The husband discovered the second phone.
“You’re late again, Eleanor! Third time this week!” Victor tossed the newspaper onto the coffee table with irritation. “I’ve been waiting for dinner for two hours.”
“There were queues at the shop,” Eleanor replied hurriedly, unloading groceries onto the kitchen table. “Besides, you could’ve made something yourself. It wouldnt kill you.”
“Its not about dinner,” Victor stepped closer, eyes fixed on his wife. “Its about you always disappearing. Work delays, shopping queues, urgent meetups with friends. And now your phones switched off. I called you several times.”
Eleanor sighed, shoulders dropping wearily.
“Mustve died, I suppose. You know how old my phone isbatterys useless now.”
Victor watched as she methodically arranged the shopping in the fridge. Fifteen years of marriage had sharpened his eyethe slight tension in her movements, the way she avoided his gaze, the too-carefully chosen words. Something was off, and that *something* had gnawed at him for months.
“Pork chops or fish?” Eleanor asked, as if nothing had happened.
“Whatever,” Victor muttered, retreating to the living room.
He turned on the TV, but his mind was miles away from the news. Once, Eleanor had rushed home to greet him after work. Theyd chatter over dinner, sharing plans for the weekend. Now? Now an invisible wall stood between them.
Dinner passed in silence, broken only by perfunctory remarks about the weather and rising prices.
“Mum rang today,” Eleanor finally said. “Asked if were going to the cottage this weekend.”
“What did you say?”
“That we probably would. You dont mind?”
Victor shrugged. “Why not? Been ages since we got out.”
After dinner, Eleanor vanished into the bathroom while Victor cleared the table. Her bag sat on a kitchen chairbulky, stuffed with pockets. He hadnt planned to snoop, but as he moved her wallet to the hall shelf (an old habit), something hard clattered onto the counter.
A phone. But not her ancient smartphonethis was brand new, sleek and black.
Victor froze, staring at the device. A second phone. His wife had a secret phone.
Dazed, he sat, turning it over in his hands. Fragments of memory surfacedEleanor stepping away to take calls, her insistence on keeping her bag within reach, the unexplained absences.
The screen was dark, password-locked. He didnt try to guess. Instead, he slipped it back where hed found it.
When Eleanor emerged, Victor was blankly watching the telly.
“You alright?” she asked, studying him.
“Just tired,” he replied, avoiding her eyes.
That night, sleep wouldnt come. Beside him, Eleanor breathed peacefully while his mind spiraled. Why a secret phone? Only one answer tore at him: an affair. Calls, messages, stolen momentswas this how fifteen years ended?
Morning brought no clarity. Eleanor moved through her routinetea, sandwiches, packing her bagunchanged.
“Late again tonight?” Victor asked, feigning nonchalance.
“Doubt it,” she said. “But Ill ring if I am.”
*Which phone will you use?* he nearly asked.
Work was impossible. The image of Eleanor whispering into that black phone haunted him. A colleague joked he looked like a man whod caught his wife cheating. Victor forced a smile, unaware how close to truth the jest was.
At lunch, he called an old mate, Paul, who worked for a private detective agency.
“Listen, Ive got a weird situation,” Victor began over coffee. “Found a second phone in Eleanors bag. One shes never mentioned.”
Paul nodded knowingly. “Think shes having an affair?”
“What else am I supposed to think?” Victor scoffed bitterly. “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 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,” Paul suggested. “Honestys usually best.”
But Victor wasnt ready. What if she confessed? Could he forgive? Divorce at forty-three, split assets, start over?
He came home early. Eleanor wasnt there. He searched her wardrobe, pockets, drawersnothing suspicious except the missing phone.
At seven, the key turned in the lock.
“Youre home already?” Eleanor frowned. “Everything alright?”
“We need to talk,” Victor said grimly.
Her posture stiffened. “About what?”
“Your second phone. I found it yesterday when I cleared the table. It fell out of your bag.”
Eleanor paled. She sank into a chair opposite him.
“Oh,” she whispered.
“Thats all youve got?” Rage simmered in his chest. “Fifteen years, and you Who is he? How longs this been going on?”
“What?” Her confusion seemed genuine.
“Your lover!” Victor nearly shouted. “Why else hide a phone? Secret calls to the Prime Minister?”
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. “Passwords our wedding date.”
Victor hesitated, then typed the numbers. The screen unlocked. He expected messages from a lover, damning photosproof. Instead, he found a sketching app, nature photos, and one saved contact: *”Bloomsbury Publishing.”*
“What is this?”
Eleanor took a deep breath. “Its my work phone. Wellfor my hobby. Its started making money.”
“What hobby?”
“I write books, Vic. Childrens stories. Three years now. Just for fun at first, then I sent some off. Six months ago, a publisher got interested.”
Victor gaped. “Youre a writer? And you hid this?”
“I was scared youd laugh,” she admitted. “Remember how you mocked my uni poetry? Pretentious drivel, I think you called it. And then, when they wanted to publish I didnt want to jinx it. Thought Id tell you when the first book came out.”
The memory burned. He *had* ridiculed her in front of friends.
“So *thats* where youve been? Writing?”
“Sometimes the library, sometimes cafésquiet places to work,” she nodded. “The separate phones for the publisher and notes. Didnt want work calls interrupting. Plus, the art appsI sketch illustrations.”
Victor scrolled through drafts, character designs, editor emails.
“Why not tell me?” he asked, suspicion giving way to hurt.
“First I feared ridicule, then failure. When it worked out I wanted it to be a surprise.” She smiled sadly. “The books out in two months. I planned to give you the first copy on our anniversary.”
Silence. All jealousy, all suspicionpointless. His wife hadnt betrayed him. Shed been writing childrens books.
“Can I read one?”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Really?”
“Of course.” He moved closer. “I should know what my wifes been hiding.”
After a pause, she opened a file and handed him the phone.
“Its about a little hedgehog afraid of the dark,” she said shyly.
Victor read, and with each line, his smile grew. The story was tender, simple yet profoundeverything a childs tale should be.
“This is brilliant,” he said honestly. “Youre *talented*, Ellie.”
“Really?” Doubt flickered in her eyes. “Not just saying it?”
“I swear.” He took her hand. “Im proud of you. And ashamed I thought well.”
“That I was cheating?” She gave a hollow laugh. “Fifteen years and *now* you turn jealous.”
“Forgive me.” He kissed her knuckles. “Ive been an idiot.”
“We both have,” she sighed. “I shouldve told you instead of all this secrecy.”
They talked late into the night. Eleanor showed him stories, sketches, dreams. And Victor listened, stunned by how much hed never known about his own wife.
“Yknow,” he said as they turned in, “Im glad I found that phone. Its like meeting you all over again.”
“Me too,” she smiled. “No more sneaking off to cafés. I can write at home.”
“On one condition,” he pulled her close. “I get to read your stories first. Before editors, publishersanyone.”
“Deal,” she laughed. “My personal critic. Just no pretentious drivel, alright?”
“I promise,” he said solemnly. “Only honest feedback.”
That night, Victor lay awake, thinking how close hed come to wrecking everything over baseless fear. Beside him, Eleanor slepthis wife, far more remarkable than hed ever realized. He vowed to pay attention, to care about her world.
Two months later, on their anniversary, she gave him the first copy of her booka bright collection of tales with charming 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.
