The Late Phone Call
James stepped out of the office. A low, grey sky pressed down on the city, heavy and suffocating. Only the spires of St. Nicholas’ Cathedral stretched defiantly upward, piercing the dull haze.
A light drizzle needled his face as he walked to his car. Inside the Ford, the faint scent of air freshener lingered. James placed his hands on the wheel and sat for a moment, relieved he’d picked up the car from the garage during lunch. At least he wouldn’t have to wait in the rain for a bus or squeeze into one on the way home.
He turned the key, and the radio blared an irritating pop song. James lowered the volume. “Home,” he muttered to himself, pulling onto the main road. His fingers tapped the wheel to the tune.
Friday. On Fridays, he and his mates usually hit the pub, blowing off steam after the workweek. What else were young, free men without wives or kids supposed to do?
The flat greeted him with silence. The wardrobe door swung open, and unease twisted in his gut. He kicked off his shoes and padded across the carpet in his socks, already knowing what he’d find. Among his shirts and jackets, bare hangers swayed—where Emily’s dresses and tops had once hung.
Gone. They’d argued a lot recently but always made up quickly. She’d called him at work earlier, saying she wouldn’t join him at the pub tonight. He’d been distracted, then went to fetch the car… “Did she leave because I didn’t call back? People don’t break up over that, do they?” No. She’d planned this. Left the wardrobe open so he’d step straight into loneliness, guilt pressing down. There should’ve been a dramatic note, accusations, a goodbye. He scanned the room.
They’d lived together six months. Emily suited him—pretty, fun, just the right amount of fire. So it must’ve been him who didn’t measure up. Lately, she’d started talking about weddings, honeymoons… He’d laughed it off. Of course. She’d tired of waiting and forced the issue, expecting him to beg her back.
James realised that’s exactly what he wanted to do. He dialled her number—straight to voicemail. He tossed the phone onto the sofa.
He pictured Emily, balanced on one leg by the sink, peeling potatoes… He wanted her back now. He shuffled to the kitchen. Unwashed breakfast plates sat in the sink, an empty wine bottle beside them. Leftover from some party. “Drank it alone, then. Second-guessing.” That pleased him. He washed up and 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 realise how hard it’d be alone: washing up, taking out rubbish… What an actress. That’s what he’d loved about her. Though he hadn’t said “love” in months.
A note stuck to the fridge, held by a magnet: “I’m leaving. I don’t think we should keep doing this.” No explanations, no signature.
He’d already picked out a ring. Just waiting for payday to buy it, for the right moment to get down on one knee in front of all their friends.
“If a girl leaves, it’s for the best,” he sang, twisting the lyrics of an old song.
In the quiet kitchen, it sounded hollow. “She’ll come back. I won’t call. Let her stew.” He grabbed the bin bag and headed outside.
Returning, he heard his phone buzzing before he reached the door. He lunged for it—unknown number. Ignore it? What if it’s Emily?
“Yeah?”
“Dave, hi.” For a second, he thought it was her. “It’s me, Jessica. I… I didn’t know who else to call. You never promised me anything, but—”
“Who? Jessica?” He didn’t even register she’d called him Dave.
“You don’t remember me? Then forget it.” The line went dead.
“What the hell?” James stared at the muddy boot prints on the carpet. The phone rang again.
“Dave, I just wanted to say—”
“I’m not Dave. It’s James. Wrong number.”
“You lied to me? You gave me this number!” She repeated it back.
“I didn’t. Been James for twenty-six years. Never given you my number.”
“I shouldn’t have called—”
“No, don’t hang up. If you rang, say what you want.” But she was already gone.
“Not answering again.” He muted the ringer but left the phone on, hoping Emily might still call. Before he could finish the thought, it vibrated—that grating pulse.
“Jessica! What do you want?”
“Sorry…” A sigh, a sob, or maybe running water cut her off. “I just… I thought we— It’s not your fault.”
“Not my fault *what*?” But she’d already hung up.
Her voice had sounded weak, drowsy. That splashing in the background—crying? Bathwater? “It’s not your fault.” People say that before they— “Christ, what’s happening?”
He called his mate, Dave—known for his string of flings.
“Changed your mind about the pub? Get down here, it’s kicking off!” Dave shouted over the music.
“Dave, why’d you give some girl my number?”
“Who? Don’t remember any Jessica.” The music faded as if he’d stepped outside. “Whatever. Met some bird, hooked up a few times—”
“Where? Her place? Give me the address.”
“Fancy cheating on Emily? About time—” Dave laughed.
“Something’s wrong. Where does she live?”
“Dunno. Churchill Road, maybe? New tower there, her place is one of those old flats opposite.”
“Flat number?”
“Second floor, by the stairs. Why’s it urgent?”
“Get a taxi. Meet me there. Now!” James hung up.
Wet asphalt gleamed under streetlights. Friday night, roads nearly empty—he got there fast. The tower loomed over the ageing flats like a prize stallion among donkeys. “The one opposite, then.”
He got out. Lights on the second floor—just one flat. The entrance door swung open before he could buzz. “Lucky.”
Upstairs, he rang the bell. Silence. The door was slightly ajar.
“Jessica?” He pushed inside. Light spilled from a room down the hall. A faint glow under the bathroom door. He knocked. “Coming in.”
A naked girl lay in the tub, eyes closed. One arm hung over the side, keeping her from slipping under the pink-tinged water. No cuts on her wrists. Unconscious—or worse. He called an ambulance as Dave barged in.
“What the hell?”
“You tell me. Thought she was calling *you*.”
“Not my problem. Alive? Should we bolt before cops come?”
“Ambulance is coming. You go.”
They carried her downstairs when it arrived.
“Over-the-counter abortion pills,” the paramedic muttered. “Could’ve died. Next time, pay for a clinic.” The ambulance sped off.
“Give me a lift. Sent my cab away,” Dave said, too sober now.
James unlocked the car—then locked it again as Dave grabbed the handle.
“What the—?”
“Walk.” James drove off, watching Dave shout in the rearview.
“What if Emily’s pregnant?” He pulled over, dialled her—straight to voicemail.
“No. She’d have made a scene.” All he saw was that pale face in the water.
Next day, he visited Jessica in hospital.
“Hi. I’m James. The one you called.” He smiled.
Her neighbour tactfully left. Jessica was still pale, delicate.
“Why come? Want gratitude?”
“Didn’t you call so I would? Left the door open. Dave came too, by the way.”
“None of your business.” She turned away.
“My girl left me yesterday,” he said suddenly.
They met a few times after she was discharged. He drove her home.
“You rent?” he asked, eyeing the shabby furniture.
“Live with my gran. She’s away for summer.”
“Parents?”
“Died in a crash. Years ago.”
“Want me to grab groceries?”
“Fancy a café instead?” She smiled.
Emily came back a week later. He never proposed. She left again, for good.
One evening, he called Jessica.
“Hello?” Bright, lively.
“Jessica… it’s not your fault. *I* chose this,” he said, feigning weakness.
“James?” Alarm in her voice.
“Kidding. Now you know how I felt. Got dumped again. Fancy a film before I do something stupid?”
