**Husband Discovers the Second Phone**
«You’re late again, Eleanor! Third time this week!» Victor irritably tossed the newspaper onto the coffee table. «I’ve been waiting two hours for dinner.»
«There were queues at the shop,» Eleanor hurriedly unpacked groceries onto the kitchen counter. «Besides, you could’ve cooked something yourself. Your arms wouldnt have fallen off.»
«Its not about dinner,» Victor stepped closer, studying his wife. «Its the fact youre always vanishing. Work delays, shop queues, urgent meet-ups with friends. And now your phones switched off! I called you three times.»
Eleanor sighed, shoulders slumping.
«Battery died, probably. You know how old my phone isit barely lasts an afternoon.»
Victor watched as she methodically stocked the fridge. Fifteen years of marriage had sharpened his eye for detailsthe slight tension in her movements, the way she avoided his gaze, the overly careful wording. Something was off, and that *something* had been gnawing at him for months.
«Chicken or fish?» Eleanor asked, as if nothing was amiss.
«Whatever,» Victor grumbled, retreating to the living room.
He turned on the telly, but his mind was miles from the news. Once, Eleanor had rushed home to meet him after work. Theyd chat over dinner, share stories, plan weekends. Now? Now it felt like an invisible wall had sprung up between them.
Half an hour later, she called him to eat. They dined in silence, exchanging polite nothings about the weather and rising petrol prices.
«Mum rang earlier,» Eleanor finally said. «Asked if were coming to the cottage this weekend.»
«Whatd you say?»
«That we probably would. Unless you mind?»
Victor shrugged. «Why not? Been ages since we got out of London.»
After dinner, Eleanor disappeared into the bathroom while Victor cleared the table. Her handbag sat on a chairroomy, with far too many pockets. He hadnt meant to rummage, but when he pulled out her purse (an old habit, returning it to the hallway shelf), something hard clattered onto the counter.
A phone. But not her battered old onea sleek new model, black and gleaming.
Victor froze. A *second* phone. His wife had a secret phone.
Dazed, he sat at the table, turning it over in his hands. Fragments of memory surfacedEleanor stepping away to take calls, her odd habit of carrying her bag *everywhere*, even onto the balcony. The unexplained absences.
The screen was dark, locked. He didnt know the code, didnt try guessing. He just slid it back where hed found it.
When Eleanor returned, Victor was staring blankly at the telly.
«You alright?» she asked, eyeing him.
«Fine. Just knackered,» he said, avoiding her gaze.
That night, he lay awake while Eleanor slept soundly beside him. One grim thought looped in his mind: *Why a secret phone?* Only one answer made sense, and it shattered him. An affair. Calls, messages, meetingswas this how fifteen years together ended?
At breakfast, he studied her for clues. But she was the same as everbrewing tea, buttering toast, packing her bag
«Will you be late again today?» he asked casually.
«Doubt it. But Ill call if I am.»
*Which phone will you use?* he almost blurted.
Work was a blur. All he could picture was Eleanor whispering into that second phone. *Who to? About what?* A colleague joked he looked like a man whod just discovered his wife was cheating. Victor forced a laugh, unaware how close to the mark it was.
By lunch, he cracked. He rang his old mate Paul, who ran a private investigation firm.
«Listen, Ive got a weird situation,» Victor said 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 having an affair?»
«What else am I supposed to think?» Victor gave a bitter laugh. «Why hide a phone unless theres something 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 PI to tail your own wife, do you?»
Victor shook his head. «No, thats too far. Ill handle it.»
«Then just ask her straight,» Paul suggested. «Sometimes honestys the simplest solution.»
But Victor wasnt ready for that. What if his fears were true? What thenforgive, divorce, split assets, start over at forty-three?
He went home early. Eleanor wasnt back yet. He checked her wardrobe, pockets, drawersnothing suspicious except the missing second phone, which shed evidently taken with her.
He waited. At seven, the front door clicked open.
«Youre home already?» Eleanor frowned. «Everything alright?»
«We need to talk,» Victor said grimly.
Her posture tightened. «About what?»
«Your second phone. I found it yesterday when I was clearing up. It fell out of your bag.»
Eleanor paled. She sank into a chair opposite him.
«Oh,» she said softly.
«Thats *it*?» Victors anger surged. «Fifteen years married, and you Who is he? How longs this been going on?»
«What on earth are talking about?» She stared at him.
«Your *lover*, obviously!» Victor nearly shouted. «Why else have a secret phone? Planning a coup with MI5?»
To his shock, Eleanor didnt deny it. She just sat there, looking at her hands. Then, slowly, she pulled the black phone from her bag and slid it across the table.
«See for yourself,» she murmured. «Passwords our wedding date.»
Victor eyed it suspiciously, typed the numbers. The screen unlocked. He expected texts from a secret admirer, incriminating photos. Instead, he found a drawing app, some nature snaps, and a single contact: «Bloomsbury Press.»
«Whats this?» he asked, baffled.
Eleanor took a deep breath. «Its my work phone. Wellmy *writing* phone.»
«Writing?»
«Im an author, Vic. Childrens books. For three years now. At first just for fun, then I submitted to publishers. Six months ago, one got interested.»
Victor gaped. «Youre a *writer*? And you hid this from me?»
«I was scared youd laugh,» she admitted quietly. «Remember your reaction to my uni poetry? Clumsy doggerel, I think you called it. And later, when the publisher bit I didnt want to jinx it. I thought Id wait till the first book launched. Give you a surprise.»
Victor flushed, recalling his harsh critique all those years ago.
«So *thats* where youve been disappearing to?» he said weakly. «Writing stories?»
«Sometimes the library, sometimes cafésanywhere quiet,» she nodded. «The separate phones for editor calls and notes. I didnt want interruptions. Plus, the drawing appsI sketch illustrations too.»
Victor scrolled through drafts, character sketches, email threads with her editor.
«Why not tell me?» he asked, suspicion giving way to hurt.
«First I feared ridicule, then failure. When it took off I wanted it to be a gift.» Eleanor gave a sad smile. «The books out in two months. I was going to give you the first copy on our anniversary.»
Victor was silent, absorbing it all. His jealousy, his accusationsall for nothing. His wife wasnt unfaithful. She was an *author*.
«Can I read one?» he finally asked.
Eleanor blinked. «Really?»
«Of course,» he moved closer. «I ought to know what talent Ive been married to.»
Hesitantly, she opened a file and handed him the phone.
«Its about a little hedgehog afraid of the dark,» she said shyly.
Victor read. With each line, his smile grew. The story was tender, simple yet profoundeverything a childrens tale should be.
«This is brilliant,» he said honestly. «Youve got real talent, Ellie.»
«Really?» She searched his face. «Youre not just saying it?»
«I swear,» Victor took her hand. «Im proud of you. And Im so sorry I thought well, you know.»
«That I was cheating?» Eleanor gave a wry laugh. «And here I thought your jealous streak had vanished. Fifteen years, not a hintthen *this*.»
«Forgive me,» Victor kissed her hand. «Ive been an idiot.»
«We both have,» she sighed. «I shouldve told you, not staged all this phone secrecy.»
They talked for hours. Eleanor showed him her stories, her sketches, her dreams. And Victor listened, amazed at how much hed never known about his own wifethe quiet bookkeeper whod secretly been spinning magic.
«You know,» he said later in bed, «Im almost glad I found that phone. Now I get to rediscover you, and thats wonderful.»
«Me too,» Eleanor smiled. «No more sneaking off to cafés. I can write at home now.»
«On one condition,» Victor pulled her close. «I want to read your stories first. Before any editors.»
«Deal,» she laughed. «Youll be my personal critic. Just no clumsy doggerel, alright?»
«Promise,» he said solemnly. «Only fair, constructive feedback.»
As he lay awake that night, Victor marvelled at how close hed come to wrecking everything over baseless suspicion. Beside him, Eleanor breathed softlyhis wife, whod turned out to be far more extraordinary than hed ever realised. He vowed then to pay better attention, to cherish her dreams as much as his own.
Two months later, on their anniversary, Eleanor gifted him the first copy of her booka vibrant collection of tales, each with her own illustrations. Inside the cover, shed written:
*»For Victormy harshest critic and dearest love. Thank you for believing in me.»*
And it was the best story hed ever read.
