Emma was dusting the study when her cloth brushed a stack of papers on the edge of the desk. The sheets fluttered to the floor and she, muttering curses, began to gather them. Something glinted beneath the armchair a small black object. She reached in and pulled out a smartphone in a scuffed case.
Strange, she whispered, turning the device over in her hands.
Jamess brandnew iPhone was always either in the pocket of his tweed jacket or on the nightstand. This one was plainly cheaper, simpler, and entirely unfamiliar. She pressed the power button the screen lit up, showing the time and date, no lock screen. Emmas heart tightened, a lump sliding down her throat.
She sank slowly into the chair, eyes never leaving the screen. Twentythree years of marriage had taught them everything: quarrels, grudges, doubts. Yet a second phone? Emma had never thought of herself as a jealous wife. She trusted James, took pride in their life together. Now the black rectangle seemed to pulse with secrets that could shatter everything.
Twentythree years, two daughters all for nothing? the thought swirled as her fingers drifted through the menu. No photo albums. Just a handful of contacts nameless numbers reduced to digits and initials. And messages Emma froze when she saw a thread with the label A.S.
7p.m. today, as usual? James had written three days earlier.
Yes, Ill be waiting, shed replied briefly.
Two days later:
Thanks for yesterday. As always, you were brilliant. a message from James.
Glad you liked it. Can we meet tomorrow? Emmas reply.
Ill try, but I cant promise, James typed, Emma, somethings nagging me.
Emmas eyes darkened. She, nagging? She had never even considered that possibility. A scorching blend of hurt, anger, and disappointment spread through her chest. Twentythree years of trust, undone in an instant?
The front door slammed open. James had returned from work earlier than usual. In a panic, Emma slipped the phone into the pocket of her housecoat and, clutching the dustcloth, pretended to continue cleaning.
Emma, where are you? Jamess voice echoed from the hallway.
In the study, tidying up, she called back, trying to sound normal.
James entered tall, fit, in a crisp suit. At fifty he looked younger than his peers and still turned heads. Emma had once been proud of that; now a cold shiver ran through her.
How was your day? she asked, polishing the bookshelves.
Fine, he loosened his tie and stretched. Just tired. A client was particular, ate three hours of my time.
Which client? A.S.? Emma wanted to ask, but held back.
Whats with you, up so early? she turned, searching his face for any sign of deceit.
I missed you, he said, wrapping his arms around her from behind, his nose pressed to her neck. The familiar scent of his aftershave mixed with a faint trace of tobacco, even though hed quit five years ago. It pricked her nostrils.
Im off to the shower, James kissed her cheek and left.
Alone, Emma sank onto the sofa. What now? A scenesetting argument? Follow him? Ask directly? The coat pocket pressed hard against her thigh, the foreign phone heavy inside. She retrieved it and opened the messages again. Nothing explicit, no declarations of love, no intimate photos. Yet the mere existence of the second phone spoke volumes.
Evening stretched in tense silence. They dined together, watched a drama, talked about the girls. The older, Grace, lived in Leeds with her husband and twoyearold son. The younger, Poppy, was finishing university. James behaved as usual jokes about work, questions about Emmas day. Nothing out of the ordinary, if you ignored the secret handset.
At ten, he slipped into the bathroom, and Emma seized the moment. She pulled his classic tweed jacket from the wardrobe and rifled its pockets. Empty. She checked his briefcase also empty. Just as she was about to give up, a small card slipped from the jackets side pocket: a business card for Ada Sinclair, 07512345678. A.S. from the messages?
The waters hiss faded. Emma hurriedly returned everything to its place, slipped back into bed, and pretended to sleep. Her heart pounded so loudly she imagined James could hear it.
Morning found her awake before James, watching his sleeping face. Familiar, beloved, suddenly alien. How could he have done this? What had he lacked all these years?
At breakfast she could no longer hold back.
James, are you happy with me? she asked, stirring sugar into her tea.
His eyebrows lifted in surprise.
Whats with the question this early?
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.
Emma, whats happening? Youve been odd since yesterday.
I just need an answer.
I dont need anyone else. Youre my wife, the mother of my children, my rock. Thats all.
His words sounded sincere, but Emma no longer knew what to trust. The second phone still smoldered in the coat pocket, the card with Adas name a sharp image in her mind.
Dont be late, she muttered, forcing a smile that fell crookedly.
When James left, Emma took the foreign phone again, reopened the messages, typed Adas name into her laptop. Ada Sinclair turned out to be a private guitar teacher, not a masseuse as the photo suggested. Her socialmedia profile showed a friendly woman in her forties with bright auburn hair and a slender frame.
So thats who A.S. is, Emma thought, bitterness rising.
At lunch she called her longtime friend Clare.
Can you believe it? I found a second phone in Jamess study, Emmas voice trembled as soon as Clare answered.
What? Seriously? Clare gasped. Whats on it?
Emma recounted the messages, the card, the auburnhaired teacher.
Oh, Emma Clare sighed. Im sorry. What are you going to do?
I dont know, Emmas voice broke. Twentythree years I thought we were fine.
Maybe it isnt that simple, Clare suggested gently. Talk to him.
And what do I say? Ive been spying and found a secret phone?
Better than living in doubt, Clare replied.
The conversation left Emma more tangled. Part of her wanted to explode, the other feared destroying what they had built. Could there be a reasonable explanation? What could possibly justify a hidden phone?
That evening James returned with a bouquet of lilies Emmas favourite.
Whats this for? she asked, feeling the flowers compress like guilt.
Just because I wanted to make you smile, he said, kissing her cheek. Youve seemed a bit down lately.
Really? she forced a smile that didnt reach her eyes.
Dinner continued over small talk, while the phone in the coat pocket seemed to throb in the quiet. Finally Emma could bear it no longer.
James, what would you say if I got a second phone and hid it from you? she asked.
He choked on his wine.
What do you mean?
Literally. A secret phone for covert chats.
He frowned.
Id ask why you needed it and who you were talking to.
Emma swallowed.
And if I said it wasnt your business?
Then Id suspect somethings wrong, he said, setting down his fork. Why these questions, Emma?
She rose silently, walked to the bedroom, returned with the black phone.
I found this under your chair in the study, she placed it on the table. Read the messages from a certain A.S. and the card in your jacket.
Jamess face stretched, first looking at the device, then at Emma, his eyes wide with surprise?
So thats where it was! he exclaimed, tapping his forehead. Ive been looking everywhere!
Thats all you have to say? Emmas voice trembled. Twentythree years, James! How could you?
What? he asked, bewildered. Wait, you think
I dont think, I know! she thrust the card at him. Evening meetings, secret texts, Emma, somethings nagging me! That auburn teacher how long has this been going on?
James burst into a boisterous laugh, genuine and loud, tears streaming down his cheeks. Emma stood frozen, the reaction far from what shed imagined.
Sorry, he wiped his eyes. Emma, love, it isnt what you think.
What then? she crossed her arms.
Sit, Ill explain, he pulled a chair close. Just promise not to interrupt.
Emma hesitated, then sat.
Do you remember last year when I turned fifty? James began. You kept asking what I wanted as a present, and I kept saying nothing.
She nodded.
Ive had a silly, boyish dream for years. I always wanted to learn the guitar.
The guitar? Emma asked, doubtful.
Yes. Since I was a lad, but never found the time. I finally signed up for lessons with a private tutor. Thats Ada Sinclair. Shes a guitar teacher; massage is just a hobby of hers.
And the secret phone? Emma pressed.
I bought a cheap handset so you wouldnt see the lesson schedule or my messages. I wanted to surprise you for our upcoming anniversary. I was taking lessons twice a week, trying to learn your favourite song for the day. The as always at the top comment was about the lessons. I wrote Emma, somethings nagging me because I feared youd discover the surprise early.
Emma stared at James, unsure whether to believe him. The tale sounded absurd, yet there was a strange sincerity.
Prove it, she demanded.
James sighed, left the room, and returned with a guitar case hidden among winter coats. He pulled out an acoustic guitar, sat on the chair, and fumbled through a few chords. Then he sang, croaking but earnest, their old favourite Everything That Touches You. He missed notes, tangled chords, but the effort was unmistakable.
Emma covered her face with her hands, tears slipping down, a mix of shame and relief.
Forgive me, she whispered when he finished. I let my imagination run wild.
James set the guitar aside and knelt before her.
No, youre the one to apologise. I never meant to hurt you. I thought it would be a funny surprise, a bit of romance, but it turned into a mess.
Why didnt you tell me straight away? About wanting to learn the guitar?
Embarrassed, he shrugged. At my age, taking up something so youthful seemed foolish. I thought youd laugh.
Fool, Emma said, patting his cheek. Id never
Now I know, he kissed her hand. Continue lessons or be embarrassed for the rest of my greying head?
Keep at it, she smiled through tears. Just no more secret phones.
They lingered in the kitchen late into the night, James showing his modest progress, confessing how nervous hed been, fearing shed uncover his secret too soon. Emma laughed, cried, and kept apologising for her suspicions.
You know, she said as they finally lay in bed, its amazing you can still surprise me after all these years.
I hope it never stops, James whispered, pulling her close.
The next morning Emma called Clare.
Can you believe it? Everything turned out different from what I feared, she said, relief bright in her voice.
Really? Theres a sensible explanation? Clare chirped.
You bet. Hes learning guitar. Emma laughed. And I realised how little we talk about our dreamsreal, private wishes. Life, work, kids weve forgotten the little fantasies.
Sounds like you both need more surprises, Clare giggled.
That evening James came home to find a candlelit dinner set on the table and a small box beside his plate.
Whats this? he asked, surprised.
Open it, Emma said, a mysterious smile curving her lips.
Inside lay a silver pick with the engraving For my personal musician and two notes. One was a voucher for piano lessons for her, the other a reservation for a weekend countryhouse hotel.
Lets dream together, she said simply.
James embraced her without a word, and they stood there, feeling as if they were meeting each other anew after a long drift. Ahead lay many more years, and now Emma knew there was still room for new discoveries and surprises.
