Читать книгу It’s a Wonderful Night - Jaimie Admans - Страница 8

I’m in the cupboard under the stairs trying to wrangle a naked mannequin up the narrow steps to the back room when I hear the phone ringing. I groan. It’s only going to be a telemarketer, isn’t it? It’s eleven o’clock on a November night and I’m working overtime because, as the manager of the One Light charity shop, it’s my responsibility to get the Christmas window display finished before morning. I don’t have time for discussing ‘an accident I’ve had recently that wasn’t my fault’, mis-sold PPI, or my solar panel needs. Don’t they even stick to normal working hours now?

I’ll ignore it. I take a defiant bite of the fun-size Crunchie I’ve just found a bag of in the cupboard under the stairs. Who put chocolate down here? Maybe the volunteers were trying to hide it from me? It’s obviously leftover from Halloween and that was over a month ago. There’s not usually chocolate hanging around that long if I know it’s there. A day would be pushing it. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad hiding place after all.

The ring is insistent and I have a conscience about ignoring a ringing phone. It could be an emergency. It could be my dad saying he’s fallen and can’t get up, or paramedics who have been called out because he’s had another heart scare.

I look at the mannequin’s blank face. ‘Sorry,’ I mutter to it as I try to prop it against the wall, shove the last half of the Crunchie into my mouth and rush through the back room and out onto the shop floor, leaving behind a series of thuds as the mannequin slides back down the steps I’ve just dragged it up.

I’ve forgotten to hit the light switch so the shop floor is in darkness and I trip over a clothing rail and nearly go flying.

‘Hello?’ I say with my mouth full as I grab the handset from behind the counter. It’s far from the polite ‘One Light charity shop, how can I help you?’ that we’re supposed to answer the phone with, but I fully expect the caller to have rung off by now anyway.

‘Do you think it will hurt?’

‘What?’ I say with all the eloquence of an inebriated badger, hopping about with the phone in one hand, the other clutching the toe that collided with the clothing rail.

‘If I jump off this bridge?’

I choke on the Crunchie.

‘Are you okay?’ the man’s voice on the other end of the line asks.

‘Yes, thanks.’ I clear my throat a few times, trying to dislodge rogue bits of honeycomb. Only I could greet a suicidal man by choking at him. ‘Shouldn’t it be me asking you that?’

He lets out a laugh that sounds wet and thick, like he’s been crying. ‘I’m not the one choking to death. Do you need a glass of water or something?’

‘No, no, I’m fine,’ I say, wondering if swallowing actual sandpaper might’ve been more comfortable. ‘I’m so sorry, I’d just shoved an entire fun-size Crunchie into my mouth and then tried to speak. If that isn’t a recipe for disaster, I don’t know what is.’

I don’t know why I said that. A recipe for disaster is not me choking on a chocolate bar – it’s a guy about to throw himself off a bridge who doesn’t realize he’s phoned the charity shop for a suicide prevention helpline rather than the suicide prevention helpline itself.

My heart is suddenly pounding and a cold sweat has prickled my forehead. I don’t know what to do. I’ve always been petrified this would happen but never really thought it would. I’ve always thought that the two numbers are printed worryingly close together on our leaflets. Head Office told me I was worrying too much, but I’ve often wondered how easy it would be for someone to get our number muddled up with the helpline number and phone here by mistake. And it seems like the answer has just rung.

What am I going to do? I can’t take this call. I don’t know how to talk someone down off a bridge.

‘Oh, I love Crunchies. Don’t tell me you still have fun-size ones leftover from Halloween?’

‘I think they were hidden from me. I’ve only just found them.’ I’m rambling about nonsense but I don’t know what else to say. I know people think chocolate is the answer to most things, but I doubt it’s likely to help in this situation, and as much as I’d like to keep talking about Cadbury’s honeycomb treat, I can’t keep avoiding his first question.

I go to speak but he gets there first. ‘Can we just keep talking about chocolate? This is the most normal conversation I’ve had for days.’

I let out a nervous laugh. ‘We can talk about anything you want. Chocolate’s always a good topic.’

‘Where’s your hiding place? I never manage to hide mine successfully; I always remember where it is and scoff the lot. I bought boxes of Milk Tray for the family when they were on offer a couple of weeks ago, and let’s just say I’ve now got to go and buy more before Christmas. You can guess what happened to them, right?’

Another nervous laugh. ‘Well, this time, my staff bought them in case any trick or treaters came round before closing time, but none did, so they must’ve hidden them in the cupboard under the stairs of all places. I was just wrestling a naked mannequin out when I found them. Safe to say there aren’t many left now. And I feel a bit sick. Those two points are probably related.’

‘Well, if they’ve been there for a month, you’re only testing them for quality, right?’

I giggle again. How can someone about to throw himself off a bridge make me laugh? ‘Yes. Testing them vigorously.’

He laughs too and the laugh seems to go on for much longer than for anything that was actually funny. ‘God, I haven’t laughed in so long,’ he says eventually, sounding out of breath. ‘So what are you doing naked wrestling mannequins under the stairs at this time of night? Aren’t you in a call centre?’

‘Um…’

‘Oh God, please don’t tell me I phoned the wrong number.’ He must be able to hear my hesitation because he suddenly sounds distraught and I hear paper rustling down the line. ‘I have, haven’t I? There are two numbers on here and the leaflet’s all wet and the ink’s blurred. God, I’m such an idiot.’

‘No, you’re not. You’re not. Trust me, it’s our fault; I’ve been trying to get those leaflets redesigned for years,’ I say, feeling panic claw at my chest. What if he’s going to hang up and go through with the jump because of a silly mistake?

‘I’m so sorry.’ He makes a noise of frustration. ‘I’m so, so sorry to have disturbed you. Please forget this ever happened. I’ll leave you to your naked mannequin wrestling.’

He says the words in such a rush that I can’t interrupt him quickly enough. ‘Please don’t go,’ I say, my voice going high at the fear of what he might do. I need to give him the number of the real helpline. There are business cards on the counter right in front of me. It would be easy enough to read out the number and tell him to phone there instead, where there are people who do this all the time and have a lot of training in dealing with these situations. But what if he doesn’t phone them? What if he feels stupid for phoning the wrong place? What if he decides to jump rather than make another phone call?

I can’t tell a suicidal man to hang up and try again, can I?

‘Please stay and talk a minute,’ I say cautiously. Surely the best thing I can do is talk to him? There are testimonials on the One Light website that say the most important thing in deciding not to go through with a suicide attempt was having someone to talk to, and the charity have run campaigns about how important making small talk with a stranger can be. ‘I don’t have enough people to talk about chocolate with. And I feel like I shouldn’t let you go without clarifying that it’s the mannequins who are naked, not me. It’s way too cold for that.’

He lets out a guffaw. ‘Ah, so if I’d phoned on a summer night, it would have been a different story, huh?’

I laugh too. ‘What did I expect from a conversation that’s revolved entirely around chocolate, naked mannequins, and wrestling?’

‘I think I’d be letting the male species as a whole down if I didn’t derive something dirty from a conversation like that.’

‘I think we’ve both done our duty with weird conversations so far tonight,’ I say. I need to end this and get him on the phone to an actual counsellor who can help him talk things through, but I don’t know how to broach the subject. I can’t just say, ‘Right, here’s the number, off you go’. It’s too abrupt, it could make him feel rejected, and it could make him more likely to jump.

‘Where are you?’ I ask instead. Maybe getting back onto the subject is a good start.

‘The suspension bridge over the Barrow river. It’s on the outskirts of Oakbarrow town.’

He’s local. I know exactly where he is. Turn right at the end of the high street and go past the churchyard, it’s a ten-minute walk away. The old steel bridge on the road that leads out of Oakbarrow. I was up there two days ago putting One Light leaflets out. I leave a few of them weighed down with a stone in the corner of the pavement, next to the safety barrier that was replaced after an accident a few years ago. The replacement part is just a bit lower than the rest of the barrier; the part where anyone thinking of jumping would be most likely to climb over.

‘What are you doing up there at this time of night?’

‘I don’t know. God, I don’t know. It seemed so clear when I walked up here, but I got to the edge and looked down, and I couldn’t see the water, just blackness in the dark, and I went dizzy so I sat down on the pavement, and I just… I don’t know. Sorry, I’m rambling.’

‘Not at all,’ I say, thinking his voice sounds familiar. He’s got an English accent but he puts a little emphasis on his ‘r’s. It’s typical for this part of Gloucestershire. That must be why I think I recognize it.

‘I walked across the bridge yesterday and saw a stack of your leaflets. The thought of … you know … jumping … has been in my head for a while and I grabbed one and stuffed it in my pocket. As I stood there and looked over the edge tonight, I put my hands in my pockets and my fingers brushed it, and it was like I didn’t even remember putting it there.’

That must’ve been one of the leaflets I put out the day before. It makes me feel weirdly connected to him. This man has reached out in his darkest moment because of something I did. I have a responsibility to help him.

‘I sat on the pavement and unfolded it and thought about my dad – he died on this river – and I just felt … compelled to ring you. He’d be so disappointed if he could see me now. He thought life was the most precious thing any of us have.’

‘You didn’t jump. That’s the most important part. Life is precious and you chose to sit down and call me instead of throwing it away. That’s the first step to making things better.’

‘I didn’t choose to sit down, I thought I was going to pass out.’

‘That’s okay too. The only thing that matters is that you’re here and talking. It’s got to be better than the alternative,’ I say carefully, trying to sound as neutral as possible.

‘I shouldn’t be talking about this to you though, should I? I phoned the wrong number. I wouldn’t mind betting this is definitely not part of your job description …’

‘It’s okay, it’s absolutely fine.’ I’m glad he can’t see the expression on my face because it definitely doesn’t match the lighthearted tone in my voice. ‘It’s just the people on the helpline are properly trained counsellors, and I’m not. I don’t want to say the wrong thing and make this worse,’ I say, deciding honesty is the best policy.

‘Please don’t hang up,’ he says after a long moment of silence. He sounds so cautious, almost afraid, and kind of hopeful, that there’s no way I could refuse. ‘I know I shouldn’t be asking you to talk to me but I don’t know what to do, and you’re reminding me of normal people and normal conversations and feeling normal and you’ve already made me laugh and it’s been so long since I …’ His voice goes choked up again and I can hear him sniffle.

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I say quickly, trying to reassure him. My hand tightens around the plastic of the handset. In my head, I’m wondering if I could somehow get in touch with the helpline while he’s still on the line and try to transfer the call without hanging up on him, but I can’t think of a way to do it. The phone in the shop that I’m talking on is an old corded one that’s attached to the wall behind the counter so no one can accidentally sell it – been there, done that – and my mobile is in my locker upstairs. I’d have to leave him for a few precious minutes to dash up there and get it. It would be too obvious what I was doing. What if he felt like I was just shafting him off onto the next person because I didn’t care? If he feels like I can’t get rid of him quick enough, it might make this situation worse. Even if I could get my phone and text the helpline and ask them what to say, I’d still have to leave him hanging here in silence while I got right the way across the shop floor, through the back room, up the stairs and into my locker and all the way back again, and who knows what he might do in that time? He phoned because he needs someone to talk to now. I can’t just leave him.

I wind the cord of the phone around my fingers and sink down into a sitting position. I thunk my head back against the wall behind the counter and listen to the rain pounding on the shop roof. Even Bernard, the homeless man who lives in the churchyard, will have found shelter tonight. ‘Aren’t you soaked?’

I hear movement and can imagine him lifting an arm and looking at it. ‘I am, actually. I hadn’t even noticed.’

I don’t know what it’s like to be in that situation, to feel so bad, so desperate, that there’s no way out, but I imagine a little fall of rain is the last thing he’s worrying about. I hate the idea of someone sitting on the pavement outside in this weather though. He must be drenched and freezing. I could go up there, take him a warm blanket and a hot cup of tea, but that too would mean leaving the phone, and it would eradicate our anonymity.

Privacy and anonymity are the foundations of the charity. The helpline exists so people in a crisis can open up to an unbiased stranger. Callers are routed through a server that hides the number from the person on the other end. Helpline staff are not allowed to ask the caller’s name if they don’t share it, and not allowed to give their own name unless asked. He knows I’m not proper helpline staff, but I still work for One Light. Those rules must still apply to me, even if this is a situation that’s never happened before.

‘Talk to me,’ I say gently, terrified that I’m saying the wrong thing. ‘Why were you thinking of jumping?’

‘We’ll be here all night if I start listing the reasons.’

‘That’s okay. We can be here all night. There’s no time limit. What’s going on?’

‘Everything. I’m a failure at life. My business is going under and I’ve done everything I can to try to save it, and I don’t know what else to do. It was supposed to be a way of honouring my father, but it’s taken every bit of money I had, and it’s dead. I have no customers. My mum is seventy-seven years old and on her feet at seven o’clock every day to help me out because I can’t afford to pay any staff. I’m in debt up to my eyeballs and I got my business rates bill this morning, and I can’t afford to pay even a fraction of it. And just to ice the cake, the rates are going up in January and there’s no way I can pay them.’

Because of the anonymity rules, I can’t ask him outright where he works, but if he’s in Oakbarrow then chances are it’s somewhere nearby. It might even be on this high street.

I sit up on my knees and look over the counter at the darkened road outside. Even the streetlamps have flickered their final death and no one’s bothered to mend them. Oakbarrow High Street used to be a hive of activity, especially at this time of year, but now it’s deader than the burnt-out bulbs in the streetlights. The truth is that I know how quiet things are. I know how difficult it is to get people through the door. Every day, I expect a phone call from Head Office saying they’ve decided to shut our branch down.

‘Well, it’s nearly Christmas,’ I say. ‘People are out shopping in the big towns at this time of year. Maybe things will pick up in January?’

‘There’s a new retail park on the roundabout outside of town. It’s easy to get to, there’s plenty of free parking, and it’s got every kind of shop you could imagine. No one needs to come to high streets anymore, no matter the time of year.’

‘Yeah, but the retail park is a bit … soulless, isn’t it? These business parks are all the same – if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. I’d rather go to a little high street full of independent shops that actually mean something to the people who own them. That comes across to shoppers, you know?’

‘Well, you must be one of about ten people left in the country who think that way.’

I suddenly feel incredibly sad because he’s so right about the high street. I’ve lived in Oakbarrow all my life. This high street used to be the centre of the universe, especially at this time of year. I remember going Christmas shopping with my mum when I was little and being amazed by it; the sights, the sounds, the smells. The giant tree they put up in front of the churchyard, always at least ten-foot high, lush green branches weighed down with twinkling lights and ornaments that local school children had made. It was magical back then. Shopkeepers would stay open late, decorations of reindeer pulling Santa’s sleigh ran across the road above our heads, snowflakes twinkled on hangers outside every shop, lampposts were wrapped with tinsel and bows and had bright bulbs that still worked.

I look out the window again. The shop across the road is empty, its windows painted white from inside, the shop next to that has a ‘for sale’ sign nailed to its front though the ‘s’ has worn off, and the one on the opposite side has had ‘closing down sale’ notices in its bare windows for the past three years.

Just about the only shops still in business are the charity shop and the bank next door, a coffee shop, a tanning shop, a lingerie shop, and a television repair shop at the upper end of the high street. Even the only pub, that used to be the heart of all village gatherings, has closed in recent years. It used to be called The Blue Drum but some clever vandal has removed the middle five letters, so now it’s just The B um. I hear a lot of regular customers talking about wishing The Bum was still open so they could go up it.

It feels like every one of us is only here to await the death knell. Even the mini supermarket that put the independent greengrocer out of business and contributed to the market closure has shut up shop and run for the hills. Or, more specifically, run for the retail park to be with all the other convenient and cheap shops that make high streets everywhere irrelevant.

‘I wish there was something I could say to make you feel better, but there’s no denying what a state high streets everywhere are in.’

‘At least you’re honest. Somehow, even hearing that makes me feel better.’

Well, I want to make him feel better but I’m not sure commiserating over the state of things was quite what I had in mind. ‘How are you feeling now?’

‘Cold. Wet.’ I can hear his teeth chattering. ‘Stupid for being up here. Stupid for thinking this was the answer. Pathetic for crying down the phone to a stranger.’

‘Hey, that’s not pathetic.’ I wonder if we are strangers. If he works around here, I might know him in passing. I’ve had this job for four years now; you get to know people who work nearby, and his voice does sound familiar. ‘When you need help, the bravest thing you can do is reach out and ask for it.’

‘Or phone a stranger and talk about naked mannequin wrestling.’

The laugh takes me by surprise. ‘Or make them choke on a Crunchie.’

‘Or that.’ His laugh turns into a sob. ‘I shouldn’t be up here. I feel like I’ve let everyone down. My family would be devastated if they knew it had come to this.’

‘You haven’t let anyone down because you’re still here. The only thing your family would care about is you being all right. I know what it’s like to lose someone you love. I promise you, there’s nothing in the world worse than that. Any business that’s failing is just a business, a building, a job. Losing that can be recovered from. You are irreplaceable.’

‘Thank you.’ His voice breaks and I can hear the thickness of tears welling up again. My heart constricts in my chest and I want nothing more than to hug this man I don’t even know.

‘None of us know how much we matter until it’s too late. No matter how bad you feel, you’re so important to so many people. One person’s life touches so many others.’

‘Do you know It’s a Wonderful Life?’

I feel myself sitting up a bit straighter because he obviously recognized the quote. It’s a Wonderful Life is not just a film to me. It was my mum’s favourite, so much so that she named me Georgia Bailey after it. ‘I would be seriously concerned for anyone who didn’t know It’s a Wonderful Life. It’s an amazing film.’

He makes a noise of agreement.

‘It’s kind of life-affirming,’ I say pointedly. ‘It really shows the importance of every life. No matter how insignificant we think we are, our little lives still make a big difference.’

He considers it for a moment. ‘You have no idea how much I needed to hear that tonight.’

We sit there in silence for a while, neither of us speaking, and I realize I’m holding the phone handset so tightly that the plastic must be in danger of cracking by now. It feels like a lifeline to him and I could sit here all night just listening to him breathe. His breath has got that shuddery hitch you get after a long cry, and I have never wanted to hug someone so badly in all my life.

At the end of the high street, the church bell dongs for midnight.

‘Every time a bell rings,’ he murmurs. ‘Did you hear that?’

It makes my heart pound harder. It’s what I say every time I hear a bell ring too because they make me think of my mum. I love that he knows the film so well because it means so much to me and not many people get that.

‘I heard something,’ I say, because I don’t know whether he’s asking if I heard it through the phone or if he realizes I’m just down the road.

‘That was the Oakbarrow church telling us all it’s officially December.’

‘Christmas month,’ I say.

‘Don’t remind me. I can’t deal with Christmas this year.’

‘Why not?’

‘It makes me realize that another year has gone by and I’ve done nothing with my life. You’re supposed to be all happy happy, joy joy at Christmas and I’ve got nothing left in me to give.’

‘I wouldn’t mind betting that the only reason you’ve got nothing left is because you’re so busy looking after everyone else that you forget to take care of yourself,’ I say, because so many men are the same. He’s probably a guy who’s grown up thinking men must always be strong and never let their feelings show. It’s a toxic masculinity that’s dangerous to men’s mental health. It’s why suicide is the biggest killer of men under fifty. Men bottle things up inside and don’t let it out until it’s too late. I don’t know the exact figures off the top of my head, but I do know that a majority of One Light’s callers are male because of this exact reason.

‘My mum always says that.’

‘Mums are always right,’ I murmur, wishing mine was still here.

‘Sometimes I feel like I’m frightened of being alive.’

My breath catches in my throat. ‘Me too.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah,’ I say slowly, nodding even though he can’t see me. ‘No one’s ever hit the nail on the head like that before. That’s exactly how I feel too.’

‘I’ve always wanted to travel but I never have.’

‘Me neither. I’ve never told anyone this but my ultimate dream is to go backpacking around Europe,’ I say wondering what it is about him that makes him so easy to talk to.

‘Really?’ he says again. ‘I’d love to do that.’

‘I think I’m a bit old for it now, it’s kind of a “gap year” thing, isn’t it?’ I shake my head at myself. I’m too old for daydreams like this, I should’ve forgotten it years ago. ‘It’s just a dream anyway. I have responsibilities that I can’t just leave.’

‘Me too. I was going to travel after college, but family stuff happened and I couldn’t leave, then I was going off to uni but more family stuff came up, and it made more sense for me to get a job and stay here, so I’d been saving up for years to do one big trip somewhere, and then my dad died, and I bought the business, and now … well, I’m still here. I keep feeling like there has to be more to life than this.’

‘Me too,’ I say.

‘Wow, really? Sorry, I keep saying that, don’t I? I’ve never spoken to someone who knew that feeling before.’

‘Me neither. And there you go, I just keep repeating some variation of “me too” and “me neither”. It doesn’t make for the most exciting conversation in the world but I’ve never said this to anyone before.’

‘Me neither,’ he says, making us both laugh. My grip on the phone tightens, like if I hold it tight enough he’ll be able to feel me squeezing his hand through the handset.

‘This isn’t what I thought my life would be like,’ I admit. ‘And I know I can’t really complain because I’m so lucky compared to others, but I feel like I’m still waiting for my life to start.’

‘I think we might literally be the same person. I’m thirty-seven and I feel exactly the same. I’m too old to still be waiting for my life to begin and too young to be this jaded, but I don’t know what to do about it.’

So he’s only three years older than me. I couldn’t possibly know him, no matter how familiar his voice sounds. I can’t think of anyone around that age who could be in such a dark place and hiding it so well.

‘Me too,’ I whisper.

‘We grow up thinking life will be wonderful and amazing and exciting, and it’s just quite dull really, isn’t it? I keep thinking what if I die before anything wonderful or amazing or exciting happens to me?’ He gives a self-deprecating snort. ‘And yes, I know throwing yourself off a bridge isn’t exactly conducive to that.’

At least he hasn’t lost his sense of humour. He lets out a wobbly little giggle and I feel something like butterflies in my tummy. How can I possibly have butterflies over someone I don’t even know? Someone who phoned because he was about to jump off a bridge?

‘Okay, so … I should go, shouldn’t I?’ he says after a few moments silence.

‘You don’t have to. We can carry on talking.’ I kind of want him to stay on the line for my sake now. I love talking to him. There’s something about him that’s so easy to chat to and a familiarity that you’d only expect to feel with a friend.

I can hear the smile in his voice. ‘As tempting as that sounds, I think I should go home. I’m so cold that I might actually die from hypothermia and, thanks to you, I’ve realized I don’t want to die tonight.’

‘Or any other night, right?’

‘Nah. I’ll stick to killing myself only in daylight hours.’

‘I’m glad you can joke about it, but it’s not funny. You were really going to –’

‘I know,’ he whispers. ‘But I feel better already just from talking to you, getting it off my chest, feeling like I’m not alone.’

He pauses and I can almost sense how ashamed he feels. I want to tell him that there’s no reason to be, but I’m out of my depth and don’t know how to word it.

‘I can’t thank you enough for staying on the line with me. I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sure I’ve totally ruined your night.’

‘Oh God, not at all. I’ve loved every second of talking to you. It’s been a wonderful night.’

I can hear a smile in his voice. ‘You just sounded so normal, it made me forget everything that’s been in my head and just feel normal for a change. I can’t remember the last time I felt connected to anyone. As daft as that sounds in our modern world of technology and the internet and being connected all the time.’

‘It doesn’t sound daft at all. It sounds exactly like what I was feeling too.’ I wonder how many more times he’s going to surprise me tonight. He seems to understand thoughts I’ve had but never put into words before. ‘I think it’s something that’s easy to forget sometimes. We get so caught up in social media and being as good as everyone else that we forget we don’t really “talk” anymore. And if you want to know about the modern world, I’m on an old corded phone that’s screwed to the wall, rarely seen in Britain since the Seventies. David Attenborough should be doing a documentary about something so ancient.’

He laughs and I’m glad he got a kick out of that because there’s something about his laugh that I just want to keep listening to.

‘Thank you for reminding me what it feels like to be alive,’ he says.

‘I think you might have reminded me a little bit too.’

‘I keep thinking I know you. Your voice sounds so familiar,’ he says softly. ‘I don’t even know your name.’

My breath catches in my throat, but I think it’s probably best not to tell him that he sounds familiar too. If he is someone I could one day come across in real life, he’s not going to want to be reminded of this night, is he? People can be more open with a stranger. They can tell them things they wouldn’t tell a friend. If he thought we might run into each other somewhere, he probably wouldn’t have said half the things he said tonight. No matter what connection we have here, it has to end when we put down the phone. ‘I don’t know yours. And that’s the way it’s supposed to be. It’s often easier to talk to an anonymous stranger. Someone completely non-judgemental and impartial, who’s not involved in your life in any way at all. Like ships passing in the night, honking their horn at each other and continuing their journey.’

‘Consider your horn duly honked.’

It makes me laugh. ‘And yours too.’

‘I like that, you know?’

‘Horn honking?’

‘No, being anonymous. It makes it seem all mysterious and romantic, like the start of a great story. Well, and horn honking. Honking is a good word. People don’t honk enough these days.’

‘They leave the honking to geese and old-fashioned car horns.’

It makes us both laugh again and I realize I’ve gone from panicking when I picked up the phone to relaxing with his company. He really is easy to talk to, and now I don’t think he’s about to do anything stupid, I’m just enjoying the chat.

‘You can hang up, you know,’ he says. ‘I feel like I’ve wasted your time tonight.’

‘Are you kidding? I’ve really enjoyed it. I didn’t think anyone understood half the things I’ve said to you tonight. You made me feel more normal too, you know.’

I hear him swallow.

‘And I’m not going anywhere until I know you’re okay.’

‘Okay, okay.’ His chuckle gives way to a grunt and a series of groans as I hear him moving. ‘God, I’ve sat here for too long. I think I need oiling. Got any WD40 handy?’

I smile but his attempt at humour is not going to deter me from what’s really important here. ‘How’re you feeling?’

‘I don’t know. I’m so cold that I can’t feel anything from the neck down.’

I wish I’d taken him a coat or something. I should’ve just gone as soon as I knew where he was. Anonymity be damned.

‘I’m okay,’ he says before I have a chance to push him any further. ‘Really. I’m not going to do anything stupid. I feel better just for having let it all out. I don’t think I’ve ever cried that much in my life, and I watched Titanic fourteen times when it came out on video. How can one set of sinuses hold so much snot?’ He does an exaggerated sniff as a demonstration.

It makes me smile. ‘When you get home, do me a favour and take care of yourself, okay? Apart from cold and wet, you must be drained. You’ve been through something traumatic tonight.’

‘Ah, I wouldn’t call talking to you traumatic.’

‘Make light of it all you want. Do whatever you need to cope. But you and I both know that trying to brush things under the carpet is how you ended up on that bridge in the first place.’

I think he’s going to say something else sarcastic, but he swallows. ‘I know.’

‘So take care of yourself. When you get in, have a long hot shower or bath. A long cry is draining, so drink a really big glass of water and get something to eat. I don’t care if it’s healthy or something made of chocolate, but make yourself a cup of tea and eat some biscuits, and snuggle up into bed with a book or a movie or something. Please? You deserve some TLC too.’

‘Waterfalls or No Scrubs?’

‘Oh, ha ha,’ I say, even though it does make me want to laugh. There’s never a bad time for a Nineties music reference.

‘Hot shower, warm pyjamas, drink of water, bed, book, tea and biscuits. The Great British cure for everything.’ I can hear that he’s smiling as he repeats my instructions. ‘I wish I knew your name so I could thank you properly, but at the same time, I kind of like not knowing it. So thank you, mysterious stranger, for saving my life. And for the interesting mental images of mannequins wrestling naked in chocolate. Or something. That is what you were doing when I called, right?’

I giggle. ‘Thank you for a night I’ll never forget.’

‘Even the rain’s stopping,’ he says. I can hear him walking now, the wet flop of something against his phone. Maybe his hair? ‘What a wonderful night.’

I smile because, in a weird way, it was.

I’ve never spoken to someone who understands me the way he seems to. It feels kind of magical to speak to someone who you can never speak to again; a connection with a stranger I’ll never meet, on a night I’ll always remember.

‘Thank you for everything,’ he whispers, his voice catching again. It makes me want to hug him even more than I wanted to hug him anyway which was already immeasurable on the wanting-to-hug-someone scale. ‘Goodnight, lovely.’

The phone clicks off and I sit back on my knees, staring at the handset in shock.

Lovely. That’s what Leo from It’s A Wonderful Latte up the road calls me. I mean, I’m sure it’s what he calls every customer but it still makes my heart beat faster every time he says it.

The thought that it could’ve been him flits across my mind but I dismiss it instantly. There must be millions of guys who use endearments like that…

It couldn’t be, could it?

No way.

No way could someone be suffering so much on the inside and hide it so well on the outside. Leo is the happiest person I know. He’s the one bright spot on a dull winter day. He’s the reason I buy a coffee every morning on the way to work. His smile makes every overpriced cup worthwhile. He’s the brightest, happiest, smiliest, most cheerful guy in town.

No way in a million years would he be considering taking his own life.

No way was the guy on the other end of that phone Leo.