Victor discovered the second phone.
«You’re late again, Eleanor! The third time this week!» Victor flung his newspaper onto the coffee table in irritation. «I’ve been waiting for dinner for two hours.»
«There were queues at the shops,» Eleanor replied hurriedly, unpacking groceries onto the kitchen table. «Besides, you could have cooked something yourself. It wouldnt kill you.»
«It’s not about dinner,» Victor stepped closer, studying his wifes face. «Its about you always being somewhere else. Work running late, queues at the shops, urgent meetings with friends. And now your phones switched off! I called you several times.»
Eleanor sighed, her shoulders slumping wearily.
«The battery must have died. You know how old my phone isit barely holds a charge anymore.»
Victor watched as she methodically arranged the shopping in the fridge. Fifteen years of marriage had taught him to notice the little thingsthe slight tension in her movements, the way she avoided his gaze, the carefully chosen words. Something wasnt right, and that something had gnawed at him for months.
«Would you like cutlets or fish?» Eleanor asked, as if nothing had happened.
«Doesnt matter,» Victor muttered, retreating to the sitting room.
He switched on the television, but his mind wandered far from the news. Once, Eleanor had hurried home to meet him after work. Theyd chat over dinner, sharing news and making plans for the weekend. Now now there was an invisible wall between them. Unseen, but no less real.
Half an hour later, she called him to eat. They dined in silence, exchanging only obligatory remarks about the weather and rising prices.
«Mum rang earlier,» Eleanor finally broke the quiet. «She asked if wed visit the cottage this weekend.»
«What did you say?»
«That we probably would. Unless you object?»
Victor shrugged. «Why not? Its been ages since we got out of the city.»
After dinner, Eleanor disappeared into the bathroom while Victor cleared the table. Her handbag sat on the kitchen chairbulky, with too many pockets and compartments. He hadnt meant to rifle through her things, but as he reached for her purse to move it to the hallway shelf (an old habit of theirs), something hard clattered onto the counter.
A phone. But not the worn-out smartphone shed used for yearsa sleek, black, brand-new one.
Victor froze, holding the device. A second phone. His wife had a second phone shed never mentioned.
Numbly, he sat at the table, turning it over in his hands. Fragments of memories flashed through his mindEleanor stepping aside to take calls, her odd insistence on carrying her bag everywhere, even to the balcony, the unexplained absences.
The screen was dark, locked with a passcode. He didnt know it, didnt try guessing. Instead, he slipped the phone back into her bag, exactly where hed found it.
When Eleanor returned, Victor sat motionless before the television, his expression distant.
«Are you all right?» she asked, eyeing him curiously.
«Just tired,» he replied without meeting her gaze.
That night, sleep eluded him. Eleanor breathed softly beside him while dark thoughts twisted in his mind. Why did she need a second phone? Only one answer came to mind, and it tore at his heart. Infidelity. Secret calls, messages, meetings Could fifteen years of marriage really end like this?
The next morning, as he prepared for work, he studied Eleanor, searching for any sign of guilt. She seemed the same as everbrewing tea, making sandwiches, packing her bag
«Will you be late again today?» he asked, forcing his voice to stay light.
«Probably not,» she answered. «But if I am, Ill call.»
On which phone? Victor bit back the question.
At work, he couldnt focus. Images of Eleanor whispering into that hidden phone haunted him. With whom? About what? A colleague joked that he looked like a man whod just discovered his wifes affair. Victor forced a smile, unaware of how close to the truth the jest was.
By lunch, he cracked. He rang his old friend Paul, who worked for a private investigation firm.
«Listen, Ive got a strange 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. «And you think shes cheating?»
«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 sipped his coffee. «Get the facts first. I could help, but you dont really want to hire a detective to tail your own wife, do you?»
Victor shook his head firmly. «No, thats too far. Ill handle it myself.»
«Then just ask her straight out,» his friend suggested. «Sometimes honestys the best policy.»
But Victor wasnt ready for that. What if his suspicions were true? What if Eleanor confessed? Could he forgive? Start over at forty-three?
Returning home early, he found Eleanor still out. He opened her wardrobe, methodically checking pockets, bags, boxes Nothing unusualexcept the missing second phone, which she must have taken with her.
Victor sat in the armchair and waited. At seven, the key turned in the lock.
«Youre home already?» Eleanor frowned when she saw him. «Is something wrong?»
«We need to talk,» Victor said gravely.
She tensed, as if sensing trouble. «About what?»
«About your second phone,» he blurted, unable to hold back any longer. «I found it yesterday when clearing the table. It fell out of your bag.»
Eleanors face changed. She paled, sinking numbly into the chair across from him.
«I see,» she murmured.
«Thats all you have to say?» Victor felt anger rising. «Fifteen years of marriage, and you Who is he? How long has this been going on?»
«What are you talking about?» Eleanor looked genuinely confused.
«Your lover, obviously!» Victor nearly shouted. «Why else would you need a secret phone? Planning a coup with the Prime Minister?»
To his surprise, Eleanor didnt deny it, defend herself, or shout back. She just sat there, staring at her hands. Then, slowly, she drew the black phone from her bag and placed it on the table.
«See for yourself,» she said quietly. «The passcode is our wedding date.»
Suspicious, Victor took the phone, entered the numbers, and the screen unlocked. He expected messages from a secret admirer, incriminating photosproof of betrayal. Instead, he found a drawing app, nature photos, and a single contact: «Willow Press.»
«What is this?» he asked, bewildered.
Eleanor took a deep breath. «Its my work phone. Well, for my hobbythe one thats started making money.»
«What hobby?»
«I write books, Vic,» Eleanor met his gaze sadly. «Childrens stories. For three years now. At first just for fun, then I sent them to publishers. Six months ago, one showed interest.»
Victor stared at her, struggling to process it. «Youre a writer? And you hid it from me?»
«I was afraid youd laugh,» she admitted softly. «Remember how you reacted to my poems at university? Pretentious drivel, I think you called them. And later, when they started publishing me I didnt want to jinx it. I thought Id tell you once the first book was out.»
Victor remembered that long-ago moment, shame creeping up his neck. He had mocked her in front of friends, never considering her feelings.
«So thats where youve been disappearing to?» he asked, still disbelieving. «Writing stories?»
«Sometimes the library, sometimes cafésanywhere quiet enough to work,» Eleanor nodded. «The separate phone is for the publisher and for notes. I didnt want work calls interrupting. Plus, the drawing appsI sketch illustrations too.»
Victor scrolled through the phone, finding more proofdrafts, character sketches, emails with an editor.
«Why didnt you tell me?» he asked, suspicion giving way to hurt.
«First I feared ridicule, then failure. When it started working I wanted it to be a surprise,» Eleanor gave a sad smile. «The book comes out in two months. I planned to give you the first copy on our anniversary.»
Victor fell silent, absorbing it all. His jealousy, his suspicionsall for nothing. His wife hadnt betrayed him. Shed been writing childrens tales.
«Can I read one?» he finally asked.
Eleanor raised her eyebrows. «You really want to?»
«Of course,» Victor moved closer. «I should know what talent my wifes been hiding.»
Hesitating, she opened a file and handed him the phone.
«Its about a little hedgehog afraid of the dark,» she explained shyly.
Victor began reading, and with each line, a smile grew. The story was tender, simple yet profoundexactly what a childrens tale should be.
«This is wonderful,» he said sincerely, finishing. «Youve got real talent, Ellie.»
«Really?» she searched his face for mockery. «Youre not just saying that?»
«I swear,» Victor took her hand. «Im proud of you. And ashamed of what I thought.»
«That I was cheating?» Eleanor gave a wry laugh. «And here I thought your jealousy had finally died. Fifteen years, not a hint, and now this.»
«Forgive me,» Victor brought her hand to his lips. «Ive been an idiot.»
«We both have,» she sighed. «I couldve told you instead of all this secrecy.»
They talked late into the night. Eleanor showed him more stories, sketches, shared her dreams. Victor listened, amazed at how much he hadnt known about his own wifethe talents and ambitions hidden behind her role as a part-time bookkeeper and homemaker.
«You know,» he said at last, «Im almost glad I found that phone. Now I get to rediscover you, and its wonderful.»
«And Im glad you know,» Eleanor smiled. «No more hiding in cafés to write. I can work at home now.»
«On one condition,» Victor pulled her close. «I want to read your stories first. Before any editors or publishers.»
«Deal,» she laughed. «Youll be my personal critic. Just no pretentious drivel, all right?»
«Promise,» Victor said solemnly. «Only honest, constructive criticism.»
That night, he lay awake, thinking how close hed come to ruining their marriage over baseless fears. How quick hed been to accuse instead of ask. Beside him, Eleanor breathed softlyhis wife, far more remarkable than hed ever realized. He vowed to pay closer attention to her dreams from now on.
Two months later, on their anniversary, Eleanor gave him the first copy of her booka colourful collection of stories with charming illustrations. Inside the cover, shed written: «For Victormy harshest critic and dearest husband. Thank you for believing in me.»
And it was the best story hed ever read.
