23May2025
Ive been cleaning the study today, polishing the mahogany desk while trying not to disturb the piles of paperwork. My cloth brushed the edge of a stack and a handful of sheets fluttered to the floor. Cursing under my breath, I knelt to gather them, and something metallic caught the light beneath the leather chair a small black device, halfhidden in the carpet.
I fished it out. It was a cheap-looking smartphone in a scuffed case, nothing like the iPhone I keep in my jacket pocket or on the nightstand. I pressed the power button; the screen lit up showing the time and date, no password required. My heart went cold, a lump forming in my throat.
For twentythree years Emma and I have weathered arguments, hurts, and occasional mistrust, but never this. Ive never fancied myself a jealous husband; Ive trusted her, been proud of our marriage, and now I was staring at a secret phone that might hold something that could tear everything apart.
Twentythree years together, two daughters could it all be for nothing? I thought, my fingers scrolling through the menu out of habit. No photos, just a few unnamed contacts listed only by numbers and initials. Then a conversation with A.S. appeared.
7pm tonight, as usual? James wrote three days ago.
Yes, Ill be waiting, Emmas reply read.
Two days later:
Thanks for yesterday. As always, brilliant work. a message from me.
Glad you liked it. Can you do tomorrow? Emma answered.
Ill try, but I cant promise, I wrote.
Emma, something feels off, I added.
A wave of anger, hurt, and disappointment washed over me. Twentythree years of trust reduced to a single black box?
The front door slammed open. Id returned home early from the office. Emma, panic flashing in her eyes, slipped the phone into the pocket of her housecoat and pretended to continue tidying.
Emma, where are you? I called from the hallway.
In the study, sorting things out, she replied, trying to sound normal.
I entered, tall and still fit at fifty, my suit crisp, my hair still holding a few years of youth. The confidence I once wore like a badge now felt like a cold shiver.
How was your day? I asked, dusting the bookshelves.
Fine, I said, loosening my tie. Just a tough client took three hours of my time.
I wanted to ask, Which client? A.S.? but held my tongue.
Youre home early, I noted, trying to read any sign of deceit in her face.
Missed you, she said, wrapping her arms around me from behind. The familiar scent of aftershave mingled with a faint whiff of old cigarettesthough Id quit five years agohit me like a punch.
Im heading for a shower, I said, kissing her cheek before leaving.
Left alone, I sank onto the sofa. What now? Throw a fit? Follow her? Or confront her directly? The phone in my coat pocket pressed heavily against my thigh. I pulled it out again, scanning the messages. Nothing explicitno love notes, no scandalous photos. Yet the very existence of a second phone said enough.
The evening dragged in tense anticipation. We ate, watched a series, talked about our daughters. Claire lives in Manchester with her husband and a twoyearold son; Sophie is finishing university. I behaved as usual, chatting about work, joking, asking about the kids. Nothing out of the ordinary, if you ignored that hidden phone.
At ten oclock I slipped into the bathroom for a shower. While the water ran, I rummaged through my tuxedo jacket, checking the pocketsnothing. Then I opened my briefcasealso empty. I was about to give up when I spotted a slim card in the jackets side pocket: a business card for Anna Sinclair with a phone number. Anna Sinclair the A.S. from the messages?
The water stopped. I hurriedly put everything back, slipped back into bed, and pretended to be asleep, my heart thudding so loudly I imagined you could hear it.
The next morning I rose before James and stared at his sleeping face. He was the man Id loved for decades, yet suddenly felt like a stranger. How could he do this? What had he been missing all these years?
At breakfast I could hold back no longer.
James, are you happy with me? I asked, stirring sugar into my tea.
He raised an eyebrow, surprised. Why such a question this early?
Just answer, I pressed.
Of course I am, he said, covering my hand with his. Twentythree years together, after all.
His hand, once warm, now felt like a brand.
Dont you ever want somethingsomeone else? I asked.
He frowned. Emma, whats happening? Youve been odd since yesterday.
I just want an answer.
I dont need anyone else. Youre my wife, the mother of my children, my rock. Those thoughts are nonsense.
His words sounded sincere, yet I no longer knew what to trust. The secret phone burned a hole in my coat pocket, and Anna Sinclairs card stared at me.
Go on, youll be late, I muttered, forcing a smile that fell flat.
When James left, I took the 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 teacher. Her socialmedia profile showed a friendly woman in her forties, bright red hair, slender build.
So thats who she is, I muttered, bitterness rising.
Later that day I called my longtime friend Nancy.
Guess what? I found Jamess second phone, I said, voice shaking.
What? Seriously? Nancy gasped. Whats on it?
I told her about the messages, the card, the redhaired guitarist.
Oh, Emma Nancy sighed. Im sorry. What are you going to do?
I dont know. Twentythree years I thought we were fine.
Maybe it isnt as clearcut as you think, she suggested cautiously. Talk to him.
What should I say? Ive been spying and found a secret phone?
Better than suffering in doubt, Nancy replied.
The conversation left me more tangled. Part of me wanted to explode, the other feared destroying what wed built. Could there be a reasonable explanation for a second, secret phone?
That evening James came home with a bouquet of my favourite lilies.
Whats this for? I asked, feeling the flowers as a possible token of guilt.
Just wanted to cheer you up, he smiled, kissing my cheek. Youve seemed down lately.
Really? I forced a smile.
At dinner we chatted about trivial things while the hidden phone in my coat pocket seemed to pulse a reminder.
Finally I could hold it in no longer.
James, what would you say if I got a second phone and hid it from you? I asked.
He swallowed his wine. What do you mean?
Like a secret phone for secret conversations.
He frowned. Id ask why you needed it and who you were talking to.
I swallowed. And if I said it wasnt your business?
Youd look suspicious, he said, setting down his fork. Why the questions, Emma?
I stood, walked to the bedroom, returned with the black phone, and placed it on the table.
I found this in your study, under the chair, I said. Read the messages from someone called A.S., and I also found Anna Sinclairs card in your jacket.
His face went blank, then a flicker of surprise crossed his eyes.
So thats where it is! he exclaimed, hitting his forehead. I was searching for it!
What else can you say? I asked, voice trembling. Twentythree years, James! How could you?
He stared at the phone, then at me, bewildered. What? You think?
I dont think, I know! I snapped, throwing the card at him. Evening meetings, secret messages, Emma feels something is off! That redhaired guitarist how long has this been going on?
James burst out laughing, a ridiculous, genuine laugh that made my stomach drop.
Sorry, he said, wiping tears from his eyes. Emma, love, it isnt what you think.
What then? I crossed my arms.
Sit down, Ill explain, he said, pulling out a chair. Just promise not to interrupt.
I hesitated, then sat.
Remember last year when I turned fifty? he began. You kept asking what I wanted for my birthday, and I kept shrugging it off.
I nodded.
Ive always dreamed of learning the guitar. A foolish, boyish wish, I know. After all these years I finally signed up for lessons with a private teacherAnna Sinclair. She isnt a masseuse; she teaches guitar, and massage is just a hobby of hers.
Why the secret phone? I asked, still skeptical.
Because I wanted to surprise you for our upcoming anniversary. I took lessons twice a week and bought a cheap phone so you wouldnt stumble on the messages or the schedule. I wanted to learn your favourite song and play it for you on the day.
You wrote Emma feels something is off?
That was me, worried youd notice I was staying late and that the secret would be uncovered too soon. Everything as usual was me talking about the lessons. Anna said I was doing well for a beginner.
His words sounded absurd, yet there was a sincerity in his eyes.
Prove it, I said.
He disappeared into the study, returned with a guitar case tucked away behind the winter coats. He pulled out an acoustic guitar, sat on the chair, and clumsily strummed a few chords, then sang, in his slightly rough voice, the song I love, Everything That Touches You. He missed notes, stumbled over changes, but the effort was clear.
Tears streamed down my cheekspart shame, part relief.
Forgive me, I whispered as the last chord faded. I let my imagination run wild.
James set the guitar aside, knelt, and took my hand. No, I should apologise. I never meant to hurt you. I thought it would be a funny, romantic surprise, but it turned into a mess.
Why didnt you tell me you wanted to learn the guitar? I asked.
It felt childish at my age, he admitted, shrugging. I was afraid youd think I was being foolish.
Youre never too old for a new hobby, I said, smiling through my tears. Just no more secret phones, please.
We spent the rest of the night on the kitchen floor, him showing his tentative progress, me laughing at his misstrummed chords. Later, lying in bed, I said, Its amazing you can still surprise me after so many years.
He pulled me close. I hope I can keep doing that.
The next morning I called Nancy. Everything turned out different than I feared, I told her, relief in my voice.
Doesnt that teach you something? she laughed. You never really know each others hidden wishes until you ask.
I agreed. That night James returned to find a candlelit dinner and a small gift on the table: a wooden guitar pick engraved with For my personal musician and two notesone for a piano lesson Id always wanted, another booking for a weekend stay at a countryside B&B.
Lets dream together, I said simply.
He embraced me, and for a moment we rediscovered each other as if for the first time. Years lie ahead, and I now understand that even after decades, theres always room for new dreams and surprises.
**Lesson:** Trust is built not only on honesty, but on sharing the hopes we keep hidden; a secret may frighten, but an open conversation can turn suspicion into a chance for both of us to grow.
