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

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      I HAD BARELY HAD TIME to get home and divest myself of my outer garments when the doorbell rang, ten minutes earlier than I’d been expecting. Probably trying to catch me out. When I opened it, slowly, keeping the chain on, it wasn’t the person I’d been expecting. Whoever it was, she wasn’t smiling.

      ‘Eleanor Oliphant? June Mullen, Social Work,’ she said, stepping forward, her progress blocked by the door.

      ‘I was expecting Heather,’ I said, peering around.

      ‘Heather’s off sick, I’m afraid; we’ve no idea when she’ll be back. I’ve taken over her cases.’

      I asked to see some form of official identification – I mean, you can’t be too careful. She gave a tiny sigh, and began to look in her bag. She was tall, carefully dressed in a black trouser suit and white shirt. As she bent her head, I noticed the white stripe of scalp at the parting in her shiny, dark bob. Eventually, she looked up and thrust out a security pass, with a huge council logo and a tiny photo. I scrutinized it carefully, looked from the photograph to her face and back again several times. It wasn’t a flattering shot, but I didn’t hold that against her. I’m not particularly photogenic myself. In real life, she was about my age, with smooth, unlined skin and a slash of red lipstick.

      ‘You don’t look like a social worker,’ I said. She stared at me but said nothing. Not again! In every walk of life, I encounter people with underdeveloped social skills with alarming frequency. Why is it that client-facing jobs hold such allure for misanthropes? It’s a conundrum. I made a mental note to return to the topic later, unhooked the chain and invited her in. I showed her into the lounge, listening to her high heels clicking across the floor. She asked if she could have a quick tour; I’d been expecting that, of course. Heather used to do that too; I assume that it’s part of the job, checking to make sure that I’m not storing my own urine in demijohns or kidnapping magpies and sewing them into pillowcases. She complimented me unenthusiastically on the interiors as we went into the kitchen.

      I tried to see my home through the eyes of a visitor. I’m aware that I am very fortunate to live here, social housing in this area being virtually non-existent these days. I couldn’t possibly afford to live in this postcode otherwise, certainly not on the pittance that Bob pays me. Social Services arranged for me to move here after I had to leave my last foster placement, the summer immediately before I started university. I’d just turned seventeen. Back then, a vulnerable young person who’d grown up in care would be allocated a council flat close to her place of study without it being too much of a problem. Imagine that.

      It took me a while to get around to decorating, I remember, and I finally painted the place in the summer after I graduated. I bought emulsion and brushes after cashing a cheque I received in the post from the University Registry, along with my degree parchment; it turned out that I’d won a small prize, set up in the name of some long-dead classicist, for the best Finals performance in a paper on Virgil’s Georgics. I graduated in absentia of course; it seemed pointless to process onto the stage with no one there to applaud me. The flat hadn’t been touched since then.

      I suppose, trying to be objective, that it was looking rather tired. Mummy always said that an obsession with home interiors was tediously bourgeois and, worse still, that any kind of ‘do-it-yourself’ activities were very much the preserve of the hoi polloi. It’s quite frightening to think about the ideas that I may have absorbed from Mummy.

      The furniture was provided by a charity that helps vulnerable young people and ex-offenders when they move into a new home; donated, mismatched things for which I was most grateful at the time, and continue to be. It was all perfectly functional, so I’d never seen the need to replace any of it. I didn’t clean the place very often, I supposed, which might contribute to what I could see might be perceived as a general air of neglect. I didn’t see the point; I was the only person who ever ate here, washed here, went to sleep and woke up here.

      This June Mullen was the first visitor I’d had since November last year. They come around every six months or so, the Social Work visits. She’s my first visitor this calendar year. The meter reader hasn’t been yet, although I must say I prefer it when they leave a card and I can phone in my reading. I do love call centres; it’s always so interesting to hear all the different accents and try to find out a bit about the person you’re talking to. The best part is when they ask, at the end, Is there anything else I can help you with today, Eleanor? and I can then reply, No, no thank you, you’ve completely and comprehensively resolved my problems. It’s always nice to hear my first name spoken aloud by a human voice, too.

      Apart from Social Work and the utility companies, sometimes a representative from one Church or another will call round to ask if I’ve welcomed Jesus into my life. They don’t tend to enjoy debating the concept of proselytizing, I’ve found, which is disappointing. Last year, a man came to deliver a Betterware catalogue, which turned out to be a most enjoyable read. I still regret not purchasing the spider-catcher, which really was a very ingenious device.

      June Mullen declined my offer of a cup of tea as we returned to the living room, and after sitting down on the sofa, she pulled my file from her briefcase. It was several inches thick, held together precariously by a rubber band. Some unknown hand had written OLIPHANT, ELEANOR in marker pen on the top right-hand corner and dated it July 1987, the year of my birth. The buff folder, tattered and stained, looked like a historical artefact.

      ‘Heather’s handwriting is atrocious,’ she muttered, running a manicured fingernail down the page at the top of the pile of papers. She spoke quietly, to herself rather than to me. ‘Biannual visits … continuity of community integration … early identification of any additional support needs …’

      She continued to read, and then I saw her face change and she glanced at me, her expression a mixture of horror, alarm and pity. She must have got to the section about Mummy. I stared her out. She took a deep breath, looked down at the papers and then exhaled slowly as she looked up at me again.

      ‘I had no idea,’ she said, her voice echoing her expression. ‘Do you … you must miss her terribly?’

      ‘Mummy?’ I said. ‘Hardly.’

      ‘No, I meant …’ she trailed off, looking awkward, sad, embarrassed. Ah, I knew them well – these were the holy trinity of Oliphant expressions. I shrugged, having no idea whatsoever what she was talking about.

      Silence sat between us, shivering with misery. After what felt like days had passed, June Mullen closed the file on her lap and gave me an overly bright smile.

      ‘So, Eleanor, how have you been getting on, generally, since Heather’s last visit, I mean?’

      ‘Well, I haven’t become aware of any additional support needs, and I’m fully integrated into the community, June,’ I said.

      She smiled weakly. ‘Work going OK? I see you’re a …’ she consulted the file again ‘… you work in an office?’

      ‘Work is fine,’ I said. ‘Everything’s fine.’

      ‘What about home?’ she said, looking round the room, her eyes lingering on my big green pouffe, which is shaped like a giant frog and was part of the charity furniture donation I’d received when I first moved in. I’d grown very fond of his bulbous eyes and giant pink tongue over the years. One night, a vodka night, I’d drawn a big housefly, Musca domestica, on his tongue with a pilfered Sharpie. I’m not artistically СКАЧАТЬ