Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely - Gail Honeyman Page 0,50

badge. “It’s been invaluable.”

“You’re welcome, Eleanor,” she said. “One last thing: the store closes in ten minutes, but if you’re quick, you can nip down and get a wee makeover before you head out—Beauty’s on the ground floor beside the exit. Go to Bobbi Brown, tell them Claire sent you.”

With that she was off, the till already spewing out its reckoning of the day’s takings, bolstered in part by my own not inconsiderable contribution.

I asked to speak to Bobbi, and the woman at the makeup counter giggled.

“We’ve got a right one here,” she said, to no one in particular.

There were so many mirrors, I wondered if that might encourage a person to talk to themselves.

“Sit yourself up there, my love,” she said, pointing to a ridiculously high stool. I managed to clamber aboard, but it was not a dignified procedure, and I was somewhat hindered by my new boots. I sat on my hands, to hide them—the red, broken skin seemed to burn under the harsh overhead lighting, which showed up every flaw, every damaged inch.

She pushed my hair out of my face. “Right then,” she said, looking me over, too close. “D’you know, that won’t even be a problem. Bobbi’s got some marvelous concealers that can match any skin tone. I can’t get rid of it, but I can certainly minimize it.”

I wondered if she always talked about herself in the third person.

“Are you talking about my face?” I said.

“No, silly, your scar. Your face is lovely. You’ve got very clear skin, you know. Now, just watch this.” She had a tool belt around her waist in the manner of a joiner or plumber, and her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth as she worked.

“We’ve only got ten minutes till the store closes,” she said, “so I’ll focus on camouflage and eyes. D’you like a smoky eye?”

“I don’t like anything to do with smoking,” I said, and, bizarrely, she laughed again. Strange woman.

“You’ll see . . .” she said, pushing my head back, asking me to look up, look down, turn to the side . . . there was so much touching, with so many different implements, and she was so close that I could smell her minty gum, not quite masking the coffee she’d drunk earlier. A bell rang, and she swore. The intercom announced that the store was now closed.

“Time’s up, I’m afraid,” she said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. She passed me a hand mirror. I didn’t really recognize myself. The scar was barely noticeable, and my eyes were heavily rimmed and ringed with charcoal, reminding me of a program I’d watched recently about lemurs. My lips were painted the color of Earl Haig poppies.

“Well,” she said, “what do you think?”

“I look like a small Madagascan primate, or perhaps a North American raccoon,” I said. “It’s charming!”

She laughed so much she had to cross her legs, and she shooed me down from the chair and toward the door.

“I’m supposed to try and sell you the products and brushes,” she said. “If you want any, come back tomorrow and ask for Irene!”

I nodded, waved good-bye. Whoever Irene was, there was literally more chance of me purchasing weapons-grade plutonium from her.

14

The musician must have been experiencing a maelstrom of emotions at this moment. A shy, modest, self-effacing man, a man who is forced to perform because of his talent, to share it with the world, not because he wants to, but because he simply has to. He sings in the way that a bird sings; his music is a sweet, natural thing that comes like rain, like sunlight, something that, perfectly, just is. I thought about this as I ate my impromptu dinner. I was in a fast-food restaurant for the first time in my adult life, an enormous and garish place just around the corner from the music venue. It was mystifyingly, inexplicably busy. I wondered why humans would willingly queue at a counter to request processed food, then carry it to a table which was not even set, and then eat it from the paper? Afterward, despite having paid for it, the customers themselves are responsible for clearing away the detritus. Very strange.

After some contemplation, I had opted for a square of indeterminate white fish, which was coated in bread crumbs and deep fried and then inserted between an overly sweet bread bun, accompanied, bizarrely, by a processed cheese slice, a limp lettuce leaf and some salty, tangy white slime which bordered