Emily Clarke was dusting the study when her rag brushed a stack of papers at the edge of the desk. The sheets fluttered to the floor and she cursed under her breath as she bent to gather them. Something glittered under the chair a small black object. She reached in and pulled out a smartphone in a scuffed case.
Strange, she muttered, turning the device over in her hands.
James Harpers brandnew iPhone was always either tucked into the pocket of his blazer or lying on the nightstand. This one looked cheaper, simpler, and unmistakably unfamiliar. She pressed the power button the screen lit up, showing the time and date, no lock code. Emilys heart tightened and a lump rose in her throat.
She sank slowly into the armchair, eyes glued to the screen. Twentythree years of marriage had seen fights, grudges, mistrust, but never a second phone. Emily had never considered herself a jealous wife; she trusted James, was proud of their life together. Now she was terrified of what that black box might reveal.
Twentythree years, two daughters all for nothing? the thought churned as her fingers thumbed through the menu. No photos, just a handful of contacts numbers listed only by digits and initials. Then a conversation with a contact labeled A.S. caught her breath.
Tonight at seven, as usual? James had written three days ago.
Sure, Ill be waiting, came the brief reply.
Two days later:
Thanks for yesterday. As always, you were brilliant. a message from James.
Glad you liked it. Can you make it tomorrow? Emilys reply.
Ill try, but no promises, James typed. Emily, something feels off.
Emilys vision went dark. She, suspecting? She had never even allowed herself that thought. A hot mix of hurt, anger, and disappointment surged through her. Twentythree years of trust, unraveling in a heartbeat.
The front door slammed. James had come home early from the office. In a panic, Emily slipped the phone into the pocket of her soft bathrobe and, clutching the rag, pretended to continue cleaning.
Emily, where are you? James called from the hallway.
Just in the study, tidying up, she replied, trying to sound normal.
James entered tall, fit, in a crisp charcoal suit. At fifty he still looked younger than his peers and turned heads wherever he went. Emily had once taken pride in that, now it sent a chill down her spine.
How was your day? she asked, wiping the bookshelf.
Fine, he said, loosening his tie and stretching. Just a tough client, three hours of headaches.
What client? A.S.? Emily wanted to ask, but held back.
Why are you up so early? he asked, turning toward her, trying to read any sign of deceit.
I missed you, he said, slipping his arms around her from behind, his nose brushing her neck. The scent of his aftershave mixed with a faint whiff of cigarettes a habit hed quit five years ago made her wince.
Im heading to the shower, James kissed her cheek and left.
Alone, Emily sank onto the sofa. What now? Throw a tantrum? Follow him? Or confront him outright? The phone in her robe pocket pressed heavily. She fished it out and reopened the messages. Nothing explicit, no love notes or intimate photos. Yet the very existence of the second phone spoke volumes.
The evening stretched in agonising tension. They ate dinner together, watched a series, talked about the girls. The elder, Eleanor, lived in Manchester with her husband and a twoyearold son. The younger, Poppy, was finishing university. James behaved as usual chatting about work, cracking jokes, asking about her day. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, if you ignored the secret handset.
At ten he slipped into the bathroom for a shower, and Emily seized the moment. She rummaged through his blazer, checking every pocket empty. She pored through his briefcase also empty. Just as she was about to give up, a tiny card slipped out of the jackets side pocket. A business card read Anna Sinclair 02079461234. Could that be the A.S. from the texts?
The water stopped. Emily hurriedly replaced everything, slipped back into bed, and pretended to be asleep. Her heart hammered as if James might hear it.
In the morning she rose before him, watching his sleeping face familiar, beloved, now suddenly foreign. How could he have done this? What had he been missing all these years?
At breakfast she could hold back no longer.
James, are you happy with me? she asked, stirring sugar into her tea.
He raised an eyebrow, surprised.
Whats with the question first thing?
Just answer, she pressed.
Of course I am, he said, laying his hand over hers. Twentythree years together, after all.
His touch, once warm, now felt like a brand.
Dont you ever want something else? Someone else?
James frowned.
Emily, whats happening? Youve been strange since last night.
Just answer.
I dont need anyone else. Youre my wife, the mother of my children, my rock. What nonsense is this?
His words sounded sincere, but Emily no longer knew what to trust. The second phone still smouldered in the robe pocket, and Anna Sinclairs card stared back at her.
Dont be late, she said, forcing a smile that fell flat.
When James left, she retrieved the foreign phone again, opened the messages, and typed the name from the card into a search engine. Anna Sinclair turned out to be a private guitar tutor. Her socialmedia profile showed a cheerful woman in her forties with bright red hair and a slender build.
So thats who A.S. is, Emily thought, bitterness rising.
At lunch she called her longtime friend Claire.
Claire, you wont believe it I found Jamess second phone, she whispered as soon as Claire answered.
What? Seriously? What did you see?
Emily recounted the texts, the card, the redhaired tutor.
Oh, Em Im sorry. What are you going to do?
I dont know. Twentythree years I thought we were fine.
Maybe it isnt as black as you think. Talk to him.
What do I say? Ive been spying and found a secret phone?
Better than living in doubt.
Claires advice left Emily more tangled. Part of her wanted a showdown, to let all the pain out. Part of her feared shattering the life theyd built. Could there be an innocent explanation for a hidden phone?
That evening James returned with a bouquet of lilies her favourite.
Whats that for? Emily asked, feeling the flowers compress like a guiltladen weight.
Just thought Id surprise you, he smiled, pressing a kiss to her cheek. Youve seemed down lately.
Really? she forced a smile that didnt reach her eyes.
Dinner went on, the phone in the robe pocket seemed to pulse with every bite. Finally Emily could hold back no more.
James, what would you say if I got a second phone and hid it from you?
James choked on his wine.
Meaning?
Literally a secret phone for secret chats.
He narrowed his eyes.
Id ask why you needed it and who you were talking to.
Emily swallowed.
And if I said it wasnt your business?
Id suspect somethings off, he said, laying down his fork. Why all the questions, Emily?
She rose, slipped into the bedroom, and returned with the black phone in hand.
I found this under your chair in the study, she said, placing it on the table. Read the messages from someone called A.S. and the card for Anna Sinclair in your jacket.
Jamess face went pale. He stared at the phone, then at her, surprise flickering in his eyes.
So thats where it was! he exclaimed, slapping his forehead. I searched everywhere!
Is that all you have to say? Emilys voice trembled. Twentythree years, James! How could you?
What? You think I?
I know! Look at the card, the evening meetings, the secret texts! That redhaired guitar teacher how long has this been going on?
James burst into a nervous laugh, the sound raw and tearstreaked. Emily froze, stunned by his reaction.
Sorry, he said, wiping his eyes. Emily, love, its not what you think.
What then? she asked, arms crossed.
Sit down, Ill explain, he urged, pulling a chair close. Just promise not to interrupt.
Reluctantly she sat.
Remember last year when I turned fifty? James began. You kept asking what I wanted for my birthday, and I kept saying I didnt need anything
Emily nodded.
Ive had a foolish, boyish dream for years I want to learn guitar, he confessed. Ive been taking lessons from Anna Sinclair, a private tutor. Shes a guitarist; massage is just a hobby of hers.
But why the secret phone? Emily asked, still doubtful.
I bought a cheap second handset so you wouldnt stumble on the lesson schedule or my messages, he said, sheepish. I wanted to surprise you on our next anniversary. I was meeting her twice a week, learning a song you love, and I feared youd discover it too early. The everythings topnotch line was about the lessons. The youre suspecting something text was me trying to deflect when you asked why I was coming home late.
Emily stared at him, unsure whether to believe the absurd tale. It sounded like a farfetched excuse.
Prove it, she demanded.
James exhaled, left the room, and returned with a guitar case hidden behind winter coats. He pulled out an acoustic guitar, settled on a stool, and hesitantly played a few chords. Then, in a raspy but earnest voice, he sang her favourite song, Everything That Touches You. The playing was rough, the chords wobbled, but the effort was clear.
Emily covered her face, tears streaming down her cheeks now a mix of shame and relief.
Im sorry, she whispered as the last note faded. I let my imagination run away with me.
James set the guitar down and knelt before her.
Its you who should apologise. I never meant to hurt you. I thought it would be a fun surprise, a bit of romance it turned into a mess.
Why didnt you tell me you wanted to learn to play? she asked.
Embarrassed, he shrugged. At my age, taking up a new hobby feels ridiculous. I thought youd laugh.
You fool, she said, gently stroking his cheek. Id never have thought
Now I know, he said, kissing her hand. Should I keep the lessons, or is my gray head too much of a joke?
Keep them, she replied, smiling through tears. Just no more secret phones.
They stayed at the kitchen table until the early hours, James showing off his shaky chords, confessing his nerves about being caught, Emily laughing and crying in equal measure, apologising for the accusations.
You know, she said as they finally lay in bed, its amazing you can still surprise me after all these years.
I hope I can keep doing that, he murmured, pulling her close.
The next morning Emily called Claire.
Claire, you wont believe it it wasnt what I thought at all, she said, relief in her voice.
No way! Theres a normal explanation?
You should have seen it hes learning guitar. At his age! Its adorable.
Exactly! Claire laughed. You two need to keep making each other happy with little surprises.
That evening James returned to find the dining table set with candles and a small wrapped box next to his plate.
Whats this? he asked, puzzled.
Open it, Emily said, a mischievous grin tugging at her lips.
Inside lay a guitar pick engraved For my personal musician and two notes: one for piano lessons shed signed herself up for, the other a reservation for a weekend cottage stay.
Lets dream together, she said simply.
James wrapped his arms around her, and they stood there, holding each other as if discovering one another anew after decades. Their future stretched ahead, full of new possibilities, and Emily knew there was still plenty of room for fresh discoveries and surprises.
