Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine: Debut Sunday Times Bestseller and Costa First Novel Book Award winner 2017. Gail Honeyman

are in short supply.

      I remember being invited to a classmate’s house after school. Just me. The occasion was ‘tea’. This was confusing in itself; I had, not unreasonably, been expecting afternoon tea, whereas her mother had prepared a sort of early kitchen supper for us. I can still picture it – orange and beige – three luminous fish fingers, a puddle of baked beans and a pale pile of oven chips. I had never seen, let alone tried any of these items, and had to ask what they were. Danielle Mearns told everyone in the class next day and they all laughed and called me Beanz Meanz Weird (shortened to Beanzy, which stuck for a while). No matter; school was a short-lived experience for me. There was an incident with an over-inquisitive teacher who suggested a trip to the school nurse, after which Mummy decided that said teacher was a barely literate, monolingual dullard whose only worthwhile qualification was a certificate in first aid. I was home-schooled after that.

      At Danielle’s house, her mother gave us each a Munch Bunch yoghurt for pudding, and I snuck the empty pot into my school bag so that I could study it afterwards. Apparently, it was merchandise pertaining to a children’s television programme about animated pieces of fruit. And they said I was weird! It was a source of disgust to the other children at school that I couldn’t talk about TV programmes. We didn’t have a television; Mummy called it the cathode carcinogen, cancer for the intellect, and so we would read or listen to records, sometimes playing backgammon or mah jong if she was in a good mood.

      Taken aback by my lack of familiarity with frozen convenience food, Danielle Mearns’ mother asked me what it was that I usually had for tea on a Wednesday night.

      ‘There’s no routine,’ I said.

      ‘But what kind of things do you eat, generally?’ she asked, genuinely puzzled.

      I listed some of them. Asparagus velouté with a poached duck egg and hazelnut oil. Bouillabaisse with homemade rouille. Honey-glazed poussin with celeriac fondants. Fresh truffles when in season, shaved over ceps and buttered linguine. She stared at me.

      ‘That all sounds quite … fancy,’ she said.

      ‘Oh no, sometimes it’s just something really simple,’ I said, ‘like sourdough toast with manchego cheese and quince paste.’

      ‘Right,’ she said, exchanging a glance with little Danielle, who was gawping at me, revealing a mouthful of partially masticated beans. Neither spoke, and Mrs Mearns placed a glass bottle of thick red liquid on the table, which Danielle then proceeded to shake violently and slather all over the orange and beige food.

      Of course, after I was taken into care, I rapidly became acquainted with a new culinary family; Aunt Bessie, Captain Birdseye and Uncle Ben all featured regularly, and now I can distinguish HP Sauce from Daddies by smell alone, like a sauce sommelier. It was one of the innumerable ways in which my old life and my new life differed. Before and after the fire. One day I was breakfasting on watermelon, feta and pomegranate seeds, the next I was eating toasted Mother’s Pride smeared with margarine. That’s the story Mummy told me, at any rate.

      The bus stopped right outside the hospital. There was a shop on the ground floor selling an eclectic assortment of goods. I was aware that it was very much the done thing to take a gift when visiting a patient, but what to purchase? I didn’t know Sammy from Adam. Comestibles seemed pointless, since the purpose of my visit was to bring him his own food, items that he’d only very recently selected for himself. Given that he was in a coma, reading material seemed somewhat irrelevant. There wasn’t much else that might be suitable, however. The shop carried a small range of toiletries, but it seemed inappropriate for me, a stranger of the opposite sex, to present him with items pertaining to his bodily functions and, anyway, a tube of toothpaste or a packet of disposable razors did not strike me as very charming gifts.

      I tried to remember the nicest gift I’d ever received. Apart from Polly the plant, I couldn’t think of anything. Alarmingly, Declan came into my mind. My first and only boyfriend, I’d very nearly succeeded in erasing him from my memory altogether, so it was rather distressing to be reminded of him. I recalled an incident when, on seeing the single birthday card I’d received one year (from a journalist who’d somehow managed to track me down, with a note inside reminding me that she’d pay a substantial sum for an interview, any time, anywhere), he claimed that I deliberately hadn’t told him the date of my birthday. For my twenty-first birthday gift, he therefore punched me in the kidneys, kicked me as I lay on the floor until I passed out, and then gave me a black eye when I came round, for ‘withholding information’. The only other birthday I could recall was my eleventh. I received a sterling silver bracelet from the foster family I was living with at the time, with a teddy bear charm attached. I was very grateful to receive a present, but I didn’t ever wear it. I’m not really a teddy bear sort of person.

      I wondered what sort of gift the handsome singer might give me, for an anniversary, say, or for Christmas. No, wait – for Valentine’s Day, the most special, romantic day of the year. He’d write a song for me, something beautiful, and then play it for me on his guitar while I sipped perfectly chilled champagne. No, not on his guitar, that was too obvious. He’d surprise me by learning the … bassoon. Yes, he’d play the melody on the bassoon for me.

      Back to more prosaic matters. For want of anything more suitable, I bought some newspapers and magazines for Sammy, thinking that I could at least read them aloud to him. They stocked a passable selection. From his appearance and the contents of his shopping bag, I divined that Sammy was more Daily Star than Daily Telegraph. I bought a few tabloids, and decided to take him a magazine too. That was more difficult. There were so many. Condé Nast Traveller, Yachts and Yachting, Now! – how would I know which one to choose? I had no idea what interested him. I thought carefully and rationally in order to deduce the answer. The only thing I knew for sure about him was that he was an adult male; anything else would be pure speculation. I went with the law of averages, stood on tiptoe and reached up for a copy of Razzle. Job done.

      It was too hot inside the hospital and the floors squeaked. There was a hand-gel dispenser outside the ward, and a big yellow sign above it read Do Not Drink. Did people actually drink sanitizing hand gel? I supposed they must – hence the sign. Part of me, a very small sliver, briefly considered dipping my head to taste a drop, purely because I’d been ordered not to. No, Eleanor, I told myself. Curb your rebellious tendencies. Stick to tea, coffee and vodka.

      I was apprehensive about using it on my hands, for fear that it might inflame my eczema, but I did so nonetheless. Good hygiene is so important – heaven forfend that I would end up becoming a vector of infection. The ward was large, with two long rows of beds, one down each wall. All the inhabitants were interchangeable: hairless, toothless old men who were either dozing or staring blankly ahead, chins slumped forwards. I spotted Sammy, right at the end on the left-hand side, but only because he was fat. The rest of them were bones draped with pleated grey skin. I sat down on the vinyl wipe-clean chair next to his bed. There was no sign of Raymond.

      Sammy’s eyes were closed but he obviously wasn’t comatose. He would be on a special ward if that were the case, hooked up to machinery, wouldn’t he? I wondered why Raymond had lied about it. I could tell from the regular way that Sammy’s chest rose and fell that he was sleeping. I decided not to read to him, not wishing to wake him, and so I put the reading material on top of the cabinet next to his bed. I opened the compartment at the front, thinking it best to deposit the Bags for Life inside. The cabinet was empty apart from a wallet and a set of keys. I wondered if I should look in Sammy’s wallet to see if it contained any clues about him, and I was about to reach forward for it when I heard someone clear their throat behind me, a phlegm-filled sound that indicated a smoker.

      ‘Eleanor. You came,’ said Raymond, pulling up a chair on the opposite side of the bed. I stared at him.

      ‘Why did you lie, Raymond? Sammy’s not in a coma. He’s merely asleep. That’s not the same thing at all.’

      Raymond laughed.

      ‘Ah, but it’s great news, Eleanor. He woke up a couple of hours ago. Apparently, he’s got severe concussion and a broken hip. They re-set it yesterday – he’s very tired from the