Every man has his own secrets. Some might sneak a tenner into an old sock. Some will tell white lies about a quick pint with mates or a day gone fishing. As for Richard Faulkner, he always set his phone face down.
Always, everywhere on the kitchen table, screen down. On the bedside table before bed, screen down. At a restaurant, at his parents place in the countryside screen down.
For ages, I didnt clock onto it. At first, I just noted it. Then I wondered. Then I stopped wondering, honestly the sort of uncomfortable pondering youd rather avoid until it smacks you round the head.
We had a decent marriage. Not wildly passionate, but peaceful. Richard worked, I worked. At the weekends groceries, a bit of telly, sometimes friends over. Friends usually meant Tom and Emily. Toms been Richards best mate since their days at Warwick. Emily, his wife, is all colour and laughter, that unwavering confidence that I cycle between admiring and finding exhausting.
Everything felt mostly normal. If you didnt count his phone.
I kept seeing it, face down. And every time, Id think, well, whatever. Hes an adult. Probably just force of habit.
But one evening, I reached over him at dinner for the salt, nudged his phone by mistake; it slid onto the chair and landed, screen up.
Richard was quicker than me he palmed it, sharpish.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
“Its fine,” he muttered.
And we both pretended nothing had happened. Because thats what you do, when something actually has.
Ive always been a thinker, which, truth be told, gets me into trouble.
A thinking woman doesnt kick off over a phone. A thinking woman watches. Ticks off facts and lines up little explanations in her head. And as long as those explanations seem plausible, you say nothing.
Id been silent for months. My internal chart was getting crowded.
First: Richards started staying late at work. Used to be the odd late night, never past eight. Now it was nine, half-ten, once even eleven. The excuse was always the same: year-end, reports, a client up from Manchester.
Second: he was mentally somewhere else. Hed zone out watching the news, answer questions after a beat, like our wifi had slowed.
Third: a tension every time Tom rang.
That was odd. Tom, his closest mate of twenty years once Richard would drop everything for his calls, natter in the kitchen for half an hour, come back cheerful. But recently, any incoming from Tom changed Richards face, barely perceptibly. Just enough that I noticed.
At one point I asked, Is everything alright with you and Tom?
Yeah. Why? His reply was brisk.
Youre just…odd when he rings.
Youre imagining it, he said, already clutching his phone.
Emily called me on Wednesday night, just for a natter. We did that occasionally no husbands, just tea and idle chat. Emilys the sort who laughs so loud the table looks over, who never minds a queue.
How are you two? she asked.
Alright. Richards late again.
Oh, work, I suppose, she replied a shade too breezily.
The next Friday we had our usual little do Tom and Emily brought wine and a Victoria sponge, Richard was in the kitchen playing the perfect host, grilling meat. I was setting the table, observing.
Something was off between Richard and Emily.
People who once chatted comfortably now barely looked at each other, avoiding even the smallest exchange.
Tom sipped his wine, muttering about some office reshuffle, voice flat, eyes tired. I looked at him, wondering: does he know? Or suspect? Or is it all in my head?
Youre awfully quiet, Richard said once the guests had gone.
Tired.
Should turn in early.
Hm. I muttered, noncommittal.
I got in bed and stared at the ceiling. The telly hummed quietly in the next room, Richard still pottering. His phone was on his bedside table.
Screen down.
I turned to the wall.
I was still hoping for another explanation.
When Saturday arrived, Richard left for an MOT or so he said. Three hours, he told me.
I had a coffee, faffed about cleaning. Hoovered about, changed some things on the shelf. I got to the sofa and there it was his phone, left on a cushion.
Screen up.
Forgotten!
Not once in three years had he left his phone behind. He could forget his keys or wallet, once even left his coat at work but not his phone. Never.
I stood with the dusting cloth in hand.
It was just sitting there, screen aglow.
I dropped the cloth. Stepped closer.
A notification shone on the screen. A handful of words. Id never read Richards messages. Not because I trusted him deeply; more because I believed everyone was entitled to a bit of privacy. That was my principle good in theory, convenient for everyone except myself.
I didnt read the text.
But there was a contact photo. A little round icon beside the name in an app. An inch wide, no bigger. A womans face: dark hair, smiling.
I knew that smile well. Emily.
I stood staring at the little circle, heartbeat pounding. One second, two, five. The phone screen dimmed and died. I didnt move.
I went to the kitchen, poured myself water.
Emily, Toms wife. My… well, as much a friend as one can be with the wife of a husbands mate. The sort you spend Friday evenings with, know about her citrus allergy and her birthday March twenty-second. I always remembered it. We always got her a gift together, Richard and I.
Last year, too.
I went back to the lounge. Another notification lit up the phone. Message, then black. I didnt read that either.
Because I knew if I read it, things would change beyond repair. So long as I didnt, there was a sliver of hope: maybe Emily was messaging Richard for something completely innocent. Congratulations, news about Tom, or just a random query. A mistake but names dont get mixed up in a messenger.
I knew it wasnt innocent.
I just sat beside the phone, staring at it. It looked back in silence, like someone who knows too much and finds it easier not to speak.
My mind began piecing together what Id been totting up for months: late nights at work, the new forgetfulness, the way Richard tensed when Tom rang, that awkward Friday night when Richard and Emily hardly spoke, and last time Emilys work explanation came out too quickly.
She knew. Emily knew, because she was the reason.
I just sat there, sensing something slowly and carefully rearranging itself within me.
Tom, Richards best mate for two decades.
Did Tom know? Or suspect and choose silence, as I did, out of intelligence or fear?
The sound of the front door then footsteps on the stairs.
Richard was home early the MOT mustve been nothing, or perhaps he remembered his forgotten phone.
I didnt move when he walked in and saw me. Then he saw the phone, right there beside me. His face flickered barely a moment. But Id been watching him for months.
Forgot that, he said, nodding at the phone. Completely normal.
Yeah. I noticed.
I stood, walked past him to the kitchen, took the untouched second glass of water and drank it.
Silence behind me.
Soph, he called quietly.
Not now, I replied, calm and steady. Im not ready.
And that was true. I wasnt ready for a showdown, tears, explanations that stopped explaining anything. I was only ready for what Id just learned. Which, as it turned out, was more than enough.
We finally sat down to talk Sunday evening. No shouting, no drama, just the two of us at the kitchen table. Richard started, as if hed waited for me to demand answers and ran out of patience.
I dont know how to explain, he said.
You dont need to, I replied. I saw enough. The profile photo.
He was silent for a long time, then asked, Did you know?
I guessed. Came up with different stories.
And now what?
I dont know about you, but I think I need to consider a divorce.
Emily found out that evening I called her myself. The shortest phone call Ive ever made.
Em, I know. Theres no need to explain. Tell Tom yourself or dont; thats up to you. But please, dont ring me again.
Silence met me. Then a quiet, Sophie but I ended the call.
Tom found out the next day. Quite how, I neither knew nor cared. Richard came home glum, slumped in the armchair, stared into space, then told me:
Tom rang.
I see, I answered.
That was it. There was nothing much more to say.
Three years of marriage. Twenty years of friendship. One tiny icon with the wrong smile, and suddenly two homes crumbled, soft and silent. No fireworks.
A week later, I was packing. Books, clothes, a few things from the kitchen that had been mine long before him. Richard stayed in the other room; I heard him shift occasionally.
By the door, I paused. His phone sat on the table.
Screen down.
I left, closing the door behind me.
