Wrong Number

The number that appeared on the small screen was not a number that Charlie recognised. He let the phone ring three times. And then once more. But then he answered it. 'Hello.'

'Oh, you are there. I thought perhaps you might have been doing something.'

'No,' Charlie said. 'Not really.'

'Not really?'

'Not really,' Charlie confirmed. 'I'm sort of listening to some music. I suppose that's something. But it's nothing of any great importance.'

'Oh? What are you listening to?'

'David Sanborn.'

'David Sanborn. Do I know David Sanborn?'

'I have no idea,' Charlie said. And then he added: 'I don't even know who you are.'

'It's me,' a woman's voice said. 'Antonia.'

'Sorry, Antonia. I don't think I'm any the wiser.'

For several seconds there was just the sound of someone breathing. And then the woman -- Antonia, if she was indeed who she said she was -- said: 'Oh. You're not Barry, are you?'

'No.'

'Sorry. I thought I was calling Barry. You do sound a bit like him.'

'I do know a Barry,' Charlie told her. 'But he's probably not the Barry you thought you were calling. The Barry I know is a plumber.'

'Must be a different Barry,' Antonia said. 'The Barry I was calling does something in the accounts department at a kitchenware place. Pots and pans. I'm not sure exactly what.' And then she said: 'David Sanborn... is he a singer?'

'A singer? No. He's a horn player. Alto.'

'Alto?'

'Yes. Alto sax. Jazz mainly.'

'Oh. Right. I don't know too much about jazz. Do you think I might like David Sanborn? Should I look him up?'

'I don't know. He tends to be at the smooth jazz end of the jazz spectrum.'

'Smooth.'

'Yeah. Some people find him a bit too... well... easy listening. A bit Kenny G. But there's a time and a place, isn't there? Sometimes you don't want anything too challenging. Sometimes you just want to kick back and let the music wash over you.'

'Perhaps I should try to find something of his.'

'He has quite a lot of albums out there. And you've probably heard him on a few pop tracks as well. Elton John. Billy Joel, James Taylor. Steely Dan.'

'OK,' Antonia said.

'Oh, and I think he's been on a few Eagles tracks.'

'I like the Eagles. Don Henley. Glenn Frey. Joe Walsh.'

'Who knows? You might like David Sanborn then.'

'I'll look him up. Who else is good?'

'Who else?'

'Yeah. Who else should I check out.'

'I don't know,' Charlie said. 'I don't even know you.'

'No. That's true. But David Sanborn sounds like he might be worth a listen. Who else have you been listening tonight?'

'Tonight? Umm... Grace Kelly.'

'Oh. Right. Yes. I know Grace Kelly. She was in High Society. With Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra. And then she married a prince.'

'A different Grace Kelly. This one's another sax player.'

'Is she smooth jazz?'

'A bit of everything.'

'But you like her?'

'I do,' Charlie said. 'Yes.'

'I'll add her to the list,' Antonia told him. 'Thank you. You've been very helpful.'

'Good luck with finding Barry,' Charlie said.

'Yes. Although I might go and check out David Sanborn first.'

'Whatever.'

'Wait! Don't go. You didn't tell me your name.'

'I'm Charlie.'

'Charlie. Right. I'll let you know,' Antonia said. 'I'll let you know how I get on. With David Sanborn. And, umm, Grace Kelly. The different Grace Kelly.'

Charlie nodded -- not that Antonia would have known that.

* * *

It was about the same time the following evening that Charlie's phone flashed up the number with all the threes and sevens. Was it? Charlie swiped the green phone icon. 'Hello?'

'Hi. Charlie,' the woman's voice said. 'It's me. Antonia. I checked out David Sanborn. He's good, isn't he? Quite... well... cruisy. But still lively.'

'He can be,' Charlie said.

'Sorry. I should have asked, shouldn't I? Am I interrupting anything?'

'No. Not really.'

'Oh, that's good. Are you listening to music this evening?'

'Not at the moment. I was earlier. But now I'm just thinking.'

'Oh? What were you thinking?'

'This and that.'

'I left a message for Barry. To tell him to check out David Sanborn. But he didn't get back to me. I probably shouldn't have mentioned that it was jazz. I don't think Barry's into jazz. He likes heavy metal.'

'It takes all kinds,' Charlie said.

'I suppose so. Are you married?'

'Married? No.'

'I didn't think so.'

'Oh?'

'You sound too laid back.'

Charlie laughed. 'And you?'

'Married? No. I was. For a while. But we weren't really that well suited. We wanted different things.'

'Sorry to hear that.'

'It's OK. Maybe I'll try again. Not just yet. But maybe one day.' For a while, neither of them said anything. And then Antonia asked Charlie what he was going to do now -- now that she had interrupted his thoughts.

'Not sure. Perhaps I'll start writing a new story.'

'Oh? Are you a writer?'

'I am.'

'Oh. What do you write?'

'I mainly ghost-write autobiographies.'

'I thought that autobiographies had to be written by the person they were about. I thought that was why they were auto biographies.'

Charlie laughed. 'That's the theory. But a lot of people are not very good writers. They have a story, but they don't know how to tell it. Celebs, in particular.'

'And so you tell their story for them?'

'Something like that. And then the celeb does the rounds of the chat shows, the publisher sells a lot of books, and I get paid. So it all works out in the end.'

'So whose autobiography are you going to write tonight? Or am I not allowed to know that?'

Charlie laughed again. 'I also write short stories. Mainly just for fun. I was thinking that tonight I might perhaps start a new short story.'

'How do you do that?'

'With a capital letter,' Charlie said.

* * *

The following evening, Charlie went to a concert at Wigmore Hall.

'Ladies and gentlemen, if I could just remind you to please turn off your phones and other devices,' the MC said just before the featured quartet took to the stage. Not only did Charlie turn off his phone; he forgot to turn it back on again when the concert was over. He was just getting into bed when he realised. There were a couple of missed calls. He recognised the number as Antonia's number. There wasn't any message.

* * *

On Friday evening, Charlie wandered along to the pub to catch up with some of his old friends from his Anderson Eckhardt days. There had been about ten of them when Charlie had first started working as a copywriter at Anderson's. Most of them -- including Charlie -- had since moved on to other things, but there were still a couple of the original crew at 'the house on the corner', dreaming up ways of encouraging people to buy beer and baked beans and baby formula.

But the first person Charlie saw when he arrived at The Black Horse that evening was Sue Mason, another of the escapees. 'Ah, Charlie,' she said. 'Just the man. I am a step closer.'

'Congratulations,' Charlie said. 'A step closer to what?'

'My online mag. My Aunt Tessa -- bless her cotton socks -- has set off up the pearly stairs and left me some dosh. Not a lot. But enough to get things going. I need one of your short stories. Well, several -- hopefully. But I need one to kick things off. One of your entertainments. Say three thousand words? Something like that.'

'Is there a theme? To the magazine?'

'I'm thinking yellow brick road. A path to a better future. Upbeat. Polished. Entertaining.'

Charlie smiled and nodded. 'OK. I shall give it some thought,' he said.

* * *

Charlie did think about it. He began thinking about it as he walked home from the pub. And he continued to think about it when he sat down at his desk, his notebook open in front of him. And then his phone rang.

'It's me,' Antonia's voice said. 'I hope that it's not too late.'

'No. I just got in.'

'Oh... good timing then.'

'I suppose so.'

'I tried to phone you yesterday. But you must have been busy.'

'Last night? Last night I went to a concert,' Charlie said.

'A jazz concert?'

'No. Chamber music. The Appleton Quartet. Shostakovich. And a new piece by Maxine Brown.'

'Would I have liked it?' Antonia asked.

'I don't know. Do you normally like chamber music?'

'Umm... some. I quite like a bit of Mozart.'

'Most people seem to like Mozart,' Charlie said.

'Oh? Is that bad?'

'No, no. He's just... well... very approachable. And he gets a lot of airtime, so his work tends to sound reassuringly familiar. Not too many surprises. Maxine Brown's work? Not so much.'

'Should I look her up? Maxine Brown?'

'Maybe have a look on YouTube,' Charlie said. 'Just try not to think too much of Mozart while you're listening to her stuff. She's coming from a totally different place.'

'Have you started writing your story?' Antonia asked.

'Not really. I'm still thinking about it. I have a few ideas... but I think the yeast needs a little longer to do its thing.'

'The yeast?' Antonia laughed. 'Oh... yes... like when you're making bread.'

'Something like that.'

'Do you make bread?' Antonia asked.

'I've tried. Not with any great success. A former neighbour used to make her own sourdough bread. She convinced me that it was child's play. She gave me some starter. It wasn't. Child's play, I mean. At least it wasn't for me.'

'I have one of those automatic bread makers,' Antonia said. 'I sometimes set it to work overnight. It's quite nice to wake up to the smell of fresh bread.'

'I can imagine.'

'Do you like to masturbate?' Antonia asked.

Charlie laughed. 'Is that a trick question?'

'A trick question? No. I just wondered. Personally, I find that it relaxes me. Not at the time. Obviously. But afterwards. Makes you sleep better than Horlicks, an old boyfriend used to say.'

Charlie laughed again.

'You don't think so?' Antonia said.

'No, no. He was probably right. I just hadn't thought of it in those terms.'

'It always seems to work for me. Well, almost always.'

'Almost?'

For a moment or two, Antonia said nothing. Charlie wondered if she was about to amend her statement. But then she said: 'Well, nine times out of ten, anyway.'

'Nine times out of ten? And the other time?'

Antonia laughed. 'The other time... I guess it just gets me more worked up and I want to do it again. Too much fun, perhaps.' And she laughed again.

'Is it possible to have too much fun?' Charlie asked.

'What do you think?'

'Too much fun? I'm not sure. But I think you can probably have too much pleasure.'

'Oh?'

'Sometimes, if you have a really nice glass of wine -- I mean a really nice glass of wine -- the second one never tastes quite as good. Although you thought that it would do when you poured it. Is that a case of too much pleasure?'

'It's not masturbating though, is it?'

'No. It's not masturbating,' Charlie said.

'Do you watch porn?' Antonia asked.

Again, Charlie laughed. 'Not really.'

'Not really?'

'I've seen a bit from time to time but, no, it doesn't really do it for me. It's usually pretty unimaginative, isn't it? Pretty predictable.'

'Sometimes,' Antonia said. 'But some of the more homemade stuff can be a bit of fun. Bernie used to like this guy who picked up ordinary-looking women at the supermarket and pubs and stuff and took them home and then had his mate film him fucking them. They were quite good. The little films, I mean. Although I sometimes wondered if they really were just random strangers. Or whether the whole thing was a setup.'

'Who's Bernie?'

'The chap I was married to. Bernie wanted me to go and pick up a stranger in a pub.'

'Did you?'

'No. I thought about it. But then I thought: what if he turned out to be a nutter? A friend of mine met a guy at a bus stop once. He turned out to be a nutter.'

'Not good.'

'No.'

* * *

On Saturday afternoon, Charlie went up to Finchley to play squash with his friend Daniel. Daniel was a member of a sports club up there. After their game, the two friends undid most of their good work by consuming a couple of pints of lager apiece in the club's bar.

'So... how's life?' Daniel asked.

'Busy. One project on the go. Another waiting in the wings. Oh... and I seem to have acquired a phone friend.'

'How does one acquire a phone friend?'

'She dialled a wrong number. We ended up talking about music. I can't quite remember how. And now she seems to phone me every other night.'

'You're obviously no longer a wrong number,' Daniel said.

'No, I guess not.'

'So what do you talk about?'

'Music. As I say. Well, mainly. Although last night she started talking about sex. Masturbation. Porn. She seems to like the homemade variety. And her ex-husband wanted her to pick up a random chap in a pub and take him home so that the husband could film them having sex.'

'Did she?'

'No. She said that she thought about it. But then she thought that it might have been a bit risky.'

'But she told you about it.'

Charlie laughed. 'Yeah. She did.'

* * *

On his way back down to Paddington, Charlie had a thought for a story for Sue Mason's new online magazine. As soon as he arrived home, he made a pot of coffee and then went and sat at his desk and starting making notes, outlining the story, and writing snippets of dialogue that would help to 'shape' the three main characters.

As a rule, Charlie tended not to drink coffee after four o'clock in the afternoon. Charlie liked his coffee strong. And strong coffee in the evening seemed to play havoc with his sleep. But on the that particular Saturday night, Charlie didn't really care. He would finish his writing and then counter the effects of the coffee with a couple of glasses of single malt Scotch. Charlie was halfway through his first Scotch, and reviewing the couple of thousand words that he had written, when Antonia phoned.

'What are you doing?' Antonia asked.

'Sipping a particularly agreeable single malt Scotch,' Charlie told her.

'Oh?'

'A twenty-five year old Laphroaig. Mellow. Peaty. With hints of apple and vanilla.'

'Apple and vanilla?'

'Apple and vanilla.'

'Would I like it?'

'You might do. Do you normally like whisky?'

'Sometimes. Twenty-five years. That sounds as if it might be expensive.'

'I think it probably is. But I didn't buy it. It was a gift. From my aunt. She tends to spoil me a bit.'

'Nice.'

'And what are you up to this evening?'

'I was watching a movie.'

'Oh? Was it any good.'

'It was quite good. It was about a big city lawyer who goes back to rural Scotland to arrange for the sale of her father's cottage. After her father dies. And she falls in love.'

'With Scotland.'

'I suppose so. But also with the local boy who used to work for her father.'

'Except, at first, they hate each other.'

'Yes. Have you seen it?'

Charlie laughed. 'No. But I can imagine the storyline.'

'It was quite well done,' Antonia said. 'There was quite a lot of sex. I enjoyed it.'

'You enjoyed the movie? Or you enjoyed the sex?'

'Both. The sex was... well... quite sexy. I had to give myself a bit of a seeing to.'

Charlie laughed again. 'Oh, that good, eh? And so now you are ready for a restful sleep.'

'Umm... no. Now I just want to do it again.'

Charlie laughed.

For a while, Antonia said nothing. And then she said: 'We could do it together.'

'But I didn't see the movie.'

'I could talk to you,' Antonia said. 'We could talk to each other.'

'Talk to me?'

'It would be like we were in the same room. Watching each other. You could tell me what you are doing. What you are feeling.'

'Would you like that?'

'I would.'

Charlie took a sip of his 25-year-old Laphroaig. 'What are you wearing?' he asked.

'Wearing? Umm... sort of pyjamas.'

Charlie laughed.

'Oh? Don't you like pyjamas?'

'The question: What are you wearing? was supposed to be a joke,' Charlie said. 'Apparently, that's how nine out of ten phone-sex conversations begin -- with one person asking the other what they are wearing.'

'Oh, right. I don't think that I knew that.'

Charlie nodded -- not that Antonia would have known that. 'You say sort of....'

'Sort of?'

'You said sort of pyjamas.'

'Oh. Yes. They're designer pyjamas. David Martello. You can wear them without having to go to bed. Baggy shorts. Silky. And a more fitting cotton top.'

'They sound nice.'

'I think so.'

'What colour?'

'The shorts are dark pink. And the top is dark pink too, but with random light blue squiggles. A bit abstract.'

'Yeah. Sounds nice.'

'They feel... quite, umm... sexy.'

'Oh? The shorts? Or the top?'

'Both. The shorts are silky and slippery. And the top feels quite soft against my boobs. I can stroke my boobs and feel my nipples through the fabric. My nipples get quite hard when I do that.'

'That sounds nice.'

'It is. What are you wearing?'

'Yeah. I'm wearing shorts too.'

'What are they like? Your shorts.'

'Loose. Cotton knit. Light grey marle. Sort of gym shorts, I suppose.'

'Are you wearing a shirt?'

'Yeah, a T-shirt. A T-shirt that's too big for me. I quite like wearing over-sized T-shirts when I'm at home. Are you stroking your boobs now?'

'I was. But now I'm stroking my... umm... my pussy. Through my shorts.'

'Oh? Do you have a cat?'

Antonia laughed. 'I do. But, no. I'm stroking my other pussy. My....'

'Oh... you're stroking your cunt.'

'Yes. My cunt.'

'And does it feel good?'

'My cunt feels very good,' Antonia said. 'I think it's starting to get wet. I think I'm going to have to push my shorts down.'

'OK.'

'In fact I might take them off altogether.'

'OK.'

'There.'

'Better?'

'Easier,' Antonia said. And she laughed.

'Tell me about your cunt,' Charlie said.

'What do you want to know?'

'What does it look like?'

'Umm... just normal. You know. Just a normal cunt.'

'Is it smooth? Or hairy?'

'Hairy. But trimmed. I used to shave it. Bernie liked it smooth. But I prefer it hairy. Well... a bit hairy, anyway. I just trim the edges a bit.'

'And do you have a butterfly or a slit?' Charlie asked.

'Umm... a butterfly. Piss flaps, Bernie used to say.'

'Yes, I prefer a butterfly,' Charlie said. 'Cunts are all nice, but I think butterfly cunts are especially nice.'

'Tell me about your cock,' Antonia said.

'My cock?'

'Yes. I've told you about my cunt.'

'You have,' Charlie said. 'Hmm... my cock. Well... my ex-wife used to say that it was just like a cock -- only smaller.' And he laughed. 'My ex was a size queen. She used to say that anything under eight inches didn't count. And she claimed that she once had a boyfriend whose cock was twelve inches from stem to stern. I'm afraid mine is not quite half that.'

'Twelve inches!'

'That's what she reckoned.'

'I wouldn't like that. What would you do with it?'

'You'd definitely need to use both hands,' Charlie said.

'No. I wouldn't want that anywhere near me,' Antonia told him. And then she asked: 'Are you playing with your cock?'

'Would you like me to?'

'I would. I like watching men playing with their cocks. I like watching what makes them feel good.'

'Have you watched a lot of men playing with their cocks?'

Antonia laughed. 'Not a lot. A few. But not a lot. And you? Have you seen a lot of cunts? In real life, I mean.'

'Depends on what you consider to be a lot. I've seen a few.'

'My cunt is starting to get quite wet. Talking to you. You can probably hear it. Can you?'

'I don't think so.'

'Let me hold the phone down there.'

Charlie smiled and gave his stiffening cock a few pumps as he listened to squelching sounds that came from the phone.

'There. Did you hear that?'

'I did. It sounded very nice. Very wet. I bet your butterfly wings are getting nice and shiny.'

'They are. Shiny and slippery. Would you like to put the head of your cock between them?'