Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely - Gail Honeyman Page 0,53

to sleep. Sometimes, when night comes, I lie there in the darkness and I can’t prevent myself remembering: fear, and pressure, but mostly fear. On nights like those, Mummy’s voice hisses inside my head, and another voice, a smaller, timid one, nestles in close to my ear, so close that I can feel her hot, panicky breath moving across the tiny hairs that transmit the sound, so close she barely needs to whisper. That small voice; it breaks apart, pleading: Eleanor, please help me, Eleanor . . . over and over and over again. On those nights I need the vodka, or else I’d break apart too.

I decided to carry on walking toward the big supermarket, which was around twenty minutes away. It would be a more efficient use of my time, allowing me to purchase everything at once, rather than going home and having to go out again. My shopper was feeling rather heavy, and so I put it down and unfolded the collapsible frame that was stored in one of the inside compartments. I built it up, fitted the bag, et voilà! A shopper on wheels. It made a rather inharmonious trundling sound, but this was more than compensated for by the efficacy with which it transported heavier items.

The supermarket in question carried a wide range of quality goods—not just food and drink, but toasters, sweaters, Frisbees and novels. It wasn’t a Tesco Metro, it was a Tesco Extra. It was, in short, one of my favorite places in the world.

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Tesco! Bright lights, clear labeling, 3 FOR 2 and BOGOF and ANY 3 FOR £5. I took a trolley, because I enjoy pushing them. I stuck my shopper in the child’s seat, and it was quite tricky to peer round it, but that only made the exercise more fun. I didn’t go straight to the vodka; instead, I perused each aisle in turn, starting upstairs in the electrical goods section and then, downstairs, taking my time over tampons and tomato feed and Ainsley Harriot’s Spice Sensation couscous.

I gravitated toward the in-store bakery and stopped dead by the well-fired morning rolls, barely able to believe my eyes. The musician! How blessed I am to live in a compact city, where lives can intersect so readily. Ah, but who’s to say it was accidental, I thought. As previously noted, the machinations of fate are often beyond human ken, and perhaps greater forces were at work here, throwing us into one another’s path in the unlikeliest of circumstances. Buffeted by fate, I felt like a Thomas Hardy heroine this morning (although I silently and passionately entreated fate not to create any future encounters for us in the vicinity of exploding sheep).

Keeping my eyes on the musician, I ducked behind my protruding child-seated shopper in the trolley, then slowly rolled toward him. I stood as close as I dared. He looked tired and pale, but was still handsome, albeit in a rugged, very casually groomed way. He tossed a loaf of sliced white into his basket and glided off toward the meat counter. Once again, I found myself at a disadvantage. I was not physically ready to introduce myself, being somewhat less than soigné at this hour on a weekend, and not wearing my new clothes or boots. Nor had I prepared an opening conversational gambit. I did not even have the greeting card in my bag to pass to him. Lesson: I must be prepared at all times.

I decided it would be wise to stop following him, despite my overwhelming curiosity as to what he would purchase next, as I feared my meta-trolley might be somewhat conspicuous. Instead, I went straight to Wines and Spirits and bought three big bottles of premium-brand vodka. I had only intended to purchase two bottles of Glen’s, but the promotional offer on Smirnoff was remarkable. Oh, Mr. Tesco, I simply cannot resist your marvelous bargains.

As luck would have it, the musician was waiting at the checkouts when I arrived. There was one person behind him, so I took refuge in the same queue with this convenient buffer between us. What a well-chosen selection of shopping! Eggs, bacon, orange juice (“with bits”—bits of what? I wondered) and Nurofen tablets. I had to stop myself from leaning forward and explaining that he was wasting his money—this branded nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drug was in fact simply ibuprofen 200 mg, the generic version of which was readily available for sale at perhaps one-quarter of the price. But that couldn’t be