“I’m sorry. I should’ve told you months ago. Bye.”
That was the only part of the voice message that I was able to hear. The rest was obscured by a bad signal, loud traffic, and the sound of a very angry man shouting briskly in a foreign language. It was the final message Evvie left for me, the tinge of regret in her voice almost obscured by her excitement over whatever it was causing to her leave me this goodbye message with some sort of half apology that was months too late.
Evvie and I had been best friends for 15 years, she’d helped me through some very difficult times – my parents divorce when I was sixteen and an emotional mess; the time I broke both my legs skiing and was wheelchair bound for almost a year; my brother taking off for Spain last year and leaving me as guardian of his three year old daughter (the child’s mother had vanished soon after her birth and never made an effort to contact or see her).
Through thick and thin, Evvie and I were almost like sisters. The only thing we ever disagreed upon was that she never approved of my husband John, always told me that she didn’t trust him, that she believed he was the type to play around. She told me he’d tried to hit on her once, at a party – he told me he’d had a bit much to drink and was just being silly. And when he admitted to cheating on me with a colleague from work and I made him leave – she was there to help me pick up the pieces of my life.
In a million years I never ever expected her to be the one to stab me in the back. Especially not in the way that it happened.
Three months ago she went to London for business. It has since come to light that she ran into John and one thing lead to another and they slept together. Of course she never told me she’d even seen him, let alone what they’d done. A month after this she received a promotion at her work, one that involved a transfer to London.
Three weeks ago, registered mail arrived address to me – John was filing for divorce. I was devastated, we’d been talking and seeing a counsellor, and I thought we were giving our marriage another go. Of course I tried calling Evvie because I needed a shoulder to cry on, but every time her phone went straight to voicemail.
Last week I saw a Facebook posting on Evvie’s page. A picture of an ultrasound, and an announcement that not only was she pregnant, but the baby’s father had proposed to her. The next two photographs she added were one of her sparkling engagement ring, and another of her and my husband (her fiancé) in a loved-up selfie.
This week she tried calling me several times. I’ve listened to all of her voice messages but never replied. Apparently her and John are holidaying in Rome, a place he’d always promised to take me, but never got around to doing. Fancy calling me while you’re on my dream vacation shagging my husband. Such class.
And now I’ve just turned the TV onto the news. Apparently there was a horrible traffic accident in Rome. It made the news here because an English couple were involved. Apparently a drunk driver careened into their moped; instantly killing the woman and leaving the man grievously injured and on life support.
Oh god. It can’t be.
Author’s note: I know it’s a few days late, but this Daily Post writing challenge really sparked my imagination:
Someone’s left you a voicemail message, but all you can make out are the last words: “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you months ago. Bye.” Who is it from, and what is this about?
A Mercurial Fictionality 