I remember the day I uncovered my husbands second phone. I was dusting the study when my cloth brushed the edge of a stack of papers on the desk. The sheets fluttered to the floor and, cursing under my breath, I began to gather them up. Something glinted beneath the armchair a modest black device. I reached down and pulled out a smartphone in a scuffed case.
Its odd, I muttered, turning the phone over in my hands.
Jamess brandnew iPhone was always either tucked into the pocket of his blazer or perched on the nightstand. This one was clearly cheaper, simpler, and utterly unfamiliar. I pressed the power button the screen lit up, displaying the time and date, no password required. My heart clenched and a lump rose in my throat.
I sank slowly into the chair, eyes glued to the screen. Twentythree years of marriage had seen its share of arguments, hurts, and doubts. Yet the notion of a second phone never crossed my mind; I trusted James, was proud of our life together. Now the little black box seemed to hold a secret that might shatter everything.
Twentythree years, two daughters could it all have been for naught? I thought, my fingers scrolling through the menu. No photographs, just a handful of contacts numbers listed only by digits and initials. Then a conversation caught my eye, a thread with A.S.
7p.m. today, as usual? James had written three days ago.
Yes, Ill be waiting, came the brief reply.
Two days later:
Thanks for yesterday. As always, topnotch. a message from James.
Glad you liked it. Can you make it tomorrow? my reply.
Ill try, but I cant promise, James typed, followed by Evelyn suspects something.
My eyes went dark. Suspects? I had never even entertained such thoughts. A hot mix of betrayal, anger, and disappointment burned in my chest. Twentythree years of trust, reduced to this?
The front door slammed open. James had come home from work earlier than usual. In a panic, I slipped the phone into the pocket of my housecoat and, clutching the dustcloth, pretended to continue cleaning.
Evelyn, where are you? James called from the hallway.
In the study, tidying up, I replied, trying to sound normal.
James entered tall, fit, in a crisp suit. At fifty he still looked younger than his peers and often drew admiring glances from women. I had once taken pride in that, but now a chill of fear ran through me.
How was your day? I asked, polishing the bookcase.
Fine, he loosened his tie and stretched. Just a long one a picky client ate up three hours.
What client? A.S.? I wanted to ask, but held my tongue.
Why are you up so early? he asked, turning to me, as if trying to read my face for signs of deceit.
Missed you, he said, wrapping his arms around me from behind, his nose pressed to my neck. A familiar aftershave scent mingled with a faint whiff of tobacco, even though hed quit five years ago. The smell prickled unpleasantly.
Im heading to the shower, James kissed my cheek and left.
Alone, I sank onto the sofa. What now? Throw a tantrum? Follow him? Or confront him directly? The phone in my coat pocket pressed heavy against me. I pulled it out and reopened the messages. Nothing explicit no love notes, no intimate photos yet the very existence of the second phone spoke volumes.
The evening passed in a strained tension. We dined together, watched a series, talked about the girls. The elder, Emily, lived in Manchester with her husband and a twoyearold son. The younger, Lucy, was finishing university. James behaved as usual chatting about work, joking, asking after my day. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, had I not known about the hidden phone.
At ten oclock he slipped into the bathroom, and I seized the moment. I took his fine blazer from the wardrobe and checked every pocket empty. Then I opened his briefcase also empty. I was about to give up when I felt a small card in the side pocket of the blazer: a business card for Angela Sinclair with a phone number. The A.S. from the messages?
The water stopped running. I hurriedly put everything back, slipped under the covers, and pretended to sleep, my heart pounding as if James might hear it.
The next morning I awoke before him, watching his sleeping face. It was familiar, beloved and suddenly foreign. How could he have done this? What had he been missing all these years?
At breakfast I could no longer hold back.
James, are you happy with me? I asked, stirring sugar into my tea.
His eyebrows lifted in surprise.
Whats with the question this early?
Just answer, I pressed.
Of course I am, he said, covering my hand with his. Twentythree years together, after all.
His touch, once warm, now felt like a brand.
Dont you ever want something someone else?
James frowned.
Whats going on, Evelyn? Youve been odd since last night.
I need an answer.
I dont want anyone else. Youre my wife, the mother of my children, my rock. Dont let silly thoughts take hold.
His words seemed sincere, yet I no longer knew what to trust. The second phone still burned a hole in my coat pocket. Angela Sinclairs card lay before my eyes.
Go on, youll be late, I managed a crooked smile.
When James left, I retrieved the foreign phone again, opened the messages once more, and typed the name from the card into a search engine. Angela Sinclair turned out to be a private guitar instructor. Her socialmedia profile showed a charming woman in her forties, bright ginger hair, slender build.
So thats who she is, I muttered, bitterness rising.
At lunch I called my old friend Nina.
Can you believe it? I found a second phone on James, I said, voice trembling as soon as she answered.
What? Seriously? What did you see? Nina gasped.
I relayed the messages, the card, the ginger instructor.
Evelyn Im sorry. What will you do?
I dont know. Twentythree years I thought we were fine.
Maybe it isnt that blackandwhite, Nina suggested cautiously. Talk to him.
What do I say? Ive been spying on you and found a secret phone?
Its better than living with doubt.
After our talk I felt even more tangled. Part of me wanted to explode, the other feared destroying the life wed built. Could there be a simple explanation? What could justify a secret phone?
That evening James returned with a bouquet of my favourite lilies.
Whats this for? I asked, feeling the flowers compress my chest, as if they were tokens of guilt.
Just wanted to cheer you up, he smiled, kissing my cheek. Youve seemed down lately.
Really? I forced a smile, unconvincing.
During dinner the hidden phone seemed to pulse in my coat pocket, a constant reminder. Finally I could hold back no more.
James, what would you say if I got a second phone and hid it from you?
He choked on his wine.
In what sense?
Literal. A secret phone for secret talks.
He frowned.
Id ask why you needed it and who you were speaking to.
I swallowed.
And if I said it wasnt your business?
Then Id suspect somethings up, he replied, setting down his fork. Why these questions, Evelyn?
I rose silently, went to the bedroom, returned with the black phone.
I found this in your study, under your chair, I placed it on the table. Read the messages from a certain A.S., and I found Angela Sinclairs card in your blazer.
Jamess face paled. He stared at the device, then at me, surprise flickering in his eyes.
So thats where it was! he exclaimed, smacking his forehead. Id been looking everywhere!
Is that all you have to say? My voice quivered. Twentythree years, James! How could you?
What? he asked, bewildered. You think
I know! I snapped, thrusting the card at him. Evening meetings, secret texts, Evelyn suspects something! This ginger guitar teacher how long has this been going on?
James burst into a laugh, raw and genuine, tears spilling down his cheeks. I stood frozen, not the reaction Id expected.
Sorry, he sobbed, wiping his eyes. Darling, its not what you think.
What then? I crossed my arms.
Sit down, Ill explain, he said, pulling a chair forward. Just promise not to interrupt.
Reluctantly I sat.
Remember last year when I turned fifty? James began. You kept asking what I wanted for my birthday, and I kept putting it off
I nodded.
Ive always had a foolish, boyish dream to learn the guitar.
The guitar? I asked, doubtful.
Yes. Since I was a lad, but never got the chance. So I finally signed up with a private tutor. Thats Angela Sinclair. Shes not a masseuse; she teaches guitar and massages as a hobby.
But why the secret phone? I persisted.
Because I wanted to keep the lessons a surprise for our anniversary next month. I bought a cheap phone so you wouldnt spot the messages or the schedule. I wanted to learn your favourite song and play it for you.
And the text Evelyn suspects something?
That was because you started asking why I was staying out late. I feared youd discover the surprise early. Everything as always on top was about the lessons Angela says Im a good beginner.
His story sounded absurd, yet his eyes held a pleading sincerity.
Prove it, I demanded.
He sighed, left the study, and returned with a guitar case.
Its been stored with the winter clothes, he explained, pulling out an acoustic guitar. He sat, struggled through a few chords, then sang, in a hoarse but earnest voice, my favourite ballad, All That Concerns You. He was far from perfect, stumbling over strings, but the effort was clear.
I covered my face with my hands, tears streaming down my cheeks now from a mix of shame and relief.
Im sorry, I whispered as the song ended. I let my imagination run wild.
James set the guitar aside and knelt before me.
Its you who should apologise. I never meant to hurt you. I thought it would be a funny, romantic surprise, but it turned out this.
Why didnt you tell me you wanted to learn?
It was embarrassing, at my age, to chase such a childish dream, he shrugged. I thought youd laugh.
Fool, I said, stroking his cheek. I would never have
He smiled, kissing my hand. Now I know whether to keep lessons or hang up my shamefilled head.
Keep at it, I replied, smiling through the tears. Just no more secret phones.
We stayed up late in the kitchen, him showing his modest progress, me laughing and apologising for my suspicion.
You know, I said as we finally lay in bed, its amazing that after so many years you can still surprise me.
I hope it never ends, he murmured, pulling me close.
The next morning I called Nina again.
You wont believe it everything turned out different, I said, relief in my voice.
No way! Theres a normal explanation?
You bet. Hes learning guitar.
Natalie! Thats adorable! Nina laughed. You two need to plan more surprises.
That evening James came home to find a modest candlelit dinner on the table and a small box beside his plate.
Whats this? he asked, puzzled.
Open it, I said, a mysterious smile on my lips.
Inside lay a silver pick with the engraving For my personal musician and two notes. One was a voucher for piano lessons for me; the other a reservation for a weekend stay at a country inn.
Lets dream together, I whispered.
He embraced me quietly, and we stood there, rediscovering each other after years of routine. Ahead lay many more years, and now I knew there was still room for new discoveries and surprises.
