proud of himself. I did not dignify this with a response.
We paused at the ward entrance; Sammy’s bed was surrounded by visitors. He saw us and beckoned us over. I looked around, but the stern nurse with the stripy socks was nowhere to be seen. Sammy was reclining regally on a mound of pillows, addressing the assembled throng.
“Eleanor, Raymond—great to see you! Come and meet the family! This is Keith—the kiddies are at home with their mum—and this is Gary and Michelle, and this”—he indicated a blond woman who was texting with impressive focus on her mobile telephone—“is my daughter Laura.”
I was aware of everyone smiling and nodding, and then they were shaking our hands, slapping Raymond’s back. It was quite overwhelming. I’d put on my white cotton gloves, rather than use the hand gel—I reasoned that I could run them through a boil wash as soon as I got home. This occasioned a certain hesitancy in the handshakes, which was strange—surely a cotton barrier between our respective skin surfaces could only be a good thing?
“Thanks so much for taking care of my dad, guys,” the older brother, Keith, said, wiping his hands on the front of his trousers. “It means a lot, to know he wasn’t on his own when it happened, that he had people looking out for him.”
“Hey, now,” said Sammy, nudging him with his elbow, “I’m not some doddery old invalid, you know. I can look after myself.” They smiled at one another.
“Course you can, Dad. I’m just saying, it’s nice to have a friendly face around sometimes, eh?”
Sammy shrugged, not conceding the point but graciously allowing it to pass.
“I’ve got some good news for you two,” Sammy said to us, leaning back contentedly into his pillows while Raymond and I deposited our carrier bags like myrrh and frankincense at the foot of his bed. “I’m getting out on Saturday!”
Raymond high-fived him, after some initial awkwardness whereby Sammy had no idea why a podgy hand had been thrust in his face.
“He’s coming to stay at mine for a couple of weeks, just till he gets confident with the walking frame,” his daughter Laura said, finally looking up from her phone. “We’re having a wee party to celebrate! You’re both invited, of course,” she added, somewhat less than enthusiastically.
She was staring at me. I didn’t mind. In fact, I actually prefer that to surreptitious, sneaky glances—from her, I got a full and frank appraisal, filled with fascination, but with no trace of fear or disgust. I brushed my hair off my face, so that she could get a better view.
“This Saturday?” I said.
“Now, Eleanor, don’t you dare say you’re busy,” Sammy said. “No excuses. I want you both there. End of.”
“Who are we to argue?” Raymond said, smiling. I thought about it. A party. The last party I’d been to—apart from that appalling wedding reception—was on Judy Jackson’s thirteenth birthday. It had involved ice-skating and milkshakes, and hadn’t ended well. Surely no one was likely to vomit or lose a finger at an elderly invalid’s welcome home celebration?
“I shall attend,” I said, inclining my head.
“Here’s my card,” Laura said, passing one each to Raymond and to me. It was black and glossy, embossed with gold leaf, and said Laura Marston-Smith, Esthetic Technician, Hair Stylist, Image Consultant, with her contact details set out below.
“Seven o’clock on Saturday, yeah? Don’t bring anything, just yourselves.”
I tucked the card carefully into my purse. Raymond had thrust his into his back pocket. He couldn’t take his eyes off Laura, I noticed, apparently hypnotized rather in the manner of a mongoose before a snake. She was clearly aware of this. I suspected she was used to it, looking the way she did. Blond hair and large breasts are so clichéd, so obvious. Men like Raymond, pedestrian dullards, would always be distracted by women who looked like her, having neither the wit nor the sophistication to see beyond mammaries and peroxide.