Mum, why do you always go on like that? I could hear Imogens voice cracking on the phone. Its the same thing every time!
Sweetheart, Im only trying to help, her mother sniffed. James is a good bloke, why are you making a fuss?
Im not making a fuss! I just asked him not to leave his dirty socks on the floor! Its basic common sense!
Oh love, youre being way too picky. All men are like that, you just have to get used to it. My dad was the same
Please, dont bring Granddad into this! Im tired of hearing that women are supposed to put up with everything. Supposed to, should and whats a man supposed to do?
Imogen pressed the phone to her ear, pacing the flat in circles. James had gone away on a business trip that morning, and shed been looking forward to a quiet day. But Mum, as always, found a reason to call and give a lecture.
Men earn the money, women keep the home tidy, Mum said, sounding all proper. I spent my whole life looking after your dad and were still standing, healthily.
Mum, I work fulltime too! I earn as much as James, if not more. Why am I supposed to clean up after him like Im his nanny?
Because youre his wife. Thats the role. Dont be angry at me, love. I only want the best for you.
Imogen sighed, pressed her thumb to her bridge of the nose.
I know, Mum. Im just exhausted, really exhausted.
Take a break then. Forget the housework and lie down.
I cant. Its such a mess my eyes hurt.
They said goodbye, and Imogen tossed the phone onto the sofa. She looked around the flat really did need a good clean. James had left a proper disaster before he left: clothes everywhere, a mountain of dishes in the kitchen, his shaving kit scattered across the bathroom sink.
She rolled up her sleeves, grabbed a rag and started at the kitchen, washing plates, cups and pans methodically. She wiped the tables, vacuumed the rug, and by evening shed made her way to the bedroom.
The bed was unmade, the sheets rumpled, pillows on the floor. Imogen stripped the sheets to get them into the wash. James was always a restless sleeper, tossing about and pulling the blanket off. Shed gotten used to it.
When she pulled the sheet, it snagged on something. She crouched down, peered under the bed and found a dusty cardboard box in the corner, the kind youd get from a shoe shop, taped up.
She brushed off the dust. The box was heavy, and something rustled inside. No label on the lid.
What on earth is this? she muttered to herself.
She didnt recognize the box at all. James had never mentioned storing anything under the bed. Curiosity got the better of her.
She ripped off the tape and lifted the lid. Inside lay a handful of womens items: a pale pink blouse with a lace collar, a silk scarf in soft blue, a pair of dark brown leather gloves, a leatherbound notebook, and an old bottle of perfume with a faded label.
She held up the blouse the size was far too big for her, and the style was far from her usual crisp shirts and business dresses. It was frilly, with ruffles.
The perfume gave off a heavy, sweet, oriental scent, nothing like her favourite light floral sprays.
Her heart thumped louder. Someone elses belongings, tucked away under her husbands bed.
She opened the notebook. The first page, in a neat, feminine hand, read: Diary of Eleanor.
Eleanor? Imogen flipped through the pages. The entries were short, dated, the latest one from fifteen March eight months ago.
Today he didnt call again. He promised he would, but he didnt. Im waiting and hes silent. It hurts.
She turned the page.
Met at the cafe. He talked about the future, said things would change soon. I want to believe him.
Another entry, a week earlier:
He gave me this scarf. Said the blue suited me. Im happy.
Imogen slammed the notebook back into the box, her hands shaking. Her mind raced. James had another woman Eleanor.
She dialled James. Long rings. He didnt answer. She tried again and again until, on the fifth ring, he finally picked up, sounding sleepy and annoyed.
Hello, love, whats wrong?
Whos Eleanor?! Imogen shouted.
Silence stretched.
What?
Eleanor! Who is she? I found a box under the bed with her stuff and a diary!
Another pause, then a weary sigh.
Emma, I cant talk now, he said. Ill be back tomorrow; we can sort this out.
No, James, now! Explain!
Its not something to discuss over the phone. Tomorrow, he cut her off and hung up.
Imogen stared at the screen, disbelief washing over her. He hung up, then the number showed as unavailable. James had turned his phone off.
She collapsed onto the bed, face in her hands, tears hot and fierce. Hed been seeing someone else all this time, sending gifts, meeting in cafés, promising a future.
She cried until her tears ran dry, then rinsed her face with cold water and looked at herself in the mirror pale, swollen eyes, dishevelled hair. A sorry sight.
Back in the bedroom she opened the box again, sorting through the items: the faded blouse, the scarf, the gloves, the perfume, the diary. All worn, the blouse a little faded at the shoulders, the gloves scuffed.
She read the diary again, from the start. The first entry, three years ago: Met him in the park. Talked about books. Hes so clever, wellread. I like him. That was three years before Imogen even met James, meaning hed been seeing Eleanor for almost the whole time theyd been married.
The later entries grew more desperate, talking about his dwindling calls, his excuses, her waiting, her hope dwindling. The final entry was the one shed already read about him not calling.
The diary ended abruptly there.
Imogen sat on the floor, back against the bed, wondering what to do divorce, confrontation, forgiveness? She didnt know. She just sat there, knees pulled up, staring at a point on the wall.
The night passed in restless tosses. By morning her head throbbed, her eyes sticky.
James came home for lunch, his key jangling in the lock. He dropped his bag in the hallway. Imogen was at the kitchen table, nursing a coffee. The box sat on the table.
Hey, James said softly.
She didnt answer, just stared.
He sat opposite her, looked at the box.
You read it? he asked, nodding toward the diary.
I read it.
Everything?
Yes.
He ran a hand through his hair, sighed.
Emma, its not what you think.
What do you think? That Ive been a fool for three years? That youve been meeting this Eleanor, promising a future, while we lived together?
No. It wasnt an affair.
What then? A friendship? A random fling?
Eleanor was my first wife, James said, his voice low.
Imogens breath hitched. Her coffee slipped from her hand, splashing the table.
What? My first wife? I never heard you were married before!
I never told you because it was painful, he admitted, eyes downcast. We married when I was twentyone, she was nineteen. We lived together a year, then divorced. She fell ill with cancer. I stayed with her as long as she wanted, but she didnt want me to waste my life on her. She asked me to move on, to be happy. I left, but she kept reaching out. Three years ago she wrote to me, saying she wanted to see me. I drove to her, she was getting better, her treatment working, but she was older now, weary. We met for coffee, talked, I gave her gifts the scarf, the blouse, the perfume, the diary she kept for me. It was never physical, just me being there for a dying woman. I never told you because I was terrified youd think Id cheated.
Imogen felt the floor tilt. So you kept all this hidden, pretended you were at work, while you were seeing your exwife on the side?
It wasnt a sidedeal. I was supporting her in her last months. I never meant to deceive you, he said, reaching across the table. She pulled her hand away.
What happened to her? Imogen asked, voice shaking.
She died eight months ago. The cancer came back fast. I turned the phone off, didnt want to face you with more grief.
Imogen covered her face with her hands. The box, the diary, the whole secret it all crashed in.
Why didnt you tell me? she whispered.
Because I was scared. Scared youd walk out, scared Id lose you. I knew it was wrong, but I couldnt abandon her.
Imogen stood, anger flaring. So you chose to lie, to keep a secret, to treat me like a backup plan!
I didnt see it that way! James snapped, grabbing her shoulders. Youre my wife. I chose you. Eleanor is the past, stuck in that box under the bed!
The past you kept hidden! Imogen shouted. Youve been living a double life!
Jamess shoulders slumped. Im sorry. Im wholly at fault. I should have told you from the start. I was cowardly.
Imogen took a deep breath, the anger ebbing into a weary resignation.
How long do I need to think? she asked quietly.
Whatever you need, James replied, his voice soft.
She stared at the box. Why keep all this? If shes gone, why not just toss it?
Its all I have left of her, James said. The blouse I gave her, the scarf, the gloves, the perfume, her diary. I hid it because I didnt want you to see and think I was still with her.
Imogen placed the box back on the table. I need time. I need to decide if I can trust you again.
James nodded, gathered his bag, and left the flat. Imogen sat on the sofa, the diary in her hands, flipping to the very last page. After the final entry, a shaky hand had written:
If youre reading this, Im no longer here. Im sorry I couldnt let you go fully. I was selfish, but I was terrified and alone. You were my light in the darkness. Thank you for everything. Be happy. Your wife deserves happiness too. Take care of her. Eleanor
Tears fell again, this time for Eleanor, for James, for herself. Slowly the tears ran out, and a strange calm settled over her. She realised James hadnt cheated in the usual sense; hed been trying to ease a dying womans last days, albeit poorly.
She dialled James.
Hey, he answered quickly.
Come over, she said. We need to talk properly.
He arrived within twenty minutes. They sat side by side on the sofa, hands clasped.
I read Eleanors last note, Imogen said. She asked you to be happy and to look after me.
I never read her diary, James admitted. I was scared.
Your honesty now means something, Imogen continued. I cant say Ive fully forgiven you yet. It hurts. But I understand why you did it. It doesnt excuse it, but it explains.
James squeezed her hand. Ill wait as long as you need. Ill be honest from now on.
They sat in silence for a while. Then Imogen stood, looked at the box.
What do you want to do with it? she asked.
I dont know. Keep it? Throw it away?
Lets take it to the cemetery. Put it with her.
James agreed. The following Saturday they drove to the small graveyard, found Eleanors modest headstone, and placed the box beside it. James whispered a quiet apology to the stone. Imogen stood beside him, feeling an unexpected lightness. The past was finally laid to rest.
Back home, life settled into a new rhythm. James became more open, sharing everything. Imogen learned, slowly, to trust again, step by step.
One evening, over tea in the kitchen, James said, Thanks for staying, for giving us a chance.
And thank you for being honest, even if it was late, Imogen replied, smiling.
They laughed, knowing theyd survived a storm. The box under the bed that almost tore them apart became a lesson: you cant hide the past forever, you have to face it, let it go, and then you can move forward together.
