Emma was dusting her husband’s study when her cloth knocked over a pile of papers at the edge of the desk. Sheets scattered across the floor, and she muttered under her breath as she gathered them up. Something glinted beneath the armchair—a small black object. She reached for it and pulled out a smartphone in a worn-out case.
“Odd,” she murmured, turning the phone in her hands.
James’s new iPhone always sat either in his jacket pocket or on his bedside table. This one was clearly cheaper, plainer… unfamiliar. She pressed the button—the screen lit up, showing the time and date. No passcode. Her chest tightened, a lump rising in her throat.
She sank into the armchair, unable to tear her gaze from the device. Twenty-three years of marriage had seen arguments, misunderstandings, even brief spells of distrust. But a second phone? Emma had never considered herself the jealous type. She trusted James, took pride in their marriage. Now, she dreaded what secrets this little black box might hold.
*Twenty-three years. Two daughters. Was it all for nothing?* Her thoughts spun as her fingers scrolled mechanically through the menu—no photos, just a handful of contacts labeled with initials and numbers. Then she froze. A conversation with “A.W.”
*“Tonight at seven, as usual?”* James had written three days ago.
*“Yes, see you then,”* came the reply.
Two days later:
*“Thanks for last night. Amazing, as always.”*
*“Glad you enjoyed. Free tomorrow?”*
*“I’ll try, but no promises. Emma’s getting suspicious.”*
The room tilted. *Suspicious?* Until this moment, the idea hadn’t even crossed her mind. A scalding wave of anger, hurt, and betrayal flooded her. Twenty-three years of trust—just like that?
Downstairs, the front door clicked shut. James was home early. Panicked, Emma shoved the phone into her dressing gown pocket, snatched up her duster, and pretended to be tidying.
“Em? You here?” His voice carried from the hallway.
“In the study,” she called, forcing steadiness into her voice.
James appeared in the doorway—tall, fit, in his usual tailored suit. At fifty, he still turned heads, something she’d once found flattering. Now, it chilled her.
“How was your day?” she asked, deliberately polishing a bookshelf.
“Fine. Exhausting, though. Fussy client took up three hours.”
*Which client? A.W.?* She bit her tongue.
“You’re home early,” she said, studying his face for deception.
“Missed you,” he replied, wrapping his arms around her from behind, nuzzling her neck. His familiar cologne mixed faintly with cigarette smoke—odd, since he’d quit five years ago. The scent prickled uneasily.
He kissed her cheek. “Off for a shower.”
Left alone, Emma slumped onto the sofa. What now? Confront him? Spy? The foreign phone weighed heavily in her pocket. She pulled it out and reread the messages—nothing explicit, no love notes or photos. But the secrecy said enough.
Dinner passed in tense silence. They ate, watched telly, discussed their daughters—Sophie, married with a toddler in Brighton, and Lily, finishing uni at Durham. James acted perfectly normal, chatting about work, joking, asking about her day. No red flags… unless you knew about the phone.
At ten, he went to shower. Emma seized her chance. Rifling through his suit jacket, she found nothing—until a business card slipped from an inner pocket. *Amelia Whitmore. A.W.*
The water shut off. Emma quickly replaced everything and feigned sleep, heart pounding so loudly she swore he’d hear it.
Morning came. She woke first, watching his sleeping face—so familiar, so suddenly foreign. What had she lacked all these years?
At breakfast, she broke.
“James… are you happy with me?” she asked, stirring her tea.
He blinked. “What sort of question is that?”
“Just answer.”
“Of course I am. Twenty-three years, Em.”
His hand covered hers. Once warm, now it burned.
“You’ve never… wanted someone else?”
He frowned. “What’s got into you? You’ve been odd since yesterday.”
“Answer me.”
“I’ve never wanted anyone but you,” he said firmly. “You’re my wife, the mother of my children. What nonsense is this?”
His words sounded sincere. But the phone in her dressing gown screamed otherwise.
“Off you go,” she forced a smile. “You’ll be late.”
Once alone, she retrieved the phone and searched Amelia Whitmore online—a private music teacher, mid-forties, auburn hair. *So this is A.W.*
At lunch, she called her oldest friend, Claire.
“Found a second phone in James’s study,” she whispered.
“Bloody hell! What’s on it?”
Emma relayed the messages, the card, the red-haired teacher.
“Oh, Em…” Claire sighed. “What’ll you do?”
“I don’t know. Twenty-three years… I thought we were happy.”
“Talk to him.”
But how? *“I spied on you”*?
That evening, James came home with lilies—her favorite.
“What’s this for?” Her stomach knotted. *Guilt flowers?*
“Just because.” He kissed her cheek. “You’ve seemed down lately.”
Over dinner, the hidden phone pulsed in her pocket. Finally, she snapped.
“James, how’d you feel if I… had a secret phone?”
He choked on his wine. “What?”
“Hidden messages. Meetings.”
His brow furrowed. “I’d ask why. And who with.”
“What if I said it wasn’t your business?”
“Then I’d worry,” he set down his fork. “Where’s this coming from?”
Silently, she stood, fetched the phone, and dropped it before him.
“Found this under your chair. Saw the messages to A.W. Found Amelia Whitmore’s card.”
James stared—first at the phone, then at her. Not guilt. *Confusion.*
“So *that’s* where it went!” He slapped his forehead. “I’ve been tearing the house apart!”
“That’s *all* you have to say?” Her voice shook. “Twenty-three years, James!”
“Wait—” He burst out laughing. “You think—? Em, it’s not what you—”
“Then *what*?”
He wiped his eyes, still grinning. “Remember my fiftieth? You kept asking what I wanted?”
She nodded, wary.
“I’ve always wanted to play piano. Never had time. So I booked lessons—with Amelia. The phone was so you wouldn’t see the texts and ruin the surprise. I was going to play your favorite song for our anniversary.”
Emma gaped. “Prove it.”
With a sigh, James disappeared into the study and returned with a keyboard.
“Hidden under the spare bedding,” he admitted, sitting awkwardly. His fingers stumbled through the opening bars of *Your Song*—halting, imperfect, but unmistakably learned.
Tears spilled down Emma’s face—shame, relief.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
James knelt before her. “*I’m* sorry. I thought it’d be romantic. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Why not just tell me?”
“Embarrassed. Fiftysomething bloke taking piano?”
She cupped his face. “You idiot. I’d never laugh.”
“I know now,” he kissed her palm. “Shall I keep going? Or has this old dog humiliated himself enough?”
“Keep going,” she smiled through tears. “But no more secret phones.”
They talked for hours—his lessons, his nerves, her fears. Laughter and apologies tangled together.
In bed, she murmured, “After all these years, you can still surprise me.”
“Hope I always do,” he pulled her close.
The next morning, Emma rang Claire.
“Turns out, there’s an explanation.”
“Go on.”
“He’s learning piano. For our anniversary.”
Claire howled. “At his age? That’s adorable!”
“Isn’t it?” Emma grinned. “Made me realize—we never talk about dreams anymore. Just bills, work, the kids…”
That evening, James came home to candlelit dinner and a small box by his plate. Inside: a piano keychain engraved *“For My Maestro”*, along with two notes—one for *her* guitar lessons, the other booking a weekend getaway.
“Let’s dream together,” she said simply.
He held her tight, as if rediscovering her after years apart. They had decades left—and now, Emma knew, they’d fill them with surprises.
