Victor told me I was making a fool of him and banned me from his office parties, I started, the memory still sharp. Again with the junk! Beatrice, I asked you to throw that rubbish off the balcony! Were not living in a dump!
Victors voice echoed down the empty hallway, cutting into my ears. I flinched and dropped the old woven basket, spilling dried lavender sprigs onto the floor. I had just got back from my parents countryside cottage, exhausted but content that little house was where I truly felt alive.
Victor, its not junk, I said softly, bending to gather the scattered treasure. Its memory. And I wanted to put a sachet in the wardrobes so theyd smell nice.
Sachet? he sneered, brushing past me into the living room. He flicked off his expensive silk tie and flung it onto the sofa. Our wardrobes smell like cheap fabric softener, £30 bottles. Stop hauling this country stuff into the house. Call the cleaners tomorrow and have them cart off the whole lot. Then burn it.
I straightened, clutching the lavender bundle the scent of childhood summers, my mothers hands. To him it was trash. I said nothing, slipped into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Arguing was pointless. Any chat about it ended the same way for years. Victor, whod built a soaring reputation in construction, was ashamed of anything that reminded him of our modest past. Hed surrounded himself with pricey things, highstatus contacts and glossy polish, and there was no room in his fortress for old baskets or the smell of dried herbs.
Id learned to accept that my opinion meant nothing when it came to furniture. My friends teachers and nurses no longer visited because they didnt fit the vibe. Id settled into the role of the pretty, silent sidekick to my successful husband. Yet sometimes, like now, a wave of quiet protest rose inside me.
During dinner Victor was in high spirits, rattling off plans for the upcoming anniversary of his holding company.
Can you believe it? We booked the Grand Hall in London. All the investors, partners, even the mayor promised to drop by. Live music, a full programme, celebrity guests Itll be the event of the year for our circle!
I nodded automatically, already picturing the prep: pulling out my best dress that dark navy number Victor bought for me in Milan picking shoes, getting my hair done by a top stylist. Despite everything, I loved those evenings. I liked feeling part of his glittering world, seeing the admiration in his eyes when he introduced me to his contacts: My wife, Beatrice.
Im thinking about what to wear, I said, smiling. Maybe the blue dress? Its elegant.
Victor set his fork down and looked at me, his gaze cold and appraising, the same look hed given me when I carried that lavender basket.
Bea, he began slowly, choosing his words, I need to talk about this. In short you wont be coming.
I froze, my fork hanging midair.
What you mean I wont go? I asked, convinced Id misheard. Why?
Its a very important event, he said firmly. There will be very serious people, and I cant risk my reputation.
A chill settled over me, turning into a cold dread.
I dont get it. What does your reputation have to do with me?
Victor sighed heavily, as if explaining to a child.
Bea, listen. Youre a good woman, a wonderful homemaker, but you dont belong in that world. Youre too plain. You talk the wrong way, with the wrong tone. You cant even tell Picasso from Matisse, or Sherry from Merlot. Last time you spent half an hour with the wife of our main investor discussing an apple pie recipe. An apple pie, Bea! She looked at me with such pity
His words hit me like a whip. I sat there, unable to move, feeling my face turn pale. I remembered that investors wife, a sweet lady whod asked me about something domestic after a long day of stock talks. Id chatted away, thinking I was being friendly only to become a source of embarrassment.
Youre a disgrace, he finally said, the words final and terrifying. I love you, but I cant let my wife look like a provincial white crow beside the wives of my partners. Theyre all Oxbridge graduates, gallery owners, society ladies. Youre not from that world. Im sorry.
He got up and left the kitchen, leaving me alone with an unfinished dinner and a shattered life. I stared at a point on the wall, the phrase Youre a disgrace thudding in my head, burning through everything. Fifteen years of marriage, a son we raised, a home Id made cosy all wiped out by his harsh verdict. I felt like a stain.
That night I lay awake beside the peacefully sleeping Victor, staring at the ceiling. I recalled our first meeting him, a young ambitious engineer, me, a university student. Wed lived in a flat, survived on baked beans and canned meat, dreaming big. He wanted a massive business, I wanted a big, happy family. He seemed to have achieved his dream. What about mine?
In the morning I faced the mirror. The woman looking back was fortytwo, tired eyes, fine lines at the corners of her mouth. Attractive, wellkept, but faceless. Id dissolved into my husbands world, stopped reading because he called it boring fiction, abandoned my painting hobby because theres no time, became a background for his success. And now that background was unwelcome.
The next days blurred. Victor, feeling guilty, tried to make it up with gifts: a courier with a massive bouquet, a box of new earrings on the bedside table. I accepted everything silently, pretended to forgive, because that was easier. Inside, something finally snapped.
On the day of the corporate gala Victor was a bundle of nerves. He fussed over cufflinks, changed shirts several times. I helped him tie his bow tie, my hands moving on autopilot.
How do I look? he asked, admiring himself in the mirror in a flawless tux.
Stunning, I replied evenly.
He turned, caught my reflected gaze. For a split second something like regret flickered in his eyes.
Bea, dont be mad, okay? Im trying for us. Its business.
I nodded quietly.
When his sleek black car pulled up, I walked to the window and watched it disappear down the drive. I felt not pain but an empty calm, a strange, frightening relief as if a cage Id built for myself had finally opened.
I poured a glass of wine, turned on an old film, tried to distract myself, but the words kept looping: provincial, white crow, disgrace. Was that really who Id become?
The next day, while sorting through old things in the attic to make space, I found my university sketchbook. Opening it, the smell of oil paint hit me. At the bottom lay my old brushes, a few darkened tubes, and a small cardboard sketch of a landscape Id painted during a practice in Suzdal. Naïve, clumsy, but alive. I broke down, crying for the first time in yearsnot for the insult, but for the girl whod once dreamed of being an artist and had given that dream up for a safe, comfortable life.
I wiped my tears and made a firm decision.
A few days later I found an online ad for a small private painting studio on the other side of town, in a semibasement of an old house. It was run by an elderly artist, a member of the Artists Union, known for rejecting modern trends and teaching the classical school. Exactly what I needed.
I didnt tell Victor. Three times a week, while he was at work, I took the tube, the train, and went to my lessons. My teacher was Anna, a short, wiry woman with piercing blue eyes and paintsplattered hands. She was strict and demanding.
Forget everything you think you know, she said on the first day. Well learn to see, not just look. Light, shadow, form, colour.
I relearned still lifes, mixing paints, feeling the canvas. At first my hands felt foreign, the brush heavy, the colours dirty. I got angry with myself, wanted to quit, but something kept pulling me back to that paintsmelling cellar.
Victor didnt notice any change. He was engulfed in a new massive project, coming home late, eating dinner in front of the TV. I stopped asking him questions. I had my secret life now, filled with fresh scents, new sensations, a purpose. I began to notice how light fell on street buildings, the shades of autumn leaves, the skys colour at sunset. The world suddenly became threedimensional again.
One afternoon Anna stood by my easel, looking at a nearfinished still life a few apples on rough linen. She stared silently, head tilted. I held my breath.
You know, Beatrice, she finally said, you have something that cant be taught. You feel it. Youre not just copying objects, youre capturing their essence. Those apples hold the weight and sweetness of a fading summer.
That was the highest praise. A lump rose in my throat. For the first time in years someone valued not my housekeeping or dress sense, but my inner world, my soul.
I painted more and more, arriving early and staying late. Still lifes, portraits of fellow students, cityscapes. I felt alive again. Even my appearance changed the fatigue in my eyes gave way to a spark, my movements grew confident.
One evening Victor came home unusually early and found me in the living room, surrounded by my canvases, sorting them for the studios upcoming exhibition.
Whats all this? he asked, genuinely surprised.
Its mine, I replied, not looking away.
He picked up a portrait of an elderly caretaker Id met in the studios courtyard. The mans face was lined, but his eyes shone with kindness.
You you painted this? he asked, awe in his voice. When?
Over the last six months. Ive been going to the studio.
He stared at the painting, then at me, as if seeing me for the first time. Hed always thought my place was the kitchen, never imagined there was another world inside me.
Not bad, he said finally, a hint of admiration. Talented, even. Why didnt you tell me?
Would you have listened? I lifted my eyes to him. No resentment, just a calm statement. You were busy.
Victor felt uncomfortable. He realised that while he built his empire, a whole new, unknown world had blossomed beside him the world of his own wife.
The exhibition was held in a modest hall at the local community centre. Simple frames, plain walls. My old friends, the students, Anna, and Victor were there. Victor stood off to the side in his expensive suit, looking as outofplace as I had felt at his parties.
People gathered around my work, congratulated me, shook hands. Friends hugged, chattered excitedly.
Bea, youre brilliant! Why hide this? they said.
I just smiled.
Near the end, an elegant older woman approached. I recognized her faintly.
Beatrice, am I right? she asked warmly. Im Eleanor Spencer, wife of Victor Collins. We met at your reception a couple of years ago.
My mind raced back to the investors wife, the one Id talked apple pie with. My heart sank.
Yes, hello, I stammered.
Im amazed, Eleanor continued. Your paintings have so much soul, so much light. Especially that portrait of the caretaker. Victor never mentioned how talented his wife is. He should be proud!
She spoke loudly enough for Victor, standing nearby, to hear. I saw him flinch, then turn slowly toward us. His expression mixed surprise, confusion, and a hint of shame.
I, uh, collect contemporary art, Eleanor added. Id love to buy that landscape and the portrait, if theyre not already sold.
I could hardly believe my ears. The woman my husband had called a disgrace was now praising my work and offering to buy it.
We drove home in silence. I watched the city lights flicker past the window, feeling like a completely different person. I was no longer a shadow; I was an artist.
Back at the door, Victor stopped me.
Congratulations, he said gruffly. That was unexpected.
Thanks, I replied.
By the way, we have a New Years gala for our top partners in a month. Id like you to come with me.
He looked at me, almost pleading. He finally realised that a wifeartist praised by Eleanor was a more valuable accessory than a silent pretty face.
I looked at my strong, confident husband, the man who now seemed like a schoolboy caught in trouble. I felt no vindictive joy, only a gentle sadness and a huge sense of selfworth that Id found in that dusty basement, among paint fumes and turpentine.
Thanks, Victor, I said calmly, taking off my coat. But Im actually booked for a pleinair weekend with Anna. Its important to me right now. Maybe next time, I added, hanging my coat with deliberate care. Then I walked past him toward the studio room Id claimed at the back of the house, where a half-finished canvas waitedthe first light of dawn breaking over a field of wildflowers, bold and unapologetically alive.
