Jilting the Gas Man

Nina was off early this morning for her operation. I was fine about it until...


Mid afternoon, the phone rang. I usually let it go to the answer phone. It’s usually a sales call, most likely double glazing. Family and friends know to get me to answer, ring twice. Today was different though. I wanted to be there for my girl. It wasn’t her.

A young man who I expect grew up in Liverpool. He asked me if I was Mr Richards. I offered to take a message. ‘Mrs Richards?’, he sounded pleased, ‘It’s only – from British Gas’. I zoned out, concerned to get rid of him. I felt I’d gone too far to just put the phone down. He had my name, I needed to be polite, after all he hadn’t tried to sell me anything yet. Then I thought that he was being too nice, and I didn’t want to buy any gas.

‘I’m not even with British Gas’, I said. ‘Why are you even calling me’

‘You used to be with us, then you left us. We just want to see if we can have you back.’ He sounded upset with me, like a jilted lover who I’d been out with for a casual couple of weeks, and then stopped calling because it was going nowhere. He had thought we were serious, had imagined settling down, getting a cat, maybe babies some day. I felt a touch of pity. A glimmer of guilt. Then, almost at the same moment, a rush of anger. I thought a swear word. I think I only said, ‘That’s a shame for you, you must be gutted, never mind. Goodbye’.

With sales calls, you never get the same person twice. That’s the rule of call centres. It isn’t personal, they just want your bank details. Two minutes later, the phone went again. I picked up. ‘Mrs Richards, did I do something wrong?’. I put the phone down. Shaking. I thought about ice cream and vodka.

Nina still hasn’t called.