It suddenly occurred to Sweeney one afternoon, as he was ripping his razor across the throat of his third customer that day, that he didn't actually know Mrs Lovett's name. He supposed this was because he had never had a reason to know it before, he never really needed to say it unless he wanted her for something, and then he had just used the only name he knew her by. Sweeney wasn't sure why he was suddenly curious about Mrs Lovett's name, and as he pulled the lever on the chair and listened to the cracking sounds of bones breaking below he considered shouting her up to ask. But then, if he did, she'd think that he cared.
"Best not to say anything," Sweeney muttered to himself.
And so he tried to push the question to the back of his head. He could think of other things instead, like Judge Turpin and bloody revenge. But as the day wore on, and it finally came time for him to attempt to sleep, he found that the burning curiosity was back again, and this time it would not go. The question was there like a persistent bird, pecking against his skull.
Mary. Elizabeth. Anne. Oh for God sake she wasn't royalty, and surely he could think of more interesting names than that? Rose. Violet. Daisy. Had Mrs Lovett just suddenly sprouted a stem? Sweeney frowned in annoyance. It was no good, he was just going to have to ask her. And now, before he drove himself in to complete insanity.
He left his barber shop and crept down the stairs. Mrs Lovett had given him a key for the pie shop - he wasn't sure why, but he was glad now that she had - so he let himself and locked up again before going to her living quarters. The lounge was empty, and there was only one more door inside, which he supposed was the bakers bedroom.
"Erm, Mrs Lovett," Sweeney called, rapping against the door.
The sound of groaning and rustling came from inside, and when Mrs Lovett came to the door she looked confused and her hair looked even worse than it did in the day. She smiled though when she realised it was Sweeney.
"Yes, love?" She yawned.
"Well its... what's your... ah... name?" Sweeney said finally.
Mrs Lovett stared at him. She shook her head, convinced she hadn't heard him right. "Sorry, what?" She said.
"What is your name, Mrs Lovett!" Sweeney said, angry now that he had had to repeat his words.
"Oh," Mrs Lovett said blankly, "My name? Eleanor."
"Thank you," Sweeney snapped. But knowing her name had brought him no peace. He couldn't believe that Eleanor was her actual name. It was too plain for Mrs Lovett. He had expected something with a bit more spark.
"But most people just call me Nellie," Mrs Lovett added, scratching her head.
"Ah," Sweeney nodded, "Yes. Well, good night."
There we go. That was perfect.
Mrs Lovett smiled, "Good night, dear." She watched Sweeney walk away. When she awoke in the morning, she recalled the nights events as a very strange dream.