The air in the living room was thick with tension as James slammed the evening paper onto the coffee table. «You’re late again, Eleanor! Third time this week!» His voice was sharp, laced with irritation. «I’ve been waiting two hours for dinner.»
Eleanor hurriedly unloaded groceries onto the kitchen counter, her movements slightly flustered. «The shops were packed. Besides, you couldve started cooking yourselfit wouldnt kill you.»
«This isnt about dinner,» James said, stepping closer, his gaze intense. «Its about you disappearing constantly. Work delays, shopping queues, sudden outings with friends. And now your phones switched off? I called you three times.»
She sighed, shoulders slumping. «The battery died. You know how old my phone isit barely holds a charge.»
James watched as she methodically stored the shopping. Fifteen years of marriage had taught him to notice the smallest thingsthe tightness in her movements, the way her eyes avoided his, the careful words. Something was off, and it had gnawed at him for months.
«Chicken or fish?» Eleanor asked, as if nothing had happened.
«Whatever,» he muttered, retreating to the sofa.
The news played on the telly, but his mind wandered. Once, Eleanor had rushed home to greet him after work. Theyd chat over dinner, share their days, plan weekends. Now? Now there was an invisible wall between them. Silent but suffocating.
Dinner passed in near-silence, broken only by polite remarks about the weather and rising prices.
«Mum called today,» Eleanor finally said. «Asked if were visiting the countryside this weekend.»
«What did you say?»
«That we probably would. You dont mind?»
James shrugged. «Could do with some fresh air.»
After dinner, Eleanor slipped into the bathroom while he cleared the table. Her handbag sat on a chairbulky, with too many pockets. He hadnt meant to snoop, but as he reached for his wallet (their old habit of storing it in the hallway drawer), something hard clattered onto the counter.
A phone. Not her worn-out smartphone, but a sleek new one, black and gleaming.
James froze, staring at it. A second phone. His wife had a secret phone.
Numb, he sat at the table, turning the device over in his hands. Memories flashedEleanor stepping aside to take calls, her insistence on keeping her bag close, unexplained absences.
The screen was dark, locked. He didnt know the passcode, didnt try to guess. He slipped it back where hed found it.
When Eleanor returned, James sat motionless in front of the telly, his expression distant.
«Are you all right?» she asked.
«Just tired,» he lied, avoiding her eyes.
That night, sleep wouldnt come. Beside him, Eleanor breathed softly, while his mind spiralled. Why a second phone? Only one answer tore at himan affair. Secret calls, messages, meetings. Could fifteen years really end like this?
Morning brought no clarity. Eleanor moved through her routine as usualtea, sandwiches, packing her bag.
«Will you be late again today?» James asked, forcing casualness.
«Shouldnt be,» she said. «Ill call if I am.»
*Which phone will you use?* he almost asked but stayed silent.
At work, focus eluded him. Visions of Eleanor whispering into that hidden phone haunted him. A colleague joked he looked like a man whod caught his wife cheating. James forced a laugh, unaware how close to the truth it was.
By lunch, he cracked, calling his old mate Paul, who ran a private investigations firm.
«Listen, Ive got a strange situation,» James confessed over coffee. «I found a second phone in Eleanors bag. She never mentioned it.»
Paul nodded knowingly. «You think shes having an affair?»
«What else am I supposed to think?» James scoffed bitterly. «Why hide it if theres nothing to hide?»
«Dont jump to conclusions,» Paul said. «Get the facts first. I could help, but you dont want to hire a PI to spy on your own wife, do you?»
James shook his head. «No. Ill handle this myself.»
«Then just ask her,» Paul suggested. «Sometimes honestys the best way.»
But James wasnt ready. What if his fears were true? What thenforgiveness, divorce, starting over at forty-three?
Returning early, he found the flat empty. He checked wardrobes, drawers, bagsnothing suspicious except the missing phone.
Eleanor returned at seven. «Youre home early. Everything okay?»
«We need to talk,» James said, voice steady.
Her posture stiffened. «About what?»
«About your second phone. I found it yesterday.»
Her face paled. She sank into a chair. «I see.»
«Is that all youve got to say?» His anger surged. «Fifteen years, and you Who is he? How long has this been going on?»
«What?!» Her confusion seemed genuine.
«Your lover!» James nearly shouted. «Why else have a secret phone?»
To his shock, she didnt deny it. Instead, she pulled the black phone from her bag and placed it on the table.
«See for yourself,» she whispered. «The passcode is our wedding date.»
James entered the numbers, bracing for evidence of betrayaltexts, photos, proof. Instead, he found a notes app, nature photos, and a single contact: «Bloomsbury Press.»
«What is this?»
Eleanor took a shaky breath. «Its for my writing. A hobby thats turned into more.»
«Writing?»
«Im an author, James. Childrens books. Three years now. Started small, then I submitted to publishers. One got interested six months ago.»
He stared, struggling to process it. «Youre a writer? And you hid this?»
«I was scared youd laugh,» she admitted. «Remember how you mocked my uni poetry? Amateur drivel, I think you called it. Then when they accepted my work I didnt want to jinx it. Thought Id tell you when the first book printed.»
The memory flooded back, and shame burned his cheeks. He *had* ridiculed her in front of friends.
«So *this* is where youve been? Writing stories?»
«Sometimes the library, sometimes cafésanywhere quiet. The separate phone is for the publisher and drafting. I didnt want interruptions.»
James scrolleddrafts, sketches, editor emails. All real.
«Why didnt you tell me?» he asked, suspicion giving way to hurt.
«First, fear. Then doubt. Then I wanted to surprise you. The book releases in two months. I planned to give you the first copy on our anniversary.»
Silence stretched as James absorbed it. His jealousy, his rageall for nothing. She wasnt unfaithful. She was a writer.
«Can I read it?» he finally asked.
«You really want to?»
«Of course.» He moved closer. «I should know what my wifes capable of.»
She hesitated, then opened a file. «Its about a hedgehog afraid of the dark.»
James read, and with each line, his smile grew. The story was tender, clevereverything a childrens tale should be.
«This is brilliant,» he said sincerely. «Youre talented, Ellie.»
«Really?» Doubt flickered in her eyes.
«I mean it.» He took her hand. «Im proud of you. And Im sorry I thought well.»
«That I was cheating?» She gave a wry smile. «Fifteen years, and *now* you get jealous?»
«Forgive me.» He kissed her fingers. «I was an idiot.»
«We both were,» she sighed. «I shouldve just told you.»
They talked late into the night. She showed him stories, sketches, dreams. And James listened, stunned by how much he hadnt known about the woman beside him.
«You know,» he said at last, «Im glad I found that phone. Its like meeting you all over again.»
«Me too,» she smiled. «No more hiding in cafés. I can write at home now.»
«On one condition,» James said, pulling her close. «I read your stories first. Before editors, before anyone.»
«Deal,» she laughed. «My personal critic. Just no amateur drivel, okay?»
«Promise.»
That night, as Eleanor slept, James lay awake, humbled. Hed nearly destroyed everything over baseless fear. Beside him, his wifehis *author* wifebreathed softly, more extraordinary than hed ever realized.
Two months later, on their anniversary, Eleanor gifted him the first printed copy of her book, its pages filled with whimsical tales. Inside the cover, shed written:
*To Jamesmy harshest critic and dearest love. Thank you for believing in me.*
And it was the best story hed ever read.
