Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine. Gail Honeyman

didn’t often interact with my colleagues in this informal, chatty way, which gave me cause to stop and consider whether I ought to make the most of the opportunity. Bernadette’s fraternal connection to the object of my affections – surely it would be the work of moments to glean some additional, useful information about him from her? I didn’t think I was up to a protracted interaction – she had a very loud, grating voice and a laugh like a howler monkey – but it was surely worth a few moments of my time. I stirred my tea in a clockwise direction while I prepared my opening gambit.

      ‘Did you enjoy the rest of the concert the other night, Billy?’ I said. He looked surprised at my question, and there was a pause before he answered.

      ‘Aye, it was OK,’ he said. Articulate as ever. This was going to be hard work.

      ‘Were the other singers of a similar standard to …’ I paused and pretended to wrack my brains ‘… to Johnnie Lomond?’

      ‘They were all right, I guess,’ he said, shrugging. Such insight, such clear, descriptive prose. Bernadette piped up, as I knew she would, unable to resist an opportunity to draw attention to herself by any means available.

      ‘I know him, Johnnie Lomond,’ she told me proudly. ‘He used to be pals with my brother, at school.’

      ‘Really?’ I said, not, for once, having to feign interest. ‘Which school was that?’

      The way she said the name of the establishment implied that I ought to be aware of it. I tried to look impressed.

      ‘Are they still friends?’ I asked, stirring my tea again.

      ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘He came to Paul’s wedding, but I think they drifted apart after that. You know what it’s like – when you’re married with kids, you sort of lose touch with your single pals, don’t you? You don’t have that much in common any more …’

      I had neither knowledge nor experience of the situation she’d described, but I nodded as though I did, while all the while the same phrase was scrolling across my brain: he is single, he is single, he is single.

      I took my tea back to my desk. Their laughter seemed to have turned into low whispering now. It never ceases to amaze me, the things they find interesting, amusing or unusual. I can only assume they’ve led very sheltered lives.

      Janey the secretary had got engaged to her latest Neanderthal, and there was a presentation for her that afternoon. I’d contributed seventy-eight pence to the collection. I only had coppers in my purse or else a five-pound note, and I certainly wasn’t going to put such an extravagant sum into the communal envelope to buy something unnecessary for someone I barely knew. I must have contributed hundreds of pounds over the years to all the leaving presents, baby gifts and special birthdays, and what had I ever received in return? My own birthdays pass unremarked.

      Whoever had chosen the engagement gift had selected wine glasses and a matching carafe. Such accoutrements are unnecessary when you drink vodka – I simply use my favourite mug. I purchased it in a charity shop some years ago, and it has a photograph of a moon-faced man on one side. He is wearing a brown leather blouson. Along the top, in strange yellow font, it says Top Gear. I don’t profess to understand this mug. It holds the perfect amount of vodka, however, thereby obviating the need for frequent refills.

      Janey was planning a short engagement, she’d simpered, and so, of course, the inevitable collection for the wedding present would soon follow. Of all the compulsory financial contributions, that is the one that irks me most. Two people wander around John Lewis picking out lovely items for themselves, and then they make other people pay for them. It’s bare-faced effrontery. They choose things like plates, bowls and cutlery – I mean, what are they doing at the moment: shovelling food from packets into their mouths with their bare hands? I simply fail to see how the act of legally formalizing a human relationship necessitates friends, family and co-workers upgrading the contents of their kitchen for them.

      I’ve never actually been to a wedding ceremony. I was invited to Loretta’s evening reception a couple of years ago, along with everyone else from the office. It was in a horrible hotel near the airport, and we organized a minibus to get there; I had to contribute to the cost of that, in addition to my bus fare into town and back. Guests were obliged to buy their own drinks all evening, which shocked me. Entertaining is not my area of expertise, I’ll admit that, but surely, if you are a host, you are responsible for ensuring that your guests are provided with a libation? That’s a basic principle of hospitality, in all societies and cultures, and has been since recorded time. In the event, I drank tap water – I rarely imbibe alcohol in public. I only really enjoy it when I’m alone, at home. They did at least serve tea and coffee later in the evening, free of charge; this was accompanied by poor-quality savoury pastries and, bizarrely, slices of Christmas cake. For hours and hours, there was a disco, and terrible people danced in a terrible way to terrible music. I sat on my own and no one asked me to dance and I was absolutely fine with that.

      The other guests did seem to be enjoying themselves, or at least I assume that to have been the case. They were shuffling on the dance floor, red-faced and drunk. Their shoes looked uncomfortable, and they were shouting the words of the songs into each other’s faces. I’ll never go to such an event again. It simply wasn’t worth it, just for a cup of tea and a slice of cake. The evening wasn’t completely wasted, however, because I managed to slip almost a dozen sausage rolls into my shopper, wrapped in serviettes, for later. Unfortunately, they weren’t very tasty – nowhere near as good as the always reliable Greggs.

      When the grim engagement presentation was over, I zipped up my jerkin and turned off my computer, excited at the thought of switching on my personal laptop at home as soon as I could. There might be some useful information online about his schooldays, given the nugget of new information I’d inveigled from Bernadette earlier. How wonderful if there was a class photograph! I’d love to see how he looked in his youth, whether he’d always been beautiful, or whether he’d blossomed into a glorious butterfly at a relatively late stage. My money was on him being stunning from birth. There might be a list of prizes he’d won! Music, obviously, English, probably: he wrote such wonderful lyrics, after all. Either way, he definitely struck me as a prize-winner.

      I try to plan my exits from the office so that I don’t need to talk to anyone else on the way out. There are always so many questions. What are you up to tonight? Plans for the weekend? Booked a holiday yet? I’ve no idea why other people are always so interested in my schedule. I’d timed it all perfectly, and was manoeuvring my shopper over the threshold when I realized that someone had pulled the door back and was holding it open for me. I turned around.

      ‘All right, Eleanor?’ the man said, smiling patiently as I unravelled the string on my mittens from my sleeve. Even though they were not required in the current temperate atmosphere, I keep them in situ, ready to don as the eventual change in season requires.

      ‘Yes,’ I said, and then, remembering my manners, I muttered, ‘Thank you, Raymond.’

      ‘No bother,’ he said.

      Annoyingly, we began walking down the path at the same time.

      ‘Where are you headed?’ he asked. I nodded vaguely in the direction of the hill.

      ‘Me too,’ he said.

      I bent down and pretended to refasten the Velcro on my shoe. I took as long as I could, hoping that he would take the hint. When eventually I stood up again, he was still there, arms dangling by his sides. I noticed that he was wearing a duffle coat. A duffle coat! Surely they were the preserve of children and small bears? We started to walk downhill together and he took out a packet of cigarettes, offered me one. I reared back from the packet.

      ‘How disgusting,’ I said. Undeterred, he lit up.

      ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘Filthy habit, I know.’

      ‘It is,’ I said. ‘You’ll die years earlier than you would have otherwise, probably from cancer or heart disease. You won’t see the effects on your heart or your lungs for a while, but you’ll notice