and a series of numbers scrawled below it in an awkward, childish hand.
“Give it an hour or so,” he said. “Your bunions will be dealt with by then, won’t they?”
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.
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