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 my opening. I’d need something more alluring, more memorable, for our first exchange.
He took out a beautifully battered leather wallet and paid with a credit card, although I noted that the total sum was less than eight pounds. I expect, rather like a member of the royal family, that he is simply too important to carry cash. During his exchange with the cashier—a middle-aged woman who, rather bizarrely, seemed completely oblivious to the manifest charms of the handsome man standing before her—I noticed another missed opportunity. This time, I couldn’t resist. I took out my brand-new phone, accessed my pristine Twitter account and waited till he had paid and had left the building. I typed quickly and pressed send.
@eloliph
A Tesco Club Card is a thing of beauty and a joy forever. You should DEFINITELY sign up for one. A Concerned Friend xx
@johnnieLrocks
Tesco: stop pushing Big Brother spy-slash-loyalty card on here. It like living in a police state, yo #hungover #leavemealone #fightthepower
17
Of course, I already knew that we lived not far from one another, but it had not occurred to me that our lives might intersect in any unplanned way. Sometimes this place feels more like a village than a city, really. So we shared a love of Tesco. Unsurprising. I wondered where else our existences overlapped. Perhaps we frequented the same post office, for example, or had our prescriptions dispensed by the same pharmacist? I reflected again on the importance of being ready, at any time, for an encounter, of looking my best and having something appropriate to say. I was going to need more than one outfit.
Sammy’s homecoming party tonight was at seven, and Raymond had offered to meet me beforehand near Laura’s house. At first, I thought that he was being surprisingly and uncharacteristically thoughtful, but then I realized that he simply didn’t want to arrive alone. Some people, weak people, fear solitude. What they fail to understand is that there’s something very liberating about it; once you realize that you don’t need anyone, you can take care of yourself. That’s the thing: it’s best just to take care of yourself. You can’t protect other people, however hard you try. You try, and you fail, and your world collapses around you, burns down to ashes.
That said, I did sometimes wonder what it would be like to have someone—a cousin, say, or a sibling—to call on in times of need, or even just to spend unplanned time with. Someone who knows you, cares about you, who wants the best for you. A houseplant, however attractive and robust, doesn’t quite cut the mustard, unfortunately. Pointless even to speculate, though. I had no one, and it was futile to wish it were otherwise. After all, it was no more than I deserved. And, really, I was fine, fine, fine. Was I not here, after all, out in the world, and going to a party? Dressed in my finery and awaiting an acquaintance? Look out, Saturday night, here comes Eleanor Oliphant! I allowed myself a little smile.
In the end, my mood soured somewhat, as I had to wait ten minutes for Raymond. I find lateness exceptionally rude; it’s so disrespectful, implying unambiguously that you consider yourself and your own time to be so much more valuable than the other person’s. Raymond eventually clambered out of a minicab at quarter past seven, just when I was on the verge of leaving.
“Hiya, Eleanor!” he said, full of good cheer. He was clutching a clinking carrier bag and a bunch of cheap carnations. Laura had specifically told us not to bring anything. Why had he ignored her polite request?
“Raymond, the invitation was for 7 p.m.,” I said. “We arranged to meet here at 6:50 p.m., and we are now inexcusably late on account of your tardiness. It’s very disrespectful to our hostess!” I could not bear to look at him. Inexplicably, he laughed.
“Chill, Eleanor,” he said.
I mean, really. Chill!
“No one ever goes to a party on time. It’s ruder to do that than to be fifteen minutes late, believe me.” He looked me up and down. “You look nice,” he said. “Different . . .”
I did not appreciate this crass attempt to change the subject. “Shall we go?” I said, quite curtly. He ambled along beside me, smoking as usual.
“Eleanor,” he said, “honestly, don’t stress about it. When people say seven o’clock, they mean, like, seven thirty, earliest. We’ll probably be the first people there!”
I was thrown by this.
“But why?” I said. “Why on earth would you state one time whilst meaning something completely different, and how are people supposed to know?”
Raymond extinguished his cigarette and dropped it into the gutter. He put his head on one side, considering.
“I don’t know how you know, now I come to think of it,” he said. “You just do.” He thought some more. “It’s like, you know when you invite people over, and you say come at eight, it’s always a nightmare if some . . . if a person actually arrives at eight, because you’re not ready, you haven’t had time to tidy up, take the rubbish out or whatever? It feels quite . . . passive aggressive, almost, if someone actually arrives on time or—oh God—early?”
“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” I said. “If I were to invite people to attend at eight, then I’d be ready for them at eight. It’s sloppy time management otherwise.”
Raymond shrugged. He had made no effort whatsoever to dress smartly for the party, sporting his usual uniform of training shoes (green ones) and a T-shirt. This one said Carcetti for Mayor. Unfathomable. He was wearing a denim jacket, paler than his denim trousers. I hadn’t considered that a suit could be fashioned from denim, but there it was.
Laura’s house was at the end of a neat cul-de-sac of small, modern houses. There were several cars in the driveway. We approached the front door and I noticed that she had red geraniums in window boxes. I find geraniums somewhat unsettling; that rich, sticky scent when you brush against them, a brackish, vegetable smell that’s the opposite of floral.
Raymond rang the doorbell—the chime played the opening chords to Beethoven’s Third Symphony. A very small boy, his face smeared with, one hoped, chocolate, answered and stared at us. I stared back at him. Raymond stepped forward.
“All right, mate?” he said. “We’re here to see your granddad.”
The boy continued staring at us, somewhat unenthusiastically. “I’m wearing new shoes,” he stated, apropos of nothing. At that moment, Laura appeared behind him in the hallway.
“Auntie Laura,” he said, not turning round, and sounding distinctly unimpressed, “it’s more people for the party.”
“I see that, Tyler,” she said. “Why don’t you go and find your brother, see if you can blow up some more balloons for us?” He nodded and ran off, his little feet thumping on the stairs.
“Come in,” she said, smiling at Raymond. “Dad’ll be pleased to see you.” She didn’t smile at me, which is the normal state of affairs in most encounters I have with other people.