Blocking The Line

A 1990s Romance!

Kate watched the phone in her flat that morning. She knew Oliver would call – they’d had an amazing date the evening before.

Oliver was handsome, charming and fascinating on the topic of his banking career. They’d met at a party a fortnight ago. He’d taken her number and asked her out. A guy didn’t have to follow up on a date immediately: this was 1991, not 1951! Kate knew she could easily have called him herself… except that he’d forgotten to give her his number.

The phone rang at nine but Kate missed it. She’d nipped into the shower, early enough (she hoped) to finish before Oliver’s call. She emerged just as the machine clicked off, and pressed Play.

“Hi, Rich,” a voice said, “on a train, should be at Clapham Junction about eight tonight.”

It wasn’t Oliver; it was some Scottish bloke, and no Rich lived in Kate’s flat.

“How do I CROSS LONDON? Will they LAUGH at the KILT? Kidding…”

She shared with Stephanie, who was due back from her mum’s later. Just a wrong number.

Kate felt briefly sorry for the owner of the voice. Presumably he hoped to be met at the station, and unless he dialled correctly next time, probably wouldn’t be.

The next call came an hour later. Kate dashed to grab the receiver, picturing Oliver on the other end. Their phone, a cheap, useless model, gave only two rings before the cassette clicked on, and as she crossed the room Kate caught her foot in the cable of Steph’s hairdryer, and found herself flying headlong onto the sofa.

As she untangled her foot and rewound her towel around herself Kate heard the train voice again. She frowned. This guy was blocking the line – Oliver might call at any moment. The voice was Scottish; less Glasgow, Kate decided, and more Highlands. She’d watched Taggart so she could tell…

“When I get to Clapham,” it said, “I’ve actually no idea where you live, Rich. Sorry. Do I take a Tube? I had your address, but… Jesmond Street? Gerald Street? Oh hell, there’s a queue for this train phone. I’ll try again.”

Kate had got herself untangled as the last few words were spoken. She could simply have picked up and told the guy he was calling the wrong flat. But she was irritated, and she didn’t want to give advice to unknown people – she had to get dressed and be ready to talk to Oliver at any moment, maybe hurrying to meet him for brunch. The Scot would surely work out his mistake.

Kate and Steph’s flat was not far from Clapham Junction, so presumably he’d got a single digit wrong. Someone like Oliver, who worked daily with numbers, would never be that careless.

At one o’clock, Kate nipped out to get milk from Wandsworth High Street. She’d decided to curl up and wait for Oliver to ring, and she’d need coffee. The machine was blinking when she returned. She dumped her carrier bag and smiled. Oliver had been enjoying a lie-in! She should have known that – he was at his desk at eight every weekday. She imagined him, gorgeously tousled, calling her from under his duvet. She pressed Play.

“Who’s the chick on your answerphone, Rich?” the voice said. “She sounds nice. English, but nice. Look, the train guard told me I have to cross London. Man, how do I do that? And will Londoners laugh at the kilt? Kidding. Anyway, there’s a while to go before that wee crisis.”

Forheavens’sake, Kate thought. What if Oliver had called while this idiot was chattering? Kate sat down to daydream about Oliver.

She wouldn’t tell Steph, she decided, that he’d forgotten to give her his number. Steph might get the wrong impression. It had been a straightforward slip – the waiter had arrived when she was mentioning it.

Stephanie got home, “borrowed” some of the milk, and asked why Kate was waiting around.

“Oh, is this the banker?” she asked. “Was that last night? You’re not waiting for him to call?”

The phone rang, and Kate stood up to answer it, but Steph stood in her way. “Never, ever answer a guy like Oliver quickly. Keep ’em keen.”

Kate was trying to get past her when the cassette clicked on. The Scottish guy (for it was he, again) sounded more anxious.

“OK, Rich,” the voice said, “nearly at Euston now. Really need to talk to you.”

Steph gave Kate an enquiring look and Kate mouthed “wrong number”.

“It’s sunny in London town,” the voice said. “But I kinda don’t want to find myself here alone.” A nervous laugh. “Personally I love summer on Skye; it’s my favourite day of the year.”

Kate laughed. “He’s called a lot,” she said to Steph. “Shall I pick up and tell him to stop?”

“No,” Steph said. “It’s funny.” The voice was still going. “So I need to get to Victoria… I think,” it said.

There were no calls for a while. Steph got dressed to go out, and pouted at Kate as she left, as if to say “poor you”.

Kate began to doubt her decision to wait for Oliver’s call. Maybe the date hadn’t been so amazing. She pulled her old children’s atlas off the shelf, a book she’d stolen from her parents’ place while planning Interrailing, opened it on the floor and found Scotland.

Skye looked appealingly remote. There was a photo beside the map of a breathtakingly tall crystalline waterfall, tumbling down the mountainside, and another of a man in tweed outside a stone cottage.

A juggernaut thundered past below Kate’s window, giving off fumes into the heat haze, and she imagined the man on the phone trekking through cool purple heather. Still, if he was hopeless enough not to give the number of the train’s phone when he called Rich, he

Apparently he was penniless well as disorganised. Not her type as

was probably a complete idiot.

It was past six now. Kate stared at her summer cardi, hung over a chair, airing out the smell of Oliver’s cigarettes. She hated smoke, but she’d said nothing when he lit a fag over the tiramisu.

The phone didn’t ring again until after seven, and its jangle woke Kate from a groggy sofa nap. She lunged for the receiver, but slumped back when she heard the now-familiar Scottish burr. She just felt miserable, and didn’t have the energy to explain to the poor man why she’d ignored him for so long.

Anyway, she couldn’t help him – she didn’t know anyone called Rich, or where Rich’s flat might be.

“It’s Fergus again. If I don’t get hold of you, I’ll be on a park bench tonight, pal. Do they have park benches in London? Oh yeah, ’course – Hyde Park. Um, I’ll be at Clapham Junction shortly, panicking just a wee bit. There’s a sign here that says ‘busiest station in Europe’ and they’re not wrong. It’s not like old Portree…”

So, he had a name! She tried it on her tongue. Fergus. Apparently he was penniless as well as disorganised – not her type. He had a nice voice, though. Nobody, Kate thought, should be obliged to spend a night alone and homeless in London, even in summer.

She looked around at her four walls. Steph would be out dancing until two in the morning. Kate felt suddenly lonely. Oliver might ring tomorrow, from the office, but what if he didn’t, and how much did she even want him to?

She felt pins and needles in her right foot, and realised for how long she’d been doing nothing. Jumping up, she grabbed her cardi and chucked it in disgust at the washing machine in the kitchenette. She grabbed her bag and checked her A-Z was inside.

Oliver had let her down – she had to accept that. He had been rude, and she was going to be better than that.

Kate had crossed London countless times and she calculated that weedy Fergus would most likely be on the seven five from Victoria. She headed for the platform and stood near its exit.

It was surprisingly easy to spot a bewildered Scotsman on a station that handled millions of passengers a month. As people flowed round her, she caught sight of an oddly stationary figure, a tall man with auburn hair pushed back from his brow, freckles, a rucksack and an expression of confusion.

“Fergus?” she called. His eye roved for a while before finding her. He had piercing blue eyes, visible even at fifteen feet, and a narrow mouth that seemed, despite his obvious anxiety, to be on the point of a smile. He stared at Kate for a moment, and then recovered himself and hurried over.

“Um, I don’t know Rich,” Kate said haltingly. “I mean, you called me but I don’t… Look, this is going to take some explanation.” “Carry on,” Fergus said calmly. Another passenger knocked him as she rushed by, and he stood close to her. She could smell the cotton of his long-sleeved top and discern the musculature beneath. She launched into her tortuous explanation, and he listened, and the smile she’d suspected would be a killer, was indeed.

“Well, I have to thank you massively, then,” he said. “I’m obviously useless with London numbers.”

“Can you just get out of the exit?” A man thrust his face between them. “Can’t you see this is a stupid place for a chat-up?” Kate blushed violently. “I’ve brought my A to Z,” she said. He looked puzzled. The way his forehead creased made her knees wobble. “It’s a map. It’ll help us find Gerald, or Jesmond, Street.”

He grinned. “I know it’s number three!” he said brightly. They stayed stock-still for several seconds before he touched her shoulder, sending a shockwave, and gently moved her along. They jostled their way out of the station, and on the street he pulled a sandwich from his rucksack.

“Look, d’you mind if I eat this? I haven’t had a thing since somewhere near… Rugby? I began to get scared of future starvation so I saved it.”

“Carry on,” Kate said, thinking of Oliver and his cigarette, and the way he’d not asked to smoke it.

“Want some? BLT,” he said, “not too squashed.” She laughed. “Your need is greater.” They sat on a wall with the A-Z. Kate tried to concentrate, but he was even closer to her now, and that sexy Highland accent made focusing difficult.

“Geraldine Road! That’s it!” he said. He suddenly kissed her on the cheek, and then pulled back, eyes wide. “Oh, I am so sorry! It’s just… the relief.”

They were on Geraldine Road when he said, “Look, obviously I’d like to… I’d like to thank you somehow, once I’ve settled in. Rich has got me a job, and I’ll have to knuckle down, but then I could call and…” His voice trailed off.

Kate put a hand into an inner pocket of her bag. She had a little stack of business cards – her dad had got them printed when she went to London. In the restaurant last night she’d rested her hand on them often, but Oliver had never taken one. She pulled out a card.

“That’d be nice,” she said, handing it to Fergus. “Here.”

“I’ve, er, I’ve got your number already,” he said. “I called, remember?”

Their eyes met and they both burst out laughing.

Rich, a huge man with an accent to match Fergus’s, pulled them both inside, but the place was awash with small children, and Rich’s wife wanted to show Fergus his room so, after apologies and explanations, Kate said her goodbyes and walked home.

As her front door swung open, the phone was ringing. Maybe, she thought, it was finally Oliver. She let it ring and the cassette clicked on.

“Hi again,” a voice said, a Highland voice dripping with blue skies and whisky, which made the back of Kate’s neck tingle. “Not sure if I left you time to get home, but I just thought I’d ring. Straight away.”

Kate flew across the room and yanked the receiver off its cradle.

He stood close. She could discern the musculature beneath his top