Excerpt from Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine by Gail Honeyman, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

On Fridays, I don't get the bus straight after work but instead I go to the Tesco Metro around the corner from the office and buy a margherita pizza, some Chianti and two big bottles of Glen's vodka. When I get home, I eat the pizza and drink the wine. I have some vodka afterward. I don't need much on a Friday, just a few big swigs. I usually wake up on the sofa around 3 a.m., and I stumble off to bed. I drink the rest of the vodka over the weekend, spread it throughout both days so that I'm neither drunk nor sober. Monday takes a long time to come around.

My phone doesn't ring often—it makes me jump when it does—and it's usually people asking if I've been mis-sold Payment Protection Insurance. I whisper I know where you live to them, and hang up the phone very, very gently. No one's been in my flat this year apart from service professionals; I've not voluntarily invited another human being across the threshold, except to read the meter. You'd think that would be impossible, wouldn't you? It's true, though. I do exist, don't I? It often feels as if I'm not here, that I'm a figment of my own imagination. There are days when I feel so lightly connected to the earth that the threads that tether me to the planet are gossamer thin, spun sugar. A strong gust of wind could dislodge me completely, and I'd lift off and blow away, like one of those seeds in a dandelion clock.

The threads tighten slightly from Monday to Friday. People phone the office to discuss credit lines, send me emails about contracts and estimates. The employees I share an office with—Janey, Loretta, Bernadette and Billy—would notice if I didn't turn up. After a few days (I've often wondered how many) they would worry that I hadn't phoned in sick—so unlike me—and they'd dig out my address from the personnel files. I suppose they'd call the police in the end, wouldn't they? Would the officers break down the front door? Find me, covering their faces, gagging at the smell? That would give them something to talk about in the office. They hate me, but they don't actually wish me dead. I don't think so, anyway.



I went to the doctor yesterday. It feels like eons ago. I got the young doctor this time, the pale chap with the red hair, which I was pleased about. The younger they are, the more recent their training, and that can only be a good thing. I hate it when I get old Dr. Wilson; she's about sixty, and I can't imagine she knows much about the latest drugs and medical breakthroughs. She can barely work the computer.

The doctor was doing that thing where they talk to you but don't look at you, reading my notes on the screen, hitting the return key with increasing ferocity as he scrolled down.

"What can I do for you this time, Miss Oliphant?"

"It's back pain, Doctor," I told him. "I've been in agony." He still didn't look at me.

"How long have you been experiencing this?" he said.

"A couple of weeks," I told him.

He nodded.

"I think I know what's causing it," I said, "but I wanted to get your opinion."

He stopped reading, finally looked across at me.

"What is it that you think is causing your back pain, Miss Oliphant?"

"I think it's my breasts, Doctor," I told him.

"Your breasts?"

"Yes," I said. "You see, I've weighed them, and they're almost half a stone-combined weight, that is, not each!" I laughed. He stared at me, not laughing. "That's a lot of weight to carry around, isn't it?" I asked him. "I mean, if I were to strap half a stone of additional flesh to your chest and force you to walk around all day like that, your back would hurt too, wouldn't it?"

He stared at me, then cleared his throat.

Excerpted from Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine by Gail Honeyman. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.