**The Late Phone Call**
Tom stepped out of the office. A low, grey sky pressed down on London, smothering the city beneath its weight. Only the spires of St. Nicholas Church stretched upward, indifferent, piercing through the murk.
A fine drizzle needled his face as he walked to the car. Inside the Rover, the faint scent of air freshener lingered. He rested his hands on the wheel for a moment, relieved he’d picked it up from the garage at lunch. No waiting for the bus in the rain, no jostling with strangers on the way home.
He turned the key, and the radio blared a grating pop tune. Tom turned it down. “Home,” he muttered, pulling onto the high street. His fingers tapped the wheel in time with the mindless melody.
Friday. Fridays meant drinks with the lads, blowing off steam. What else were young, free men supposed to do, unburdened by wives or children or responsibility?
The flat greeted him with silence. The wardrobe door hung open. A bad feeling twisted in his gut. He kicked off his shoes and padded across the carpet, already knowing what he’d find. Among his shirts and jackets dangled empty hangers where Emily’s dresses and blouses had been.
Gone. They’d fought lately, but always made up. She’d called him at work, said she wouldn’t join them tonight. He’d been distracted, then fetched the car… “Did she leave because I didn’t call back? Is that really why?” he wondered. No. She’d planned this. Left the wardrobe open so he’d step straight into the emptiness, the guilt. There should’ve been a note—accusations, a dramatic farewell. He scanned the room.
They’d lived together six months. Emily was perfect—pretty, fun, just prickly enough. So the problem was him. Lately, she’d talked more about weddings, honeymoons… He’d dodged with jokes. Of course. She’d run out of patience. Now she expected him to beg…
He realised that’s exactly what he wanted to do. He dialled her number, but her phone was off. He flung his onto the sofa.
He pictured her in the kitchen, balanced on one leg like a stork, peeling potatoes… He wanted her back, right now. He shuffled to the kitchen. Unwashed plates from breakfast cluttered the sink. An empty wine bottle sat beside them—leftover from some party. “Drank it, then. Doubted, fretted.” That pleased him. He washed up, shoved the bottle neck-first into the overflowing bin.
Emily hated dirty dishes. She’d left them on purpose—to teach him a lesson. Make him see how hard it’d be alone: washing up, taking out the rubbish… What an actress. That’s why he loved her. Though he hadn’t said “love” since the early days.
A note stuck to the fridge, pinned under a magnet. *”I’m leaving. I don’t think this is working.”* No explanations, no signature.
And he’d already picked out a ring. Just waiting for payday, for the right moment to drop to one knee in front of all their friends.
*”If a girl leaves, it’s for the best,”* he sang, mangling an old tune.
In the kitchen’s silence, it sounded hollow. “She’ll come back. I won’t call. Let her suffer.” He grabbed the bin bag and headed out.
When he returned, the phone was ringing before he’d shut the door. Barefoot, he lunged for the sofa. Unknown number. Ignore it? What if it’s Emily?
“Yeah?” he answered.
“Dave, hi.” For a second, he thought it *was* Emily. “It’s me, Sarah. I wasn’t sure about calling. You never promised me anything…” A girl’s voice, shaky.
“Who? Sarah?” He barely registered she’d called him Dave.
“You don’t remember me? Then there’s nothing to say.” The line went dead.
“What the hell?” He noticed muddy boot prints on the carpet and cursed again. The phone rang.
“Dave, I just wanted to say—”
“I’m not Dave. It’s Tom. Wrong number,” he snapped.
“You *lied* to me? You gave me this number!” She recited it back perfectly.
“I didn’t. I’ve been Tom for twenty-six years. Never gave you my number.”
“I shouldn’t have called…”
“Don’t hang up—if you called, say what you want!” But she was gone.
“No more answering.” He muted the ringtone but left it on, hoping Emily might call, explain, set terms… The phone buzzed again, grating against his nerves.
“Sarah, whatever—why keep calling if you won’t talk?”
“Sorry…” A sigh, or a sob, or water sloshing. “I didn’t know what to do. I thought we… I wanted to say it’s my fault—you didn’t do anything.”
“What’s my fault?” he shouted into silence—she’d hung up again.
Something in her voice—weak, dreamy. And that sloshing? Crying? *”It’s my fault, you didn’t do anything.”* People say that before they… “Christ, what’s happening?”
He called his mate. Dave was notorious, picking up girls in clubs every weekend.
“Changed your mind about joining us? Get down here, it’s kicking off!” Dave yelled over music.
“Dave—why’d you give some girl named Sarah my number?”
“Dunno any Sarah. Can’t remember.” The music faded—he must’ve stepped outside. “Mate, who cares? Met some bird. Pretty. Had a couple nights—”
“Where? Her place? Give me the address!”
“Fancy cheating on Emily? About time.” Dave laughed. “Listen, bad timing—”
“Something’s wrong. Where does she live?”
“Can’t recall. Wait—Gresham Street, maybe. New high-rise there. Her flat’s this old five-storey right next to it.”
“Which flat?”
“How should I know? Ages ago. Second floor, opposite the stairs, maybe.”
“Fine. Get a taxi, meet me there. Now!” Tom hung up.
Wet tarmac glittered under headlights. Friday night, roads empty. He drove fast. The tower loomed over the squat five-storey like a toadstool over weeds. “From the road, it’s the one in front.”
He got out. A few lights were on. Only one window lit on the second floor. He approached the entrance. “Damn. Keypad. Have to wait for Dave.” He tugged the handle—unlocked.
Taking steps two at a time, he reached the flat, rang the bell. Silence. The door was ajar. His stomach twisted. “This is bad. Do I *want* to get involved?” But he was already pushing inside.
“Sarah? You here?” he called toward the lit living room. A sliver of light under the bathroom door. He knocked.
“Coming in,” he said, opening it.
A naked girl lay in the tub, eyes closed. One arm draped over the edge, keeping her from slipping under the pink-tinged water. No doubt—it was blood. She was out cold, or worse. He called 999, studying her unmarked wrist while the line rang.
“What the—?” Dave’s voice behind him.
“*You* explain this. She called *me*, thought I was you.”
“Not my problem. If I married every girl I shagged, they’d lock me up for bigamy. She alive? Call an ambulance. Maybe we should bolt.”
“Already did. Go if you want. I’ll stay.”
The paramedics arrived. Tom and Dave helped carry her down.
“What happened?” Tom asked the older medic by the ambulance.
“Looks like a backstreet termination. Took something, climbed into a hot bath. Medieval. Could’ve died.” The man glared at them. “Next time, pay for a proper clinic. Pete, ring surgery, prep the theatre.” The ambulance screeched away.
“Give me a lift. Sent my cab off,” Dave said, weirdly sober.
They reached the Rover. Tom unlocked it, then hit the child lock on the passenger side.
Dave yanked the handle. “Oi! Open up!”
“Find your own way,” Tom growled, pulling away. In the mirror, Dave flailed, shouting.
“What if Emily’s pregnant too?” He pulled over, dialled her number.
*”The person you’re calling—”* He hung up.
“No. She’d make a scene, not just vanish.” The girl’s pale face floated behind his eyes all the way home.
Next day, he went to the hospital, found Sarah’s ward.
“Hi. I’m Tom. You called me.” He smiled, stepping in. The woman in the next bed tactfully left.
Sarah was still pale, delicate, strangely beautiful.
“Why come? Want thanks?” Her lips barely moved.
“Didn’t you call so I *wouldThey sat in silence, the weight of their choices heavy between them, until Sarah finally whispered, “Stay awhile, if you want,” and for the first time in years, Tom didn’t feel the need to run.
