«You’re late again, Eleanor!» Victor tossed the newspaper onto the coffee table with a frustrated flick of his wrist. «Third time this week. I’ve been waiting two hours for dinner.»
«It was chaos at the supermarket,» Eleanor replied, hurriedly unpacking groceries onto the kitchen counter. «Besides, you couldve cooked something yourself. Your hands wouldnt fall off.»
«It’s not about dinner,» Victor stepped closer, his gaze sharp and unyielding. «It’s about you constantly disappearing. Work running late, queues at the shops, emergency meetups with friendsand now your phones off. I called you three times.»
Eleanor sighed, her shoulders sagging.
«Battery died, probably. You know how rubbish my old phone is.»
Victor watched as she methodically arranged the groceries in the fridge. Fifteen years of marriage had taught him to notice the small thingsthe tension in her movements, the way she avoided his eyes, the careful precision in her words. Something was off. And that *something* had been gnawing at him for months.
«Would you like fish or cottage pie?» Eleanor asked, as if nothing had happened.
«Whatever,» he grumbled, retreating to the living room.
He turned on the telly, but his mind was elsewhere. There was a time when Eleanor rushed home to greet him after work. They’d talk over dinner, share news, plan weekends. Now, an invisible wall had risen between themfragile but unbreakable.
Half an hour later, Eleanor called him to eat. They sat in silence, exchanging only the most perfunctory remarks about the weather and rising prices.
«Mum rang today,» Eleanor finally broke the quiet. «Asked if were coming to the cottage this weekend.»
«What did you say?»
«That we probably would. You dont mind, do you?»
Victor shrugged. «Why not? We havent been out in ages.»
After dinner, Eleanor retreated to the bathroom while Victor cleared the table. Her handbag sat on the kitchen chairbulky, with too many pockets. He hadnt planned on rifling through her things, but as he reached for her purse to move it to the hallway (their old routine), something hard clattered onto the counter.
A phone. But not her battered old smartphone. A sleek, black, brand-new one.
Victor froze, holding it in his palm. A second phone. His wife had a second phone shed never mentioned.
Numbly, he sat down, turning the device over in his hands. Fragments of memories flashedEleanor stepping away to take calls, her insistence on keeping her bag with her even on the balcony, the unexplained absences.
The screen was dark, locked behind a passcode. He didnt try to guess it. Instead, he slipped it back exactly where hed found it.
When Eleanor returned, Victor was staring blankly at the telly.
«Are you alright?» she asked, frowning.
«Just tired,» he muttered, avoiding her eyes.
That night, sleep wouldnt come. Beside him, Eleanor breathed steadily, while his mind spiralled. Why would she need a secret phone? Only one answer tore through him. *An affair.* Secret calls, messages, meetingswas this how fifteen years together ended?
The next morning, he watched her closely as she made tea, packed sandwiches, gathered her things.
«Will you be late again tonight?» he asked, forcing lightness into his voice.
«Doubt it,» she said. «But Ill call if I am.»
*Which phone will you use?* he almost asked. Instead, he left in silence.
At work, he couldnt focus. The image of Eleanor whispering into that sleek black phone haunted him. *Who? What about?* A colleague joked he looked like a man whod just found out his wife was cheating. Victors smile felt like cracked glass.
By lunch, he cracked. He rang his old mate Paul, who worked at a private investigation firm.
«Listen, Ive got a weird situation,» Victor began when they met at a café near his office. «I found a second phone in Eleanors bag. One shes never mentioned.»
Paul nodded knowingly. «You think shes having an affair?»
«What else am I supposed to think?» Victor gave a bitter laugh. «Why hide a phone if theres nothing to hide?»
«Dont jump to conclusions,» Paul said, sipping his coffee. «Get the facts first. I could help, but you really want to hire a PI to tail your own wife?»
Victor shook his head. «No, thats too far. Ill handle this myself.»
«Then just ask her outright,» Paul suggested. «Sometimes honestys the best way.»
But Victor wasnt ready for that conversation. What if she *was* cheating? What if she admitted it? Could he forgive? Could he walk away, split their lives apart at forty-three?
He came home early. Eleanor wasnt back yet. He opened her wardrobe, checking pockets, drawers, handbagsnothing suspicious except the missing second phone.
He sat and waited.
At seven, the key turned in the lock.
«Youre home early,» Eleanor said, surprised. «Everything alright?»
«We need to talk,» Victor said, voice steady.
Eleanor tensed. «About what?»
«About your second phone.» The words spilled out. «I saw it yesterday. It fell out of your bag.»
Her face paled. She sank into the chair opposite him.
«Oh,» was all she said.
«Thats it?» Victors anger flared. «Fifteen years, and you Who is he? How longs this been going on?»
«What are you *talking* about?»
«Your *lover*, obviously!» Victor nearly shouted. «Why else would you need a secret phone? Plotting world domination?»
To his shock, Eleanor didnt deny it. She just sat there, staring at her hands. Then, slowly, she pulled the black phone from her bag and placed it on the table.
«See for yourself,» she said quietly. «Passcodes our wedding date.»
Victor hesitated, then typed in the numbers. The screen unlocked. He expected texts from a secret admirer, photos, proof of betrayal.
Insteadwriting apps. Nature photos. A single contact: *Willow Lane Publishing.*
«What is this?» he asked, bewildered.
Eleanor took a deep breath. «Its for work. Wellmy side project. Its started making money.»
«What project?»
«I write books, Victor,» she said softly. «Childrens stories. For three years now. Just for fun at first, then I started submitting them. Six months ago, a publisher got interested.»
Victor stared. «Youre a writer? And you hid this from me?»
«I was scared youd laugh,» she admitted. «Remember what you said about my poetry at uni? Pretentious drivel, I think were your exact words. And then, when they started publishing me… I didnt want to jinx it. I thought Id tell you when the first book came out.»
Victor flushed, remembering that cruel remark from years ago.
«So *thats* where youve been? Writing stories?»
«Sometimes at the library, sometimes cafésanywhere quiet. The separate phone was for the publisher, for notes. I didnt want work calls interrupting. And the apps are for sketchingI illustrate them too.»
Victor scrolled through drafts, sketches, editor emailsall proof.
«Why wouldnt you tell me?» he asked, hurt cutting through suspicion.
«First I feared ridicule. Then failure. And when it *did* work out… I wanted to surprise you.» A sad smile. «The book comes out in two months. I was going to give you the first copy on our anniversary.»
Victor swallowed hard. All his jealousy, his rageit had been for nothing. His wife wasnt unfaithful. She was an author.
«Can I read one?» he finally asked.
Eleanor blinked. «Really?»
«Of course,» he said, shifting closer. «Id like to know what genius my wifes been hiding.»
She hesitated, then opened a file and handed him the phone.
«Its about a little hedgehog afraid of the dark,» she murmured.
Victor read. With every line, his smile grew. The story was tender, simple yet profoundeverything a childrens tale should be.
«This… is incredible,» he said honestly. «Youre *brilliant*, Eleanor.»
«Really?» she whispered. «Youre not just saying that?»
«I swear,» Victor took her hand. «Im proud of you. And Im so sorry I thought… well.»
«That I was cheating?» She gave a hollow laugh. «I wondered where this sudden jealousy came from. Fifteen years, never batted an eye, and now *this*.»
«Forgive me,» he brought her knuckles to his lips. «I was an idiot.»
«We both were,» she sighed. «I shouldve told you instead of sneaking around.»
They talked for hours that night. Eleanor showed him drafts, sketches, dreams. And Victor listened, stunned by how much he *hadnt* known about his wifethe woman behind the part-time accountant and homemaker.
«You know,» he said later, in bed, «Im almost glad I found that phone. Now I get to rediscover you.»
«Im glad too,» she smiled. «No more hiding in cafés. I can write at home now.»
«On one condition,» Victor pulled her close. «I want to read every story first. Before editors, publishersanyone.»
«Deal,» she laughed. «Youll be my personal critic. Just no pretentious drivel, alright?»
«Promise,» he said solemnly. «Only honest, constructive feedback.»
That night, he lay awake, thinking how close hed come to ruining everything with baseless suspicion. Beside him, Eleanor slept peacefullyhis wife, who was so much more than hed ever realised. He vowed then to pay attention, to care more, to *know* her.
Two months later, on their anniversary, Eleanor gave him the first copy of her booka beautiful collection of stories with her own illustrations. Inside the cover, shed written:
*To Victormy harshest critic and most loving husband. Thank you for believing in me.*
And it was the best story hed ever read.
