**Late-Night Call**
I stepped out of the office into the cold embrace of a grey London evening. The sky hung low, pressing the city under its weight, only the spires of St. Nicholas’ Cathedral dared to reach beyond the gloom. A fine drizzle needled my face as I walked to the car. Inside the Honda, the faint scent of air freshener lingered. I gripped the wheel for a moment, relieved I’d picked it up from the garage at lunch. No cramped buses tonight.
I turned the key, and the radio blared some dreadful pop tune. I turned it down. “Home,” I muttered, pulling onto the main road. My fingers tapped along to the rhythm.
Friday. Friday meant pints with the lads, blowing off steam after the grind. What else was there for a bloke with no wife, no kids, no real ties?
The flat was silent when I walked in. The wardrobe door hung open—my gut twisted. Kicking off my shoes, I padded into the bedroom. Empty hangers dangled among my shirts and jackets. Lucy’s things—gone.
She’d left. We’d argued lately, sure, but always made up. She’d rung me at work, said she wasn’t joining us tonight. I got distracted, then forgot to call back. “Was it really over that?” I thought. No. She’d planned this. Left the wardrobe open so I’d step straight into the emptiness, the guilt. There should’ve been a note—some grand farewell. I scanned the room.
We’d lived together six months. Lucy was perfect—funny, sharp, just the right amount of fire. So the problem was me. Lately, she’d started talking weddings, honeymoons. I’d deflected with jokes. And now she’d sped things up, betting I’d beg her back.
I realised—that’s exactly what I wanted to do. I dialled her number. Voicemail. I tossed the phone onto the sofa.
I pictured her, balanced on one leg at the sink, peeling potatoes. I wanted her back, right then. I shuffled to the kitchen. Unwashed dishes crowded the sink beside an empty wine bottle—leftover from some party. “Drank it nervous, then,” I thought. That pleased me. I washed up, shoved the bottle neck-first into the overflowing bin.
Lucy hated dirty dishes. Left them for me to find—a lesson. “See how hard it’ll be alone?” Actress. That’s why I loved her. Though I hadn’t said it in months.
A note clung to the fridge. *I’m leaving. Not sure we should keep going.* No reasons, no signature.
I’d already picked out a ring. Just waiting for payday, the right moment to drop to one knee in front of everyone.
*If a girl leaves, it’s for the best,* I half-sung, twisting the words of some old tune. The silence made it sound hollow. “She’ll come back. I won’t call. Let her sweat.” I took the bin out.
When I returned, the phone was buzzing. An unknown number. I lunged for it.
“Yeah?”
“Jake, hi—” My heart leapt—Lucy? “It’s me, Emily. I—I didn’t know who else to call. You never promised anything, but I…” A girl’s voice, fragile.
“Who? What Emily?” I didn’t even clock she’d called me Jake.
“You don’t remember me? Then forget it.” The line died.
“Bloody hell,” I muttered.
I glanced at the muddy footprints on the carpet and swore again. The phone rang once more.
“Jake, I just wanted to say—”
“I’m not Jake. It’s James. Wrong number.”
“You lied? You gave me this number!” She recited it back.
“I didn’t. Been James 26 years. Never met you.”
“I shouldn’t have called.”
“No, don’t hang up! Say what you want!” But she was gone.
“Next one, I’m ignoring.” I silenced the ringer but left it on, hoping Lucy might ring. The phone vibrated—a jarring buzz.
“Emily! What do you want?”
“…Sorry.” A sigh, or maybe a sob. “I thought… between us… I wanted to say it’s my fault. Not yours.”
“What’s not my fault?” I shouted into dead air.
I replayed her voice—weak, distant. That sound in the background—water? “It’s my fault, not yours.” People say that before they… “Christ, what’s happening?”
I dialled my mate Jake—proper ladies’ man, always pulling in clubs.
“Finally joining us? Get down here, it’s lively!” Music throbbed behind him.
“Jake, why’d you give some Emily bird my number?”
“Who? Don’t remember.” The noise faded—he’d stepped outside. “Look, shagged some bird ages ago. Pretty. Why?”
“Where’d you meet? Her flat? Address, now!”
“Fancy cheating on Lucy? About time—” He laughed. “Bad timing, mate.”
“Something’s wrong. Where does she live?”
“Dunno. Wait—Goswell Road, maybe. New high-rise, but her place is that old brick block beside it.”
“Flat number?”
“Second floor, facing the stairs. Maybe.”
“Get a cab. Meet me there. Now!”
The streets were quiet. I made good time. The high-rise loomed over the squat flats like a toff at a pub. “The brick one in front,” I muttered.
I got out. A few lights glowed in the old block. Only one on the second floor. I tried the door—unlocked.
I took the stairs two at a time, rang the bell. Silence. The door was ajar. My stomach knotted. “Do I even want to know?” But I pushed inside.
“Emily?” I called toward the lit room. A sliver of light under the bathroom door. I knocked. “Coming in.”
She lay in the tub, naked, eyes shut. One arm hung over the edge—just enough to keep her head above the pink-tinged water. Blood. No cuts on her wrist. I called an ambulance, staring at that limp hand.
“The hell’s this?” Jake’s voice behind me.
“Your mess. She rang me thinking I was you.”
“So? I’d be jailed for polygamy if I married every bird I slept with. She alive? Call an ambulance. Let’s scarper.”
“Already did. Go if you want. I’ll stay.”
The paramedics arrived. We helped carry her down.
“What happened?” I asked the older medic by the ambulance.
“DIY abortion. Took something, hot bath. Medieval. Could’ve died.” He glared at us. “Next time, pay for the clinic.” The siren wailed as they sped off.
“Give us a lift. Sent my cab,” Jake said, too calm.
At the car, I unlocked only my side. Jake yanked the door.
“The hell? Open up!”
“Walk.” I drove off, watching him shout in the mirror.
“What if Lucy’s pregnant?” I pulled over, dialled her. Voicemail. “No. She’d have made a scene.” Emily’s pale face floated behind my eyes.
Next day, I visited the hospital.
“Hi. I’m James. You rang me.” I smiled, stepping into the ward. The other patient tactfully left.
Emily was still pale, delicate.
“Why’d you come? Want thanks?”
“Isn’t that why you called? Left the door open? Jake came too, by the way.”
“None of your business.” She turned away.
I turned to leave.
“My ex left me six months ago. Then Jake… Didn’t want to live.”
“My girl left me yesterday,” I said suddenly.
I visited until she was discharged, drove her home.
“You rent?” I asked, eyeing the faded furniture.
“Live with Gran. She’s in Cornwall.”
“Parents?”
“Car crash. Years ago.” She opened the fridge, found nothing.
“Want me to grab groceries?”
Pity? Yes. But she reminded me of Lucy.
“Fancy a café instead? There’s one close,” she said, finally smiling.
Lucy returned a week later. I never proposed. She left for good. One evening, I dialled Emily.
“Hello?” Bright, cheerful.
“Emily, hi. Wanted to say… it’s not your fault, I chose this,” I feigned a weak voice.
“James?” Panic edged her tone.
“Joking. Now you know how I felt. Got dumped again. Fancy a film before I do something daft?”
**Lesson:** Sometimes the wrong call leads you where you’re supposed to be.
