A moment later, Graham reaches for the ground-floor phone and, after dialling, quietly says, "It's me....Uh, listen...I can't do this. I know I acted like I could, but I-I can't." He carries the phone around the corner into the kitchen and continues, "Uh, you must think that I'm an idiot, and maybe I am, but, uh, it's not going to happen." At this point Angela trips down the stairs and then stops dead on the landing, listening as Graham huskily whispers, "...Because it can't." She tiptoes to the kitchen doorway and eavesdrops as he says, "Because...oh, there's so many reasons why. I mean...Look, I can't really talk, except -- no, this is not you. This is not your fault. It's me. I'm sorry. I just can't. I'm sorry." Now Angela is standing right in the doorway, staring at Graham, her mouth half-open. He hangs up and turns around, trying to play off the fact that there was anything untoward in what she just overheard by commenting, "You're going to have a hard time getting up in the morning." He briskly replaces the phone in the hallway and heads upstairs. As her heart sinks into her feet, Angela picks up her ID from the counter beside the fridge, leans against said fridge, and considers. I really like that dress she's wearing.