Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely - Gail Honeyman Page 0,45
like?”
I was concerned that this might be some elaborate ruse to part me from even more of my hard-earned cash, so I watched her like the proverbial hawk as she reached inside my bag. Too late, I remembered the unfinished remains of the egg sandwich which lay within—she gagged ostentatiously as she removed my purse. A slight overreaction, I felt—yes, the odor which escaped was somewhat sulfurous, but still, no need for pantomime. I kept my eyes fixed on her fingers (unpainted, I noticed) as she extracted the required notes and replaced the purse in the shopper very carefully.
I stood up, ready to take my leave. Her erstwhile companion had returned, and cast a glance at my hands, their tips gleaming green. “Nice,” she said, her tone and body language implying strongly that she had little interest in the topic. Casey became slightly more animated. “Would you like a loyalty card?” she said. “Have five manicures and the sixth one’s free!”
“No thank you,” I said. “I shan’t be having a manicure again. I can do the same thing myself at home, better, for nothing.” Their mouths fell open slightly, but with that I was off, making my way back out into the world, dodging the squirters and the sample-pushers on my way past the perfume counters. I longed to be outside in natural light and fresh air again. The gilded confines of the Beauty Hall were not my preferred habitat; like the chicken that had laid the eggs for my sandwich, I was more of a free-range creature.
I got home after work and opened my wardrobe. What to wear to a party? I had two pairs of black trousers and five white blouses—well, they were white originally—which I wore to work. I had a comfortable pair of slacks, two T-shirts and two jumpers, which I wore at weekends. That left my special occasion outfit. I’d bought it for Loretta’s wedding reception years ago, and had worn it on a handful of occasions since, including a special visit to the National Museum of Scotland. The exhibition of newly discovered Roman trove had been tremendous; the journey to Edinburgh, far less so.
The train interior had been more like a bus than the Orient Express, replete with hard-wearing fabrics in stain-concealing colors and gray plastic fittings. The worst thing, apart from the other travelers—my goodness, the hoi polloi do get about these days, and they eat and drink in public with very few inhibitions—was the incessant noise from the loudspeakers. It seemed there was an announcement every five minutes from the mythical conductor, imparting sagacious gems such as large items should be placed in the overhead luggage racks, or that passengers should report any unattended items to the train crew as soon as possible. I wondered at whom these pearls of wisdom were aimed; some passing extraterrestrial, perhaps, or a yak herder from Ulan Bator who had trekked across the steppes, sailed the North Sea and found himself on the Glasgow–Edinburgh service with literally no prior experience of mechanized transport to call upon?
The special occasion outfit was, I realized, somewhat outmoded now. Lemon was not a color that suited me particularly well—fine for nightgowns, worn in the privacy of my bedroom, but hardly suitable for a sophisticated gathering. I’d go to the shops tomorrow and purchase something new; I’d be able to wear it again when I was out at a restaurant or at the theater with my true love, so the money would not be wasted. Feeling happy with this decision, I made my usual pasta con pesto and listened to the Archers. There was a convoluted story line involving a very unconvincing Glaswegian milkman, and I did not particularly enjoy the episode. I’d washed up and settled down with a book about pineapples. It was surprisingly interesting. I like to read as widely as possible for many reasons, not least in order to broaden my vocabulary to assist with crossword solving. Then the silence was very rudely interrupted.
“Hello?” I said, somewhat tentatively.
“Oh, so it’s ‘Hello,’ is it? ‘Hello’—that’s all you’ve got to say to me? And where the hell were you last night, lady? Hmm?” She was playing to the gallery again.
“Mummy,” I said. “How are you?” I tried my best to steady myself.
“Never mind how I am. Where were you?”
“I’m sorry, Mummy,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “I was . . . I was with a friend, visiting another friend in hospital, actually.”