Jane was dusting her husband’s study when her cloth knocked over a pile of papers. Sheets scattered across the floor, and she muttered under her breath as she gathered them. Under the armchair, something glinted—a small black object. She reached down and pulled out a battered smartphone in a worn-out case.
“Odd,” she murmured, turning the unfamiliar device in her hands.
Tom’s sleek iPhone usually lived in his jacket pocket or on his bedside table. This one, though, was cheaper, plainer, and entirely unknown to her. She pressed the button—the screen lit up, showing the time and date. No passcode. Her chest tightened, and a lump rose in her throat.
She sank into the chair, staring at the phone. After twenty-three years of marriage, they’d weathered their share of arguments, grudges, and doubts. But a second phone? Jane had never considered herself the jealous type. She’d trusted Tom, prided herself on their strong marriage. Now, she was terrified of what secrets this little black box might hold.
“Twenty-three years, two daughters… Was it all for nothing?” Her thoughts raced as her fingers absently scrolled through the menus. No photos. Just a handful of contacts—unnamed numbers labelled only with initials. And the messages… She froze at a conversation with someone called “A.P.”
*”Same time tonight, 7 PM?”* Tom had written three days ago.
*”Yes, see you then,”* came the reply.
Two days later:
*”Thanks for last night. Absolute perfection, as always.”*
*”Glad you enjoyed. Free tomorrow?”*
*”I’ll try, but no promises. Jane’s getting suspicious.”*
The room spun. *She* was suspicious? She hadn’t considered the possibility until this very moment! A scalding mix of hurt, anger, and betrayal flooded her. Twenty-three years of trust—shattered just like that?
Downstairs, the front door clicked shut. Tom was home early. Panicked, Jane stuffed the phone into her dressing gown pocket, snatched up her duster, and pretended to clean.
“Love, you upstairs?” His voice echoed from the hall.
“Just tidying the study!” she called, forcing normality into her tone.
Tom appeared in the doorway—tall, trim, in his sharp suit. At fifty, he still turned heads, something Jane had once found flattering. Now, it sent a chill down her spine.
“How was your day?” she asked, vigorously polishing a bookshelf.
“Fine. Just knackered,” he loosened his tie. “High-maintenance client—wasted three hours on him.”
*”What client? A.P.?”* She bit her tongue.
“You’re back early,” she turned, searching his familiar face for lies.
“Missed you,” he wrapped his arms around her from behind, nuzzling her neck. He smelled of his usual cologne—and faintly of cigarettes, though he’d quit five years ago. The scent made her stomach twist.
“Off for a shower,” he kissed her cheek and left.
Alone again, Jane slumped onto the sofa. What now? Confront him? Spy? Demand answers? The foreign phone weighed heavy in her pocket. She pulled it out and reread the messages. Nothing explicit—no professions of love, no intimate photos. But the mere existence of a secret phone spoke volumes.
Dinner was agony. They ate, watched telly, chatted about their daughters—Emily, married with a toddler up in Manchester, and Sophie, finishing uni at Bristol. Tom acted perfectly normal—joking, discussing work, asking about her day. Nothing amiss… unless you knew about the phone.
At ten, he vanished into the shower, and Jane made her move. She rifled through his briefcase, his blazer pockets—nothing. Then, tucked in an inner pocket, a business card: *Amy Peterson, Personal Trainer*. A.P. from the messages?
The water stopped. Jane shoved everything back and slid into bed, feigning sleep. Her heart pounded so loudly she swore he’d hear it.
The next morning, she woke before him, studying his sleeping face—so dear, yet suddenly a stranger. How could he do this? What had she lacked all these years?
At breakfast, she cracked.
“Tom… are you happy with me?” She stirred sugar into her tea.
He blinked. “Where’s this coming from?”
“Just answer.”
“Of course I am,” he covered her hand with his. “Twenty-three years, love.”
His touch, once comforting, now burned.
“Don’t you ever… want something else? Someone else?”
Tom frowned. “Jane, what’s going on? You’ve been off since yesterday.”
“Just answer.”
“There’s nothing and no one else,” he said firmly. “You’re my wife, the mother of my kids, my rock. What’s got into you?”
His words sounded sincere—but Jane no longer knew what to believe. The second phone scorched a hole in her dressing gown. Amy Peterson’s card swam before her eyes.
“Go on, you’ll be late,” she forced a wobbly smile.
Once he’d left, she pulled out the phone and checked the messages again. A quick online search revealed Amy Peterson—a fit, red-haired personal trainer with her own studio.
*”So that’s who A.P. is,”* bitterness coated her throat.
At lunch, she called her oldest friend, Sarah.
“You’ll never guess—I found a second phone in Tom’s study,” her voice shook.
“What? No!” Sarah gasped. “What’s on it?”
Jane spilled everything—the messages, the business card, the trainer.
“Oh, Janey… I’m so sorry. What’ll you do?”
“I don’t know,” her voice cracked. “Twenty-three years… I thought we were solid.”
“Maybe there’s an explanation?” Sarah ventured. “Talk to him.”
“And say what? ‘I spied on you and found your secret phone’?”
“Better than driving yourself mad.”
By evening, Jane was a wreck. Part of her wanted to scream, unleash the hurt. But another part feared destroying what they’d built. Maybe there *was* an explanation—though what excuse could there be for a hidden phone?
Tom came home with a bouquet of her favourite lilies.
“What’s this for?” she asked, heart sinking. Guilt flowers?
“Just felt like spoiling you,” he kissed her cheek. “You’ve seemed down lately.”
“Have I?” Her smile faltered.
Over dinner, they chatted about nothing, while the phone in her pocket pulsed like a live wire. Finally, she snapped.
“Tom, what would you say if I… had a secret phone? For private calls?”
He choked on his wine. “What?”
“What if I had one and hid it from you?”
His brow furrowed. “I’d ask why. And who you were talking to.”
“And if I said it was none of your business?”
“Then I’d worry,” he set down his fork. “Jane, what’s this about?”
Silently, she stood, fetched the phone, and dropped it on the table.
“I found this in your study. Under the chair. I saw the messages to ‘A.P.’ And the business card in your pocket—Amy Peterson.”
Tom’s face went slack. He stared at the phone, then at her—not guilt, but astonishment.
“Bloody hell—*that’s* where it went!” He smacked his forehead. “I’ve been tearing the house apart!”
“That’s *all* you have to say?” Her voice trembled. “Twenty-three years, Tom! How could you?”
“Wait—you think—” He burst out laughing, loud and genuine, wiping tears. “Jane, love, it’s not what you think.”
“Then what *is* it?” She crossed her arms.
“Sit down,” he pulled out a chair. “Promise not to interrupt?”
She sat, stiff with suspicion.
“Remember when I turned fifty last year?” he began. “You kept asking what I wanted, and I dodged the question?”
She nodded.
“Truth is, I’ve had this daft, blokey dream… I’ve always wanted to learn the guitar.”
“The *guitar*?”
“Yeah. Since uni, never got round to it. Figured—half a century old, time to finally do it. Hired a private tutor. Amy Peterson—she’s not a trainer, she teaches guitar. Personal training’s her side gig.”
“But the secret phone?”
“Wanted to surprise you,” he grinned sheepishly. “For our anniversary next month. I’ve had lessons twice a week, bought this cheap phone so you wouldn’t see texts about schedules. Planned to learn your favourite song—play it for you.”
“You wrote *‘Jane’s getting suspicious’*!”
“Because you *were*! Asking why I was late. I didn’t want to ruin the surprise. ‘Absolute perfection’ was about the lesson—Amy said I was coming along nicely.”
Jane gaped. It was too ridiculous to be a lie. And yet…
“Prove it,” she demanded.
Tom sighed, disappearedHe returned moments later with a guitar case from the back of the wardrobe, pulled out the instrument, and—with slightly fumbling fingers but obvious practice—played the opening chords of *Wonderwall*, the song they’d danced to at their wedding all those years ago.
