Dear Diary,
I heard the echo of my own voice bouncing down the empty hallway as I shouted, Eleanor, I told you to throw that junk off the balcony! Were not living in a rubbish heap! She flinched, dropping the old wicker basket, and a cascade of dried lavender sprigs spilled onto the floor. She had just come back from our country cottage, exhausted but content; that little house left by her parents always made her feel truly alive.
James, its not junk, she whispered, bending to gather the fragrant remnants. Its memory. I wanted to make the wardrobes smell nice.
Fragrant? I snorted, slipping the expensive silk tie from my neck and tossing it onto the sofa. Our wardrobes already smell of cheap fabric softener, £30 a bottle. Stop bringing that countryside nonsense into the house. Call the cleaners tomorrow and have them clear the balconyburn it if they must.
She stood upright, clutching the lavender bundle, the scent of childhood summers and mothers hands. To me it was rubbish. She said nothing, walked to the kitchen and set the kettle on. Arguing was pointless; any discussion about this had ended the same way for years. I had built a towering empire in construction, and I was ashamed of anything that reminded me of our humble beginnings. My world was a fortress of pricey possessions, highstatus contacts, and glossy polish, with no room for old woven baskets or the smell of dried herbs.
She had learned to accept that her opinion meant nothing when it came to furniture choices. Her friendsschoolteachers and nursesno longer visited because they didnt fit the vibe. She resigned herself to being the beautiful, silent accessory to my success, though a quiet rebellion still rose inside her now and then.
At dinner I was in high spirits, talking animatedly about the upcoming anniversary of our holding company.
Can you believe weve booked the Grand Hall in London? Investors, partners, even the mayor will drop by. Live music, a full programme, celebrity guests It will be the social event of the year for our circle!
Eleanor nodded, already picturing herself in her finest dressa dark blue gown Id once picked out for her in Milanpaired with shoes and hair styled by a top stylist. I liked seeing her enjoy those evenings, feeling part of my glittering world, basking in the admiration when I introduced her as, My wife, Eleanor.
She smiled, Im thinking the blue dress will be perfectso elegant.
I set my fork down, looked at her with a cold, assessing stare, the same one Id given her when she held that lavender basket.
Eleanor, I began slowly, choosing my words, I need to talk about this. You wont be coming.
She froze, fork hanging midair. What I wont go? Why?
This is a very important event, I said flatly. There will be very serious people. I cant risk my reputation.
A chill spread through her mind, turning to dread.
I dont understand. What does my reputation have to do with me?
I sighed heavily, as if explaining to a child. Youre a good woman, a wonderful housewife, but you dont belong in that world. Youre too simple, you talk the wrong way, you cant tell Picasso from Matisse, or sherry from sauvignon. Last time you spent half an hour discussing an applepie recipe with the wife of our lead investor. An applepie, Eleanor! She looked at me with such pity
Each word struck like a whip. She sat, unable to move, her face draining of colour. The memory of that corporate dinner resurfaced: the investors wife, a sweet lady, had asked her about domestic matters after endless talks of share prices. Eleanor, eager to be polite, had obligedonly to be humiliated.
You disgrace me, I finally said, the words final. I love you, but I cant have my wife appear as a provincial white feather among the wives of my partners. Theyre all Oxford or Cambridge graduates, gallery owners, society lions. You youre not from that world. Im sorry.
I rose from the table and left the kitchen, leaving Eleanor alone with an unfinished meal and a shattered life. She stared at a point on the wall, the phrase You disgrace me thudding in her temples, burning everything inside. Fifteen years of marriage, a son we raised, a home she made cosyall crossed out by that cold verdict. She felt like a disgrace.
That night she lay awake beside me, watching my steady breathing. She recalled our first meeting: I, a young, ambitious engineer; she, a student at a teachers college. We lived in a shared house, ate mushy peas with canned meat, and dreamed. I dreamed of a big business; she dreamed of a large, loving family. It seemed my dream had been realised. Hers?
In the morning she faced the mirror. The woman staring back was fortytwo, with tired eyes and faint lines at the corners of her mouth. Attractive, wellkept, but faceless. She had dissolved into my world, stopped reading books because I called them boring novels, abandoned her painting because theres no time, and became a backdrop to my success. The backdrop now seemed out of place.
The following days passed in a haze. Feeling guilty, I tried to make amends with gifts: a courier delivered a huge bouquet of roses; a new pair of earrings lay on the dressing table. Eleanor accepted everything silently, pretending forgiveness because it was easier. Inside, something finally broke.
On the day of the corporate gala I fussed from sunrisechoosing cufflinks, changing shirts repeatedly. Eleanor helped me tie my bow tie, her hands moving automatically.
How do I look? I asked, admiring myself in the mirror in a flawless tuxedo.
Splendid, she replied evenly.
He turned, caught her gaze in the mirror. For a fleeting moment there was a flicker of regret.
Eleanor, dont be angry, ok? Im doing this for us. Its business.
She nodded wordlessly.
When the door shut behind me, she walked to the window and watched my sleek black car pull away. Instead of pain she felt a void, a strange, frightening reliefas if a cage shed built for herself had finally opened.
She poured herself a glass of wine, turned on an old film, tried to distract herself. Yet the same words kept circling: provincial, white feather, disgrace. Was that all she had become?
The next day, while clearing the attic to make space, she discovered her old student sketchbook. The scent of oil paint, long forgotten, hit her nostrils. At the bottom lay her brushes, some tubes darkened with age, and a small cardboard panela naïve landscape shed painted during a practice in a small town. Tears fell, bitter and long, mourning not just the insult but the girl whod once yearned to be an artist, who had traded that dream for a comfortable, quiet life.
She wiped her cheeks and made a firm decision.
Within a few days she found an online ad for a small private painting studio on the other side of the city, tucked in the basement of an old house. It was run by an elderly artist, a member of the Artists Union, who was said to reject modern trends and teach the classical school. Exactly what she needed.
She told me nothing. Three times a week, after Id left for work, she took the tube, the train, and went to her classes. Her teacher was called Anne Lyddona short, wiry woman with piercing blue eyes and perpetually paintstained hands. Strict and demanding.
Forget everything you think you know, Anne said on the first day. Well learn to see, not just look. Light, shadow, form, colour.
Eleanor relearned still lifes, mixed paints, felt the canvas. At first her hand rebelled, the brush felt foreign, colours muddy. She grew angry with herself, ready to quit many times, but something pulled her back to that pinescented, turpentineladen basement again and again.
I didnt notice the changes. My new project consumed me; I came home late, ate dinner in front of the TV, fell asleep there. Eleanor stopped waiting for me with questions. She had her secret lifenew smells, new sensations, new meaning. She began to notice how light fell on the street buildings, the shades of autumn leaves, the colour of the sky at dusk. The world around her became threedimensional and vivid again.
One afternoon Anne approached her easel where a nearly finished still lifeseveral apples on coarse linenstood. She stared silently, head tilted.
You know, Eleanor, the teacher finally said, you have something that cant be taught. You feel, you dont just copy. Those apples hold the weight and sweetness of a fading summer.
It was the highest praise. Eleanor felt a lump in her throat. For the first time in years someone valued her inner world, not her role as a housewife or a pretty dress.
She painted more and more, arriving early, leaving last. Stilllifes, portraits of fellow students, cityscapes. She felt alive again. Even her appearance changedtired eyes now sparkled, movements grew confident.
One evening I returned home earlier than usual and found her in the living room, sitting on the floor surrounded by canvases, selecting pieces for the studios upcoming exhibition.
Whats this? I asked, surprised by the paintings.
Mine, she answered without looking up.
I picked up a portrait of an elderly caretaker from the studios courtyard. His face was lined, but his eyes shone with kindness.
You you painted this? I asked, genuine amazement in my voice. When?
The past six months. Ive been going to the studio.
I stared at the canvas, then at her, as if seeing her for the first time. I had always thought her place was the kitchen and the home. I never imagined she hid another world within her.
Not bad, I said finally. Actually talented. Why didnt you tell me?
Would you have listened? she replied, eyes steady. You were busy.
I felt awkward, suddenly aware that while I built my empire, a new, unknown world had grown beside methe world of my own wife.
The exhibition was held in a modest hall of the local community centre, simple frames on plain walls. My old friends, the studio pupils, Anne, and a few of my business contacts attended. I stood in the corner in my expensive suit, looking as out of place as Eleanor had always seemed at my corporate parties.
People approached her, congratulating, shaking hands, hugging old friends.
Eleanor, youre amazing! Why keep this hidden?
She only smiled.
At the end of the evening, when most guests had left, an elegant older lady approached. I recognised her faintly.
Eleanor, am I right? she asked warmly. Im Elena Spencer, wife of Victor Hammond. We met at your reception a couple of years ago.
I remembered hershe was the wife of the lead investor, the one Id once chatted with about apple pie.
My God, your work it has so much soul, so much light. Especially that portrait of the caretaker. James never mentioned he had such a talented wife. He should be proud!
She spoke loudly enough for me to hear, and I saw a flicker of shock, then a slow turn toward us. His eyes showed a mix of surprise, confusion, and something like shame.
I collect contemporary art, Elena continued. Id love to buy that landscape and the portrait if theyre still available.
I could hardly believe my ears. The woman Id deemed a disgrace was now being praised by one of the most influential ladies in our circle, receiving genuine recognition.
We drove home in silence. Eleanor looked out at the city lights, feeling like a completely different person. No longer a shadow, she was an artist.
In the hallway, I stopped her.
Congratulations, I said quietly. That was unexpected.
Thanks, she replied.
By the way, next month we have a New Years party for our top partners. Id like you to come with me.
He looked at her with a hopeful, almost pleading expression. He suddenly realised that a wifeartist praised by Elena Spencer was a far more prestigious accessory than a silent beauty.
Eleanor studied memy successful, confident, selfassured husband, now looking more like a scolded schoolboy. There was no vengeance or spite in her heart, only a gentle sadness and a profound sense of selfworth shed reclaimed in that dusty basement among the smell of turpentine.
Thank you, James, she said calmly, removing her coat. But I have a pleinair trip with Anne next week. Its important to me.
—
Lesson: Ive learned that respect cannot be bought with money or status; it must be earned by acknowledging the true passions of those we love.
