Wrong Number

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The front door clicked shut, I was home. Home sweet home. It had been six long weeks away. Six good weeks, six successful weeks, but there’s nothing like the feeling of being back where you belong. I’d get the kettle on, make a cup of tea and then call Sandy, I was hoping she’d come over tonight, she’d agreed to when I called her from Reading Station. But she might leave it till tomorrow now, now that the train had been delayed; bloody British Rail scuppering all my best laid plans.

I couldn’t wait to see her. I’d been too long without her smell, without her touch without her laugh. We’d only been together three months when I went away, so we’d almost been apart as long as we’d been together. We’d spoken three or four times on the phone and we’d exchanged a letter a week, but it wasn’t the same. Words on the page were warm and cuddly, but they were poor substitutions for the real thing. I hoped I could coax her into a taxi, but I guessed one more night wouldn’t kill me.

As I made the tea I put a record on the record player. A bit of Ultravox would be nice. My own record collection was the thing I missed most, after Sandy of course.  Six weeks of listening to American Radio stations had all but done me in. I took a mouthful of tea and walked over to the phone. I knew her number off by heart. I dialled it carefully, excited that the voice at the other end would be streets away not oceans.

It rang once, it rang twice then a familiar voice said hello.

“I’m back,” I croaked with enthusiasm.

“Who’s this?” she asked.
“Charming,” I said. “It’s me, Phil, your boyfriend.”

“Phil?” she said. There was a pause.  “Phil Lewis?” she said finally.

“Of course,” I said.

“Phil, we split up three years ago.”

This time it was my turn to go quiet, as my brain worked things out.

“Um wrong number,” I said and quickly replaced the receiver feeling more than a little foolish.