The number set on repeat
He stood in the hallway, unable to decide which jacket to takea thick parka with a hood for the cold, or the lighter one he usually wore on business trips. His wife called out from the kitchen:
What time are you off today?
Nine oclock train, he replied, though hed memorised the times long ago. Ill be back by tomorrow evening.
She came out, drying her hands on a tea towel, her gaze lingering on him a moment longer than he liked.
Is it the same firm again?
He nodded, voice tight. Yeah. Theres a presentation, then a meeting.
He disliked how easily the words came. Once upon a time, theyd been true: travelling to conferences, deciphering tube maps of unfamiliar cities, spending nights in cold hotel rooms. But then his department was cut, he switched to a smaller firm, and now if lucky hed travel once every six months for a couple of days. Yet he clung to the old charade. And to one particular room in a budget hotel just a bus ride from home.
Staying at the same hotel? his wife asked, as if reading his mind. You said it was noisy last time.
He shrugged. Im used to it. And its cheap.
She nodded, but her eyes lingered.
Maybe I could come with you next time? See a bit of the city. Havent been out in ages.
His chest tightened. He bent quickly, fussing with a shoelace already perfectly tied.
Its dead boring. Just industrial estates, hotel next to the dual carriageway. Nothing to see.
Their daughter poked her head round the door.
Dad, youve not forgotten my memory stick? She held her hand out, and he pressed the tiny blue plastic device into her palm.
Youll finish your report, yes?
Yeah. You said youd have free time in the eveningyoull look over my presentation?
He nodded. Truly, in that hotel room, he always had plenty of spare hours. That much wasnt a lie.
When do you head off? she asked, already halfway back to her room.
In an hour.
Well, good luck with your important business, she called without turning.
He paused, about to say more, but only hitched up his bag and left.
The hotel was tucked behind a tyre garage and a builders merchant, away from the main road. He knew every inch of the route: bus, underpass beneath the bridge, narrow footpath between garages. At reception sat a new young woman hed never seen before. The previous receptionist always recognised him, smiled like they were old friends.
Hello. Any rooms? he asked, out of habit, though hed already booked online.
She checked the computer. Yes, we have a standard. Just the one night?
One night.
He gave his surname. She nodded.
Its booked. Fourth floor, room four-oh-six.
He knew it would be that one. On every form hed always requested: If possible, the same room. Not from sentiment, but out of convenience. He knew it all by touch: which socket was nearest the bed, how the window latch worked, how the shower groaned. And because here, for three years running, they had met.
He climbed the stairs. The lift was rarely reliable, and he was used to counting steps. On the landing at the fourth floor, he paused, caught his breath, then pulled out his phone. He messaged: Im here. One hour, as agreed? The reply came at once: Yes. Im setting off.
The room smelt of cheap air freshener and some faintly familiar, homely trace. He swept his eyes round the scene by rote: a narrow, hard bed; bedside table with a phone; old desk and lamp; TV they never bothered to switch on. He slung his bag onto the chair, unzipped his jacket, and then noticed a black notebook on the desk.
It wasnt a standard hotel one. Just an ordinary soft-cover notebook, squared paper. It lay beside the remote, out of place like something forgotten in the rush to tidy.
He picked it up and flicked through. No name, no number inside the cover. Several blank pages, then dense writing began. He was about to close it and put it aside, when a line in the middle snagged his eye: Today I lied to my wife again about a trip.
He froze, the notebook open. The handwriting was untidy, slanted, plain. He read another line: Said I was off for training, but really Im going back to the same room as last time.
He gave a humourless little snort. He snapped the notebook shut and set it back down. Switched on the TV, then turned it straight down. Hung up his coat with obsessive precision. Opened his laptop and glanced at his emails. In his head, that line looped: lied to my wife again about a trip.
Forty minutes later, a knock at the door. He recognised the rhythm already. He opened up, stepped back to let her in.
She came in briskly, dropped her bag, shed her coat. They kissedawkward at first, as always when several weeks had slipped by between meetings. Then, more naturally.
How was the trip? he asked.
The usual. London trafficdont get me started.
She noticed the notebook on the desk.
Is that yours?
No. Someone left it.
Maybe the cleaners?
Doubt it. Theres writing in it.
She shrugged, ducked into the bathroom. He watched her gothree years ago, shed seemed like a girl to him, though the age gap wasnt much. Back then, hed just turned forty-two: tired, invisible. Home life just trundled on: work, Tesco, evening telly. He and his wife barely argued, but barely talked. Their daughter lived her own life. Then a new colleague arrived at work, and one late night at the pub, things just… happened.
Hed told himself, over and over, it changed nothing. He wasnt leaving his family, wasnt planning to wreck anyones world. This was simply somewhere he could remember feeling alive, wanted, needed. He repeated it like a prayer, especially on the journey home.
After their meeting, when she left early for errands, he was alone in the room with the black notebook. He flicked on the lamp and opened it at random.
I dont know when it started getting so tangled. At first, it was just a bit of fun. I thought I was in control. No one gets hurt, I tell myself. My wife lives as usual. The kids grow up. I come home with gifts, in a good mood. I even pay more attention to them, out of guilt, trying to make up for it. Is that so wrong?
He slumped back in the chair. The writers thoughts were unnervingly familiar. He remembered the first year of his affair: bringing home flowers for no reason, helping his daughter with her coursework, even agreeing to weekends at the in-laws cottage, though he hated fussing with the allotment. At the time, he honestly thought hed become a better man.
He turned the page.
Sometimes I feel like there are two of me. One sits at the kitchen table, cracks jokes, chats with my wife about summer hols. The other books a hotel room for the night and flows into another life entirely. Ive grown used to this split. It terrifies me, the thought that the boundaries might ever blur.
He shut the notebook, glanced at the door. The lock still bolted, chain firmly on. From next door came the rattle of pipes, the whoosh of someone running the tap. No blurred lines here, everything under control.
His phone buzzed. His wife messaged: How was your trip? All OK? He replied: Yes, checked in. Got a project call tomorrow, prepping now. The words typed themselves, scripts rehearsed countless times.
He flicked the notebook to near the back, reading a scrawl dated three months ago.
She said today shes had enough of thisof sneaking around, waiting for my messages, always acting like an afterthought. She asked if I ever see her real life outside these meetings. I said I loved her, but Ive got my family and responsibilities, I cant just walk away. She said: Youre just scared.
He remembered their recent talk. Shed asked what was next. Hed dodgedthe complications, the age, that no one got divorced in their circle. The words had felt hollow even then.
Restless, he stood and paced the room. In the mirror by the door, he barely recognised himselfa forty-something man, silver creeping at his temples, shirt creasing across a softening middle. Not the worst fate, but nothing like the man hed imagined at twenty-five.
His phone buzzed again. This time, his daughter: Dad, can you check my presentation tomorrow? Added a few slides. He replied: Yes, Ill look in the evening.
He longed to write moreto ask how she was, what was on her mindbut closed the chat. Sat back and reached yet again for the notebook.
The next entry was sharper, uneasy.
Today my wife asked why I travel to Manchester so much. She said shes noticed how carefully I pack these days. I joked, said theres a good contractor up there, a big contract. But she looked at me like I was someone else. My hands were sweating. She let it drop, for now. But I dont think she believes me anymore.
He recalled that morning in the kitchenher suggestion of coming along, her searching look. No accusations, no rows. But something tense gathering below the surface, which he tried not to see.
He skimmed on. The writer describes bumping into his lover in a shopping centre, her husband and children in tow. How they pretended not to know each other, how later he lay awake in the hotel, picturing the whole façade collapsing if anyone put the pieces together.
He realised hed been reading for more than an hour. The words and his own thoughts blurred together. He shut the notebook, left it lying on the desk, a silent accusation.
Sleep came late. From next door came raucous laughter, slamming doors. He pictured the notebooks author: some guy just his age, maybe a little older, arriving at this very room, unpacking, writing while waiting. Telling the same stories of meetings out of town.
In the morning, with instant coffee in a mug, he opened the notebook again.
I tried counting the lies. How many texts I deleted before my wife could see. How many times I told the kids I was busy, when I was really just sitting in this room. I lost count after a hundred. Its just wordsexcept sometimes I imagine those words stacking into a wall between me and them. And Im scared one day I wont be able to dismantle it.
He remembered once cancelling a cinema trip with his daughter to keep an appointment here. Said hed been called to a meeting. Shed just shrugged, said shed go with friends. Kids, it seemed, got used to parents being busy.
He shut the notebook, tucked it in the desk drawerto hide it from sight, if nowhere else. Gathered his things, double-checked for charger and wallet. Before leaving, he hesitated, glanced in the drawer at the black cover. Leave it for the hotel? Take it home? Both options felt absurd.
He left it there, nudged closer to the wall as if that made it invisible.
Back at home, everything was as it always was. His wife asked how things had gone. He spun a tale of make-believe meetings, imaginary clients, drinks with colleagues. She listened, nodded, followed up with a few details. After a while, she said gently, You look shattered. Go up and get some sleep.
His daughter popped her head in with her laptop.
You going to look at this? She started the slides, sat beside him. He critiqued fonts and formatting, she nodded, scrawling notes. Then:
Dad, dont you ever get fed up with all this traveling? You always said you wanted a nice, steady job, none of this running about.
He hesitated.
Work is work.
Mums worried. Says youre. She trailed off, shrugged. Never mind. Forget it.
He felt annoyance risingnot at her, but himself, at how his act now needed such constant maintenance.
That night, he woke as his wife turned away from him, pulling the duvet tight. He stared at her back, the line of her neck, a loose strand of hair. Once, hed known every freckle on her skin. Now? He couldnt remember the last time hed just looked at her, mind empty.
Am I betraying her? he wondered. Im still here. I help, I support, I havent gone anywhere. I just… The words of justification now felt as false as the handwriting in that black notebook.
Two weeks later, he was packing his bag again. This time, she didnt ask questions.
How long?
One night.
I see.
Her voice was calm, without curiosity or reproach. That serenity unsettled him more than suspicion ever could.
He reached the hotel at dusk. Same woman at reception.
Evening. Rooms reserved under your name. Fourth floor, four-oh-six.
He climbed up, opened the door, eyes instantly darting to the desk. The notebook was still there.
He picked it up. Now a slight dent marked the cover, as if something heavy had been pressed against it. He opened to the last pagethere was a fresh entry.
I thought I could keep control. Balance it all. But tonight, it collapsed. My wife found part of the messages. She didnt shout, didnt cry. Just looked at me like a stranger. I said it was a mistake, it was over, it meant nothing. I realised midway I was talking not to her, but myself. She went to bed, locked the door. The kids sat in the kitchen pretending not to hear. Im in the hall, wondering how I ended up here.
He felt a shiver run down his spine. This wasnt just an anonymous man; the situation struck too close. Only last week, hed almost forgotten to delete a messagehis wife had taken his phone to ring their daughter. He thought hed got away with it. Or had he?
He flipped the pageyesterdays date.
Im here because I dont know where else to go. Home is saturated with that conversation. She didnt shout, didnt weep. She just said, I dont know who you are. Neither do I. Im in the room where I felt happiest, and I feel nothing. Just emptiness. I thought the point was not to cross a lineto stay, not leave the children. Turns out, I crossed it a long time back. I just never wanted to know.
He closed the notebook and sat heavily on the bed. How long had he lived like this, fooling himself that as long as he made no drastic move, nothing would change? How long had he compartmentalised: here family, here work, here a hotel room suspended in time?
A knock at the door. He started.
Its me, came her voice.
He let her in. She slipped off her coat, watching him more closely than usual.
You seem odd. Everything all right?
Yeah. Just tired.
She noticed the notebook.
You still havent thrown that out?
Dont know whose it is. Maybe someone will want it back.
Doubt it. Probably just forgot.
She sat on the bed, reaching for him.
Are you sure youre alright?
He nodded, but inside he felt nervous, as if standing at the edge of something he couldnt name. They made love, spoke about trivia, made plans for next time. Again came the questionwould he ever change anything? Again, he dodged.
Once shed gone, he was left with the notebook. He flicked to the last entry.
I have no idea what comes next. I could try to deny it all, promise to do better. I could walk away, begin again. But whats the guarantee I wouldnt just end up here once more? Maybe the only thing I can do is stop lyingto myself, at least. Admit this isnt just a fling or a little comfortits a whole system I live inside. And if I wont destroy it, then I am choosing it. With all the consequences.
He sat in the hush for a long time. Then reached for his phone, opened the chat with his wife. He typed: How are you?then deleted it. I think we need to talk when I get backdeleted. In the end, he sent: Hows your day? She replied: Fine. All as planned.
He stood, walked to the window. The main road shimmered outside. In the opposite building, a solitary light burned. He imagined someone just like him in a similar room, scribbling secrets into a notebook. Perhaps the original author. Perhaps another man, another story. He found himself making excuses for this phantomlife is complicated, everyone has reasons. The same way hed excused himself.
He returned to the desk and leafed back to the earliest pagesquieter, steadier.
I started this notebook to keep sane. To be honest somewhere. If I cant say the truth to those around me, maybe here I can. Maybe its self-delusion. But it feels like it keeps me more together.
He shut the notebook, and realised he didnt want to leave it. But neither could he keep it. If he took it, hed be making the story his own. If he left it, hed pretend it had nothing to do with him.
He opened his bag with his papers, slipped the notebook inside, zipped it up. Then pulled it out again. Put it on the bed. Sat beside it.
His phone buzzed. Daughter again: Dad, my projects up for review tomorrow. Youll be back for three? By his usual schedule, he wouldnt. But if he left first thing, hed manage.
Ill be there, he typed. Then added: Ill cancel a few things. She sent a smiley and a great.
He switched off his phone, lay back and stared at the ceiling. The words from the notebook echoed: stop lying, at least to yourself. What did that mean for him? Accept he wasnt some helpless victim, or a man caught up in thingsbut someone who had chosen, and stayed.
He tried to picture telling his wife: Theres someone else. Her face. His daughters trust breaking. He couldnt finish the scene. His heart hammered, and he strode to the desk for the notebook one last time. In the margin of one late entry: I keep putting off the conversation because Im not scared of losing them, but of them seeing me as I really am.
He zipped the notebook into his documents bag. Then, on an impulse, took out his biro and wrote his own mobile number on the inside coverjust the digits, no name.
He didnt know why. Perhaps he hoped, one day, the original writer would call. Or maybe a stranger would find it and understand they werent alone. Or maybe it was admitting, finally, he wasnt merely an onlooker to this story.
That evening, he messaged his wife: I’ll be back sooner tomorrow. Want to be there for the project preview. Lets talk after, yeah? He read it over for long minutes before he hit send.
The reply didnt come straightaway: Alright.
Next morning he left the hotel with only one bagthe documents and the notebook within. At reception he hesitated.
Excuse me, he said to the girl. There was a notebook left in my room. I’ve taken it. If anyone asks, heres my number. He wrote it on a small slip of paper, handed it over.
Of course, she replied, without much care.
He walked outside. The air was brisk, not freezing. The road to the bus stop was the same as always, but each step felt oddly weighty. He moved slower than usual, with no rush. His head held no detailed plan, just a few possible directions.
He knew he might back outgo home, postpone the talk, let things slide. File the notebook away in a drawer, try to forget. Or try.
He also knew he might not. Might sit down at the kitchen table, wait while his wife brewed tea, then finally say what hed avoided for years. He didnt know where it would gowhether things would get better or worse.
The bus arrived, he sat by the window. The city outside was familiar: stops, newsagents, shoppers hauling bags. He took the notebook out, resting it on his knees. Didnt open it. Just held it.
In his coat pocket, his phone hummed. Daughter again: Bit nervous. He typed back: Ill be there. Youll be brilliant.
The bus pulled out. He looked at his own ghostly reflection in the glass, at the black notebook on his lap. Ahead lay home, his daughters presentation, the conversation hed promised. Behind him, the hotel room where everything could be paused, sidestepped, lived as if it belonged to a different life.
He didnt know what life hed choose. But he was certain now: it would be harder, from now on, to lie to himself.
He gripped the notebook a little tighter and turned from the window, unwilling to see his reflection. The bus carried him along a route hed travelled a thousand times, yet every turn seemed somehow both familiar, and utterly strange.
