The Late Call
James stepped out of the office. A low, grey sky pressed down over the city, weighing it to the ground. Only the spires of St. Nicholas Cathedral stretched upward, indifferent, piercing through the dull haze.
A fine drizzle needled his face as he walked to his car. Inside the Toyota, the faint scent of air freshener lingered. James rested his hands on the wheel and sat for a moment, relieved he’d picked the car up from the garage at lunch. No soggy wait for the bus, no crowded ride home.
He turned the key, and the radio blared an obnoxious pop tune. James turned it down. *Home*, he commanded himself, pulling onto the main road. His fingers tapped the wheel along with the mindless melody.
Friday night. And Fridays meant the lads—pints at the pub, shaking off the workweek. What else was there for young, free blokes without wives, kids, or responsibilities?
The flat greeted him with silence. From the doorway, he spotted the wardrobe flung open. A bad feeling twisted in his chest. He kicked off his shoes, padded in socks to the bedroom, and peered inside, already knowing what he’d find. Among his shirts and jackets, empty hangers dangled where Emily’s dresses and blouses had hung.
Gone. They’d argued a lot lately, but always made up. She’d called him at work, said she wouldn’t join them tonight. He got distracted, then fetched the car… *Did she leave because I didn’t call back?* That was his first thought. *No. She planned this. Left the wardrobe open so I’d walk straight into the loneliness, the guilt. There should be a note—accusations, goodbyes.* He scanned the room.
They’d lived together six months. Emily suited him—pretty, fun, just the right amount of sharp-tongued. So, he mustn’t have suited her. Lately, she’d brought up weddings, honeymoons… He’d joked it off. *Right. She got tired of waiting, forced his hand. Thinks I’ll call, beg her back…*
He realised that’s exactly what he wanted to do. He dialled her number, but her phone was off. James tossed his mobile onto the sofa.
He pictured Emily, propped against the sink, balancing on one leg like a flamingo, peeling potatoes… He wanted her back, now. He shuffled to the kitchen. Breakfast dishes sat unwashed in the sink. Next to them—an empty wine bottle. Leftover from some party. *Drank it alone, then. Had doubts.* That pleased him. He washed up, jammed the bottle neck-first into the overflowing bin.
Emily hated dirty dishes. She’d left them on purpose—a lesson. *See how hard it is alone?* She was such an actress. That’s why he’d loved her. Though he’d only said it early on.
A note stuck to the fridge, pinned under a magnet: *I’m leaving. I’m not sure we should keep doing this.* No explanations, no signature.
And he’d already picked out a ring. Just waiting for payday, the right moment to go down on one knee in front of everyone.
*If a girl walks away, it’s for the best,* he half-sang, tweaking the lyrics of some old tune.
In the quiet kitchen, it sounded hollow and sad. *She’ll be back. Too proud to call first. Let her stew.* He grabbed the bin bag and headed out.
When he returned, his phone was ringing before he’d shut the door. Boots off, he lunged for the sofa. An unknown number flashed. Ignore it? *What if it’s Emily?*
“Yeah?”
“Hey, John.” For a second, he hoped it was her. “It’s me, Lucy. I… I didn’t know if I should call. You never promised me anything, but I don’t know what to do…”
“Who—what Lucy?” He didn’t even clock she’d called him John.
“You don’t remember me? Then forget it.” The line died.
*What the hell?* James swore aloud.
His muddy boot prints streaked the carpet. Another swear. The phone rang again.
“John, I just wanted to say—”
“I’m not John. It’s James. Wrong number,” he snapped.
“You lied? Why? *You* gave me this number.” She rattled it off.
“I didn’t. Been James for twenty-six years. Never gave you my number.”
“This was a mistake—”
“No, don’t hang up. You called—say what you want.” But she was gone.
*No more calls.* He muted the ringer but left the phone on. Maybe Emily would ring, explain, set terms… The phone buzzed before he finished the thought.
“Lucy—what do you want?”
“Sorry…” A sigh—or a sob? Water sloshing? “I thought we… I wanted to say it’s not your fault…”
“*What’s* not my fault?” The line was dead again.
Something wasn’t right. Her voice had gone weak. That sloshing—crying? *It’s not your fault.* People say that before they… *Christ, what’s happening?*
He dialled his mate John—a proper ladies’ man, always picking up girls in bars.
“Changed your mind? Get down here, it’s kicking off!” Music thumped behind him.
“John—why’d you give some Lucy my number?”
“Don’t know any Lucy. Can’t remember.” The music faded—he’d stepped outside. “Mate, who cares? Met some bird, had a couple nights—”
“Where? Her place? Give me the address.”
“Fancy cheating on Emily? About time.” John laughed. “Bad timing though—”
“Something’s wrong. Where does she live?”
“Dunno. Wait—Grove Street, maybe. New high-rise, but hers is that old five-floor next to it.”
“Which flat?”
“How should I know? Second floor, facing the stairs, maybe?”
“Right. Get a cab—meet me there. *Now.*” James hung up.
Wet tarmac glittered under headlights. Friday night—roads quiet. He drove fast. The high-rise loomed over the terraced houses like a toff slumming it. *The five-floor in front, if you’re facing the road.*
James parked, scanned the building. Lights in a few windows. Only one on the second floor—corner flat. He approached the entrance. *Bollocks—keypad. Have to wait for John.* He yanked the handle—unlocked.
Taking stairs two at a time, he reached the door, jabbed the buzzer. Silence. The door wasn’t shut properly. His gut twisted. *Do I really want this?* He pushed inside.
“Lucy?” No answer. A sliver of light under the bathroom door. He knocked.
“Coming in.”
A naked girl lay in the tub, eyes shut. One arm dangled over the edge—the only thing stopping her slipping under the pink-tinged water. Blood. No cuts on her wrist. He dialled 999.
“What’s this?” John stood in the doorway.
“Your mess. She called *me*, thinking I was you.”
“Birds say all sorts. She alive? Ambulance—or we leg it?”
“Already called. Go if you want—I’ll stay.”
Paramedics arrived. They helped carry Lucy down.
“What happened?” James asked outside.
“Looks like a DIY abortion,” the older medic muttered. “Drank something, got in hot water. Could’ve died. Don’t care which of you drove her to it—next time, pay for a proper clinic.” The ambulance sped off.
“Give us a lift? Sent my cab away,” John said, stone sober.
At the car, James unlocked his side—then locked John’s.
“Oi! Open up!”
“Walk.” He revved off.
*What if Emily’s pregnant?* He pulled over, dialled her. Voicemail.
*No. She’d have made a scene, not just left.* Lucy’s pale face floated behind his eyes.
Next day, he visited the hospital.
“Hi. I’m James. You called me.” He smiled, stepping into the ward. A woman at the next bed nodded and left.
Lucy was still pale—fragile, beautiful.
“Come for thanks?” Her lips barely moved.
“Isn’t that why you called? Left the door open? John came too, by the way—why?”
“None of your business.” She turned away.
He stood to leave.
“My ex left me six months ago. Then John… Didn’t want to live,” she whispered.
“My girl left me yesterday,” he blurted.
He visited until she was discharged, drove her home.
“You rent?” He eyed the shabby furniture, faded wallpaper.
“Live with Gran. She’s away for summer.”
“Parents?”
“Car crash. Years ago.” She openedAnd as they sat together in the quiet of her small kitchen, the unspoken thing between them—fragile but alive—felt like the first real beginning either of them had known in years.
