Dear Diary,
I found my husbands second mobile and simply set it on the kitchen table where anyone could see it.
Are you buying that cheap instant coffee again? I asked you, Molly, how many times must I explain? It gives me heartburn and I cant work properly! James slammed his teaspoon onto the table, and it clattered, leaving a brownish smudge on the plastic mat.
I was standing at the stove, stirring my oatmeal, trying to keep my breathing eveninhale, exhale, count to ten. Lately even counting to a hundred doesnt help. Twentyfive years of marriage have taught me that arguing with a man in the morning only hurts me. Its easier to nod, stay quiet, and pretend Im at fault.
James, its the same coffee weve been drinking for three years. Its just a new tin, maybe this batch is a bit off, I said calmly, not turning around.
Batch! Always something with the batch, the weather, or Mercury in retrograde! Youre saving on mejust say it. Im the breadwinner, I need my energy! he shouted.
The breadwinner, I thought dryly. His salary hasnt risen in five years, yet his demands grow like a runaway train. I kept quiet, placed a bowl of porridge in front of him and topped it with a generous knob of butter.
He grimaced at the sight of breakfast but grabbed a spoon.
Did you iron the shirt? The blue one? he asked.
Yes, its hanging on the hanger in the wardrobe, I replied.
Show me. Last time the sleeves were never mind. Ill be late tonightquarterly report, you know how it is.
I understand, I echoed.
Jamess reporting periods popped up far too often, as did endless meetings and sudden weekend trips when his phone lost signal or died. My friend Lucy had long ago rolled her eyes and said, Molly, take off those rosecoloured glasseshes got a foolproof excuse. I brushed her off. At fifty, starting over seemed terrifying, and there was no concrete proofonly the faint scent of someone elses perfume that James tried to blame on the new secretary, saying the office was bathed in fragrance.
He finished his porridge, dabbed his lips with a napkin, muttered a perfunctory thanks, and hurried to the hallway. The front door slammed shut and I was left alone.
Silence has always been my best friend and my worst enemy. In silence thoughts swirl, but not the happy kind. To keep myself from spiralling, I decided to do a deep cleanalways helpful. When my hands are busy, my mind can rest.
I started with the loft, sorting the winter boots, then moved to the coat rack in the hallway. It was May, warm, and the jackets hanging there were no longer needed. I bundled them, put them in dustcovers, and set them aside.
I took down Jamess favourite midseason grey sports jackethed worn it all spring, swearing it was lucky. I checked the pockets out of habit before washing it. In the left side pocket lay an old petrol receipt and a wrapper of mint candy. In the right side I found a forgotten face mask and a couple of coins.
Just as I was about to fold the jacket, my fingers felt something hard near the lining. All the pockets should have been empty. I examined it closer. Tucked inside, where a hidden document pocket might be, was a tiny sewnin compartment with a halfmade Velcro seal. The stitching was uneven, clearly homemade. James never knew how to sew, but apparently hed tried.
My heart gave a sudden thump. I hesitated, then slipped my fingers into the makeshift pocket and pulled out a phone.
It wasnt his usual bulky black smartphone with a cracked screen. This was a slim, white, almost brandnew device, smooth as a river stone.
I stood in the hallway, phone clenched, my legs feeling like jelly. I shuffled to the kitchen, perched on a stool, and pressed the side button. The screen lit up with a picture of a sea sunsetnothing to do with our cottage, just a generic, beautiful view. Battery read 80%.
Of course there was a password.
I tried his birth yearno. The year we were marriedno. My sons birthdayno.
I set the phone down, hands trembling. The realization hit like a cold splash: if theres a second phone hidden so carefully, there must be a second life. No one stitches pockets for a work number.
My first impulse was to smash the white slab against the wall, crush the evidence, then throw a tantrum, shout, weep, demand the truth. But I looked at my own handswellkept, nails painted, the hands of a woman who has kept this house tidy for decades. I knew crying would be weakness. I needed strength.
I poured a glass of water, chugged it, and a plan formedsimple, ruthless, and, to me, the only right one.
I didnt hide the phone again, nor did I try to hack it. I simply wiped away my fingerprints with a clothlike something out of a detective noveland placed it in the most conspicuous spot: the centre of the kitchen table, on a lace napkin beside the biscuit jar.
Where James usually dined, the white phone sat like a foreign object, a slowacting bomb.
The day passed in a fog, but I moved mechanically. I cooked his favourite Frenchstyle roast, the smell of baked cheese and meat filling the flat with a cosy, yet now hollow, atmosphere. I set the table, laid out plates and cutlery, and the white phone glimmered on the polished wood like a black obelisk.
Around seven, the frontdoor lock clicked.
Molly, Im home! James called, his voice buoyant. The reporting period must have gone well. Starving like a wolf, you know, Mr. Harris delayed everyone again, a proper mess
He slipped into the kitchen, unbuttoning his shirt as he went.
Ah, it smells like roast! Lovely. The canteen was dreadful today.
I stood at the sink, back to him, washing salad leaves.
Hands, please, I said evenly.
James walked over, rinsed his hands, dried them on a towel, humming something, and took his seat.
So, whats on the table?
He fell silent.
I felt the silence thicken, the drip from the tap sounding deafening. I turned off the tap, dabbed my hands on the apron, and faced him.
He stared at the centre of the table, his usually rosy cheeks now a sallow gray. His eyes were glued to the white phone. His mouth opened as if to speak, then closed.
I sat opposite him, fork in hand, spearing a cucumber slice.
Enjoy your meal, I said with a polite smile.
He swallowed, his Adams apple bobbing. He glanced from the phone to me, then back, panic flickering in his gaze.
This this is… his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat. What is it?
Its just a phone, I replied calmly, still chewing. I found it in your jacket while doing the laundry. Good thing I spotted it before it went through the wash. Its brand new, isnt it?
James let out a nervous laugh, sounding forced. Ah, right Its a work phone. Mr. Smith gave it to me. Corporate communications, you know? They said all calls must go through secure channels now. I forgot about it, shoved it in a pocket and
He reached for the phone but hesitated, as if it were hot.
Corporate? I raised an eyebrow. Interesting. And why is it so feminine? Tiny and white? Our company phones are usually black bricks, like your old one.
We bought a batch in bulk, whatever was on hand, he snapped, his usual defence kicking in. Molly, stop interrogating me. Just put it away, lets eat.
He snatched the phone, jammed it into his trouser pocket with a frantic motion.
I was just surprised, I said, meeting his gaze steadily. You told me the company was in crisis, bonuses frozen, yet theyre handing out new phones to everyone. A generous firm, indeed.
The crisis is over! James blurted, his hand trembling as he tried to cut a slice of cheese. The piece slid onto the table, but he pretended not to notice. Dont be clever. Pass the bread.
I pushed the bread basket forward. You know, James, I mused, your Mr. Smith left six months ago. I ran into his wife, Helen, at the supermarket last week. Theyre retired now, living in the countryside.
Jamess fork halted midway to his mouth. Which Smith? I meant the new department head. Hes also called Smith, a nickname thing.
Smith, I repeated, tasting the word. Why did this new Smith give you a phone with a SIM that receives messages from Bunny?
Jamess face flushed. What? Bunny? Are you snooping?
He leapt up, overturning his chair.
I wasnt snooping, I said, sitting upright. The phone just lay on the table while I was cutting bread. The screen lit up, a message popped up. I glanced at it.
The message never existed; the phone was locked. I was bluffing, playing my hand all the way to the end. His reaction told me more than any text could.
He stared at me, like a cornered animal. What what did it say? he asked softly.
You can check yourself, I nodded toward his pocket. Maybe its something urgent for work?
He sank back into his chair, breathing heavily, trying to find an escape.
Its a joke, he finally muttered. The lads at work are messing around, changing contact names, sending nonsense
Enough, I cut in, my voice steel. Stop treating me like an idiot. Ive spent twentyfive years washing your shirts, making your breakfasts, listening to your endless complaints about bosses and health. I can see when you lieyour left nostril flares.
He instinctively touched his nose. Youve imagined this! You found a phone and made a drama out of it! I have another SIM for ads! I was going to sell the car as a surprise for you! And you you ruined everything with your suspicion!
Sell the car? I chuckled bitterly. Your old Lada, still in my name, without my paperwork? How would you even manage that?
Id find a way! he roared. Lord, youre driving me mad with your control! I feel like Im in a prisonstep left, step rightgunfire!
If you live like youre in prison, why are you still here? I asked. The door is open.
What? he sputtered.
Im saying: go.
He froze, expecting tears, a breakdown, maybe a smashed plate. He expected me to beg him to stay, and for him to graciously forgive my suspicion. Go where? he asked, bewildered. Its night outside.
To Bunny, or to Smith, or to a hotel. Youve got the cash for a new phone and a fresh start, so a hotel wont be a problem.
Youre kicking me out of my own home? he shouted.
Out of my home, James. This flat came from my parents. Youre only on the tenancy register; you own no share. You gave up your claim during the privatisation to dodge taxes, remember? Youre the cleverest of us all.
His face turned a deep red. He had always thought himself smarter than anyone, engineering financial tricks to save a penny without considering the fallout.
You cant he hissed. We have a family. We have a son
My son lives in Manchester, his own life. Hes asked me why I put up with you for so long. I never knew what to say. I thought it was habit. Now I see my patience has run dry.
At that moment the hidden phone in Jamess pocket vibrated loudly in the quiet kitchen.
Answer it, I prompted. Maybe it really is work?
He snatched the phone, swiped to reject the call. Nobody, he muttered.
Well then, start packing, I said, standing, taking my untouched plate and dumping the roast into the bin. The gesture shocked him more than any words could.
James, lets talk calmly, he pleaded, his tone suddenly syrupy. Its a midlife crisis, we all go through it. It means nothing! Youre just a placeholder! I love you!
A placeholder, I repeated. You give a placeholder your attention, your money, lie to my face, hide a phone like a schoolboy You know whats worst? Not the affair, but that youve been treating me like a fool. A sewnin pocket? Seriously?
I walked to the window and cracked it open. The cool evening air swept into the stifling kitchen.
You have an hour, James. The suitcase is up on the loft. The things I washed and stored todaygrab them in bags.
Come on, Molly, where will I go tonight? he argued.
Its not my problem.
He sat a minute longer, searching my face for any hint of doubt, any trace of the docile wife he once knew. All he found was a tired but resolute woman looking straight at him, as if at an empty spot.
He leapt up, kicked the chair so hard it fell. Go to hell, you old hag! Youll end up with the cats, crawling back to me begging to come home!
The suitcase is on the loft, I repeated, voice icy.
The next hour was a cacophony of slammed doors, shouted curses, and rustling bags. James hurled his belongings about, stamping his feet, hoping Id stop him. I sat at the kitchen table with a mug of tea, watching the darkened window. I didnt follow him out.
When the front door finally shut and the lock clicked, I took a deep breath. The flat fell silentstill, but a different kind of silence. It felt like freedom, not oppression.
I walked to the hallway mirror. In the reflection stood a weary woman with fine lines around her eyes, yet her shoulders were squared.
Nothing, I whispered to my reflection. Well get through this. From now on Ill buy the coffee I likeexpensive, proper. No one will nag me about my ears any longer.
I returned to the kitchen. A greasy spot lingered on the mat where James had dropped a slice of cheese. I grabbed a rag, wiped the table clean, then fetched the bottle of wine Id been saving for a special occasion. I poured a glass.
Jamess old official phone, the one he kept tucked away in the bedroom, remained on the nightstand, forgotten in the chaos. I picked it up; a notification lit the screen: Mum called three times.
I smiled, silenced it, and thought of tomorrowcalls from my mother, from my son, from friendseverything could wait. Tonight, I had a date with myself and the new life I was carving out.
I took a sip of wine and, for the first time in years, truly tasted the drink. The flavors didnt carry anyone elses bitterness.
A tentative knock sounded at the door. My heart raced. Had he returned?
I peered through the peephole. The hallway was empty except for a ginger cat named Basil perched on the neighbours landing, his eyes bright and mischievous.
I opened the door. Basil stared at me, his green eyes demanding, and meowed.
Did the men get you too? I asked, amused.
He meowed again, as if in agreement.
Come in, I said, moving aside. Ive got plenty of Frenchstyle roast left. One cheeky cat can have a bite.
Basil strutted in, tail high, and I shut the door, clicking the lock behind him. This was my home now, forever.
I watched the orange guest wolf down the leftovers, smiling. Life felt like it was just beginning. There was no room left for hidden pockets, second phones, or fake reportsonly honesty and a good cup of coffee.
