Yes. Eleanor Oliphant was back. Wednesday night. High time.
“Hello, Mummy,” I said. I heard my own voice—it sounded flat, emotionless.
“How did you know?” Sharp. Irritated. “It’s always you, Mummy,” I said.
Cheeky! Don’t be insolent, Eleanor. It doesn’t suit you. Mummy doesn’t like naughty girls who talk back, you know that.
Old ground, this—a reprimand I’d heard so many times before. “I don’t really care what you like anymore, Mummy,” I said.
I heard her snort; short, derisive. “Oh dear. Someone’s in a strop. What is it—time of the month?
Hormones, darling? Or something else... let me see. Has someone been filling your head with nonsense?
Telling lies about me? How many times have I warned you about that? Mummy isn’t—” I interrupted.
“Mummy, I’m going to say good-bye to you tonight.” She laughed. “Good-bye? But that’s so... final, darling.
There’s no need for that, come along now. What would you do without our little chats?
What about your special project—don’t you think you ought to keep Mummy updated on your progress, at least?”
The project wasn’t the answer, Mummy. It was wrong of you, very wrong of you, to tell me that it was,
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