March 12
I can still hear Jamess voice echoing down the empty hallway, his words cutting through the quiet like a knife. Emma, this is rubbish! I asked you to get rid of that junk on the balcony. We dont live in a landfill! He shouted, his tone amplified by the empty entryway. I froze, the old wicker basket slipped from my grasp, scattering dried lavender sprigs across the floor. I had just returned from the countryside, exhausted but content; in that little cottage left by my parents I truly felt alive.
James, its not junk, I whispered, bending to gather the scattered stems. Its memory. I wanted to make sachets so the cupboards would smell nice.
He snorted with disdain as he passed me into the lounge, loosening his expensive silk tie and flinging it onto the sofa. Our cupboards already smell of that £30 fabric softener spray. Stop hauling that countryfolk stuff into the house. Call the cleaners tomorrow and have them clear the balcony, then burn the lot.
I stood rigid, clutching the lavender bundlechildhood summers, my mothers gentle hands. To him it was nothing but clutter. I said nothing, slipped into the kitchen and set the kettle on. Arguing was pointless; any conversation about this had ended the same way for years. James, who had built a soaring empire in construction, was embarrassed by anything that reminded us of our modest beginnings. He surrounded himself with pricey possessions, highstatus contacts, and glossy surfaces, leaving no room for old wicker baskets or the scent of dried herbs.
I grew used to it. Used to my opinion being irrelevant when it came to furnishing choices, to my friendsschoolteachers and nursesno longer being invited because they dont fit the image. I resigned myself to being the pretty, silent accessory to my successful husband. Yet, moments like this sparked a quiet, deafening protest inside me.
At dinner James was in high spirits, rattling off details about the upcoming anniversary of our holding company. Can you imagine? Weve booked the Grand Ballroom at the London Hilton. Investors, partners, even the mayor promised to drop by. Live music, a programme, celebrity guests Itll be the social event of the year for our circle!
I nodded automatically, already picturing the preparations: retrieving my best dressthe dark blue one hed picked out for me in Milanchoosing shoes, getting my hair done by a top stylist. Despite everything, I liked those evenings. I liked feeling part of his glittering world, watching the admiration in his eyes when he introduced me as my wife, Emma.
I think the blue dress will be perfect, I said, smiling.
James set down his fork, his gaze turning cold and evaluativethe same look hed given me the morning he tossed my lavender basket. Emma, he began slowly, choosing his words, I need to talk to you about this. You you wont be going.
My fork froze halfway to my mouth.
What you mean I wont go? I asked, certain Id misheard. Why?
Because its a very important event, he replied flatly. There will be very serious people. I cant risk my reputation.
A fog lifted from my mind, replaced by a chilling dread.
I dont understand. What does my reputation have to do with yours?
James sighed heavily, as if explaining to a child. Emma, youre a good woman, a marvelous housewife, but you you dont belong in such circles. Youre too plain. You speak the wrong way, with the wrong inflection. You cant even tell Picasso from Matisse, or Sauvignon Blanc from Merlot. Last time you spent half an hour with the wife of our main investor discussing an applepie recipe. Applepie, Emma! She looked at me with such pity afterwards
Each word landed like a lash. I sat, motionless, feeling my face turn a shade of ash. The memory of that investors wife, weary of endless talk about stock prices, flashing a polite smile as I chatted about baking, now seemed a humiliation.
Youre embarrassing me, James finally said, the final, damning words. I love you, but I cant let my wife look like a rustic country bird among the daughters of my partners. Theyre all Oxbridge graduates, gallery owners, society belles. You youre not from that world. Im sorry.
He rose from the table and left the kitchen, leaving me alone with an unfinished meal and a life shattered into shards. I stared at a point on the wall, the echo of his words ringing in my ears: Youre embarrassing me. Fifteen years of marriage, a son we raised, a home I filled with warmthall crossed out by his ruthless verdict. I was a disgrace.
That night I lay awake beside James, who slept peacefully, while I stared at the ceiling. My mind drifted back to our first meetinghim, a young ambitious engineer; me, a student at the local university, sharing cheap meals of potatoes and tinned meat, dreaming of a big family. He chased a business empire; I chased a happy home. His dream seems realised; what about mine?
In the morning I faced the mirror. A fortytwoyearold woman stared backtired eyes, fine lines at the corners of her mouth. Attractive, wellkept, yet faceless. I had dissolved into my husbands world, stopped reading because he called it boring fiction, abandoned my sketching because theres no time. I had become a backdrop for his success, and now that backdrop was deemed unsuitable.
The days that followed were a haze. James, feeling guilty, tried to make amends with grand gesturescouriers delivering bouquets, new earrings left on the dressing table. I accepted them silently, pretending forgiveness, because it was easier. Inside, something finally snapped.
On the day of the corporate gala James fussed from dawn, choosing cufflinks, swapping shirts. I helped him fasten his bow tie, my hands moving on autopilot.
How do I look? he asked, admiring himself in the mirror, dressed in a flawless tux.
Splendid, I replied evenly. He caught my reflection, a fleeting flicker of regret in his eyes.
Emma, dont be angry, alright? Im doing this for us. Its business.
I nodded quietly.
When he left, I stood by the window, watching his sleek black car disappear down the driveway. Instead of pain I felt an emptiness, a strange, frightening reliefas 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. Yet the same words looped in my head: rustic, white bird, disgrace. Had I really become that?
The next day, while clearing out the attic to make space, I uncovered my old student sketchbook. The scent of oil paint, long forgotten, hit me immediately. Inside lay dried brushes, darkened tubes, and a small cardboard studya naive landscape Id painted during a practice trip to Salisbury. I broke down, weeping for the girl who had once dreamed of being an artist, now sacrificed for a quiet, comfortable life.
After drying my tears, I made a firm decision.
Within days I found an advertisement for a small private painting studio on the other side of town, set in a semibasement of an old Victorian house. It was run by an elderly artist, a member of the Royal Society of Artists, famed for rejecting modern trends and teaching the classical school. It was exactly what I needed.
I told James nothing. Three times a week, after he left for work, I caught the tube and rode to my classes. My teacher, Anna Lewis, was a short, wiry woman with striking blue eyes and paintstained hands. She was strict, demanding.
Forget everything you think you know, she said on the first day. We will learn to see, not just look. Light, shadow, form, colour.
I relearned still lifes, mixed pigments, felt the canvas under my brush. At first my hands were foreign, the colours muddy, frustration mounting. I wanted to quit several times, but something kept pulling me back to the scent of turpentine and the quiet of that underground studio.
James remained oblivious, consumed by a new massive project, coming home late, dinner in front of the TV. I stopped waiting for his inquiries. I had a secret life nowfilled with new smells, sensations, meaning. I began to notice how light fell on the streetlevel buildings, the hues of autumn leaves, the changing sky at dusk. The world around me regained depth and colour.
One afternoon Anna stood before my almostfinished still lifeseveral apples on a coarse linen clothand stared silently, tilting her head.
You have something that cant be taught, she finally said. Your feeling. You dont just copy objects; you convey their essence. In these apples lies the weight and sweetness of a fading summer.
Her praise struck my throat. For the first time in years someone valued not my domestic duties or my choice of dress, but the world inside me.
I started painting more. I arrived at the studio before anyone else, left last. I did still lifes, portraits of fellow students, urban scenes. My eyes brightened, my movements grew confident.
One evening James came home early and found me in the living room, surrounded by my canvases, selecting pieces for the studios upcoming exhibition.
Whats this? he asked, genuinely surprised. Where did it come from?
Its mine, I said without looking up.
He walked over, picked up a portrait of an elderly gardener from the studios courtyard. The mans face was lined, yet his eyes shone with kindness.
You you painted this? he asked, amazement in his voice. When?
For the past six months. Ive been going to the studio.
He stared, his gaze shifting between the painting and me, as if seeing me for the first time. He had always assumed my realm was the kitchen and the house.
Not bad, he said finally, a hint of admiration. Why didnt you tell me?
And would you have listened? I replied, my eyes steady. You were busy.
He looked uncomfortable, realizing that while he built his empire, a whole new world had blossomed beside himmy world.
The exhibition was held in a modest hall at the local community centre. Simple frames, humble space. Former friends Id invited, studio mates, Anna, and even James attended. He stood at the back in his expensive suit, looking as outofplace as I had always felt at his corporate parties. He moved along the walls, his expression unreadable, pausing at my works, frowning, pondering.
Guests approached, congratulated, shook hands.
Emma, youre a genius! Why keep this hidden? a friend exclaimed.
I only managed a smile.
Near the end, an elegant older woman approachedher face vaguely familiar.
Emma, am I right? she asked warmly. Im Eleanor Thompson, wife of Victor Sinclair. We met at a reception a couple of years ago.
My mind raced back to the investors wife, the applepie conversation.
Yes, hello, I stammered.
Im blown away, Eleanor said earnestly. Your paintings have so much soul, such light. Especially that portrait of the old man. Victor never mentioned having such a talented wife. He should be so proud!
She spoke loudly enough for James, who stood nearby, to hear. He flinched, turning slowly toward us, his eyes a mixture of surprise, embarrassment, and something like shame.
I actually collect contemporary art, Eleanor continued. Id love to purchase that landscape, and the portrait if its still available.
I could hardly believe my ears. The woman my husband had deemed a disgrace was now being praised by one of the most influential figures in our circle.
The drive home was silent. I watched the city lights glide past the window, feeling like a completely different person. I was no longer a shadow; I was an artist.
Back in the hallway, James stopped me.
Congratulations, he said, his voice low. That was unexpected.
Thanks, I replied.
By the way, we have the New Years party in a month for our top clients. Id like you to come with me.
He looked at me with a hopeful, almost pleading expression. He seemed to realise that a wife who painted was a much finer accessory than a quiet, decorative one.
I looked at my successful, confident husband, who now resembled a schoolboy caught in his own web. There was no glee, no desire for revengejust a gentle sorrow and a deep, newfound sense of selfworth born in that dusty basement among turpentine fumes and oil paints.
Thank you, James, I said calmly, taking off my coat. But I already have a pleinair workshop scheduled with Anna that weekend. Its important to me. Ive missed too many sunrises already. I wont miss this one just to stand quietly in a room full of people who once looked through me. Ill be painting on the cliffs that morningwhere the light is honest, and the air doesnt need perfume.
