Could anything be more pathetic—me, a grown woman? I’d told myself a sad little fairy tale,
thinking that I could fix everything, undo the past, that he and I would live happily ever after and Mummy wouldn’t be angry anymore.
I was Eleanor, sad little Eleanor Oliphant, with my pathetic job, my vodka and my dinners for one, and I always would be.
Nothing and no oneand certainly not this singer, who was now checking his hair in his phone during a bandmate’s guitar solocould change that.
There was no hope, things couldn’t be put right. I couldn’t be put right. The past could neither be escaped nor undone.
After all these weeks of delusion, I recognized, breathless, the pure, brutal truth of it.
I felt despair and nausea mingled inside me, and then that familiar black, black mood came down fast. I slept again.
When I woke, my head was empty, finally, of all thoughts except physical ones: I am cold, I am shaking.
Decision time. I decided on more vodka. When I got to my feet, slow as evolution,
I saw the mess on the floor and nodded to myselfthis was a good sign.
Perhaps I might actually die before I needed to choose one of the methods laid out on the table.
I took a tea towel from the hook—A Present from Hadrian’s Wall, it said. It had a centurion and an SPQR sigil on it.
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