23October
David called me a disgrace and barred me from his corporate gatherings.
That junk again! Eleanor, I asked you to clear the rubbish off the balcony! We dont live in a dump! his voice boomed down the empty hallway, echoing off the plaster. I jerked, letting the woven basket tumble, spilling dry lavender sprigs onto the floor. Id just returned from my parents cottage in the Cotswolds, exhausted but content. In that modest cottage, tucked away among the rolling hills, I truly felt alive.
David, its not junk, I whispered, bending to gather the fragrant remnants. Its memory. I was hoping the scent would linger in the cupboards.
Memory? he sneered, flicking past me into the sittingroom. He tossed his silk tie onto the sofa. Our cupboards smell of £30 fabricsoftener spray. Enough of this countryfolk rubbish. Tomorrow call the movers, have them haul everything off the balcony and burn it.
I stood, clutching the lavender bundlesummer, childhood, Mothers hands. To him it was trash. I said nothing, slipped into the kitchen, and set the kettle on. Arguing would have been futile; any discussion about the past had ended the same way for years. David, whod built a soaring empire in construction, was ashamed of anything that reminded him of our humble beginnings. Hed erected a fortress of expensive objects, highsociety contacts, and glossy perfection, leaving no room for old baskets or the scent of dried herbs.
Id learned to accept that my opinions mattered little when it came to furniture. My friendsschool teachers and nursesno longer visited, they didnt fit the image. Id resigned myself to being the pretty, silent accessory to my successful husband. Still, a dull, muffled protest rose within me now.
At dinner David was in high spirits, raving about the upcoming celebration of our holding companys anniversary.
Can you believe it? Weve booked the Grand Hall for the whole evening. Investors, partners, even the mayor promised to stop by. Live music, a programme, celebrity guests Itll be the social event of the year!
I nodded automatically, already picturing the preparations: pulling out the darkblue dress hed picked for me in London, matching shoes, a stylists hair. Despite everything, I loved those eveningsfeeling part of his glittering world, seeing the admiration in his eyes when he introduced me as my wife, Eleanor.
I think the blue dress will be perfect, I smiled. Its so elegant.
David set his fork down, his gaze cold and evaluative, the same look hed given me when Id placed the lavender basket on the mantel.
Eleanor, he began slowly, choosing his words, I need to talk about this. You wont be going.
The fork froze midway to my mouth.
What you mean I wont go? I asked, sure Id misheard. Why?
Its a very important function, he replied, his tone clipped. Very serious people will be there. I cant risk my reputation.
A chill settled over my thoughts, replacing confusion with dread.
I dont understand. What does my presence have to do with your reputation?
David sighed heavily, as if explaining to a child.
Youre a good woman, a wonderful housekeeper, but you you dont belong in that world. Youre too plain. You speak the wrong way, with the wrong tones. You cant tell Picasso from Matisse, or Chablis from Sauvignon. Last time you spent half an hour with the wife of our chief investor, chatting about an applepie recipe. An applepie, Eleanor! She looked at me with such pity
Each word struck like a lash. I sat frozen, feeling my face turn pale. The memory of that corporate dinner resurfaced: the investors wife, a charming lady, had asked me about household matters, weary of endless talks of stock prices. Id tried to be pleasant, only to become a source of embarrassment.
Youre a disgrace, he finally said, the words final. I love you, but I cant let my wife look like a provincial bird among the wives of my partners. Theyre all Oxbridge graduates, gallery owners, society lions. You youre not from that world. Im sorry.
He rose and left the kitchen, leaving me alone with a halfeaten meal and a shattered life. The phrase Youre a disgrace echoed in my head, pounding in my temples. Fifteen years of marriage, the son we raised, the home Id made cosyall erased by his verdict.
That night I lay awake beside David, who slept soundly, and stared at the ceiling. I remembered how we met: he, a young ambitious engineer; I, a student at the local university, sharing dorm meals of potatoes and canned beef, dreaming of a big family. He chased a grand business; I dreamed of a warm, closeknit home. His dream seemed to have materialised; mine?
Morning found me before the mirror. A fortytwoyearold woman stared backtired eyes, laugh lines at the corners of her mouth, neatly kept but almost faceless. I had dissolved into my husbands world, stopped reading novels because he called them boring fluff, abandoned my painting because theres no time. I had become a backdrop, a convenient frame for his success. Now that frame was no longer suitable.
The next days drifted like fog. David, feeling guilty, tried to make amends with lavish giftsa courier bearing a massive bouquet of roses, a box of new earrings on the dressing table. I accepted them in silence, pretending forgiveness. Inside, something finally cracked.
On the day of the corporate gala, David fussed from dawn, choosing cufflinks, swapping shirts. I helped him tie his bow tie mechanically.
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 flicker of regret passing through his eyes.
Dont be angry, love. Im doing this for us. Its business.
I nodded, feeling a strange emptiness rather than pain, as if a cage had opened. I poured myself a glass of wine, turned on an old film, tried to distract myself. Yet the words kept returning: provincial, white crow, disgrace.
The following day, clearing out the attic, I found my old sketchbook. The scent of oil paint, long forgotten, hit me. Inside lay my faded brushes, dulled tubes, and a small cardboard studya naïve landscape Id done in Suzdal during a school trip. Tears rushed down, not for the insult but for the girl who once yearned to be an artist and had traded that dream for a comfortable, quiet life.
I wiped my cheeks and made a firm decision.
Within a week I discovered an advert for a small private painting studio on the other side of town, hidden in the semibasement of an old Victorian house. It was run by a senior artist, a member of the Artists Association, renowned for rejecting contemporary trends and teaching the classical schoolexactly what I needed.
I told David nothing. Three times a week, after work, I took the tube, rode the bus, and entered the studio. My teacher was Mrs. Anne Whitfield, a short, wiry woman with penetrating blue eyes and paintstained 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 stilllife, mixing pigments, feeling canvas under my brush. At first my hand felt foreign, the colours muddy. I was angry with myself, ready to quit many times, yet something pulled me back to that paintsmelling cellar.
David barely noticed the change. He was engrossed in a new construction project, coming home late, eating dinner in front of the TV. I no longer awaited his questions; I had a secret life full of new scents, textures, meaning. I began to notice how light fell on the streetside buildings, the shades of autumn leaves, the shifting hues of the sky at sunset. The world regained depth and colour.
One afternoon Mrs. Whitfield stood before my nearly finished stilllifeseveral apples on a rough linen clothand stared silently, head tilted.
You have something that cant be taught, she finally said. You convey the essence, not just the shape. Those apples hold the weight and sweetness of a fading summer.
It was the highest praise Id ever received. A knot rose in my throat; for the first time in years someone valued my inner world, not my domestic duties or dresses.
I began painting more and more, arriving at the studio before anyone else, staying until the lights dimmed. My worksstilllives, portraits of fellow students, cityscapesmade me feel alive again. My eyes brightened, my posture steadied.
One evening David returned unexpectedly early and found me in the lounge, surrounded by my canvases, selecting pieces for the studios upcoming exhibition.
Whats all this? he asked, genuinely surprised. Where did it come from?
My own, I replied without looking up.
He picked up a portrait of an elderly caretaker Id met outside the studio. The mans face was lined, yet his eyes glowed with kindness.
You did you paint that? he asked, astonishment in his voice. When?
Over the past 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 such talent.
Its not bad, he finally said, a hint of wonder. Why didnt you tell me?
And you would have listened? I raised my eyes to him, my tone calm, free of accusation. You were busy.
He looked uncomfortable, realizing that while he built his empire, a whole new world had grown beside himmy world.
The exhibition took place in a modest hall of the local community centre, simple frames on plain walls. My old friends, the few classmates Id invited, fellow students, Mrs. Whitfieldall were there. David arrived too, in his expensive suit, looking as outofplace as I once felt at his corporate parties. He walked the walls, pausing at my works, his expression unreadable.
People approached, congratulating me, shaking hands, hugging friends.
Eleanor, youre brilliant! Why hide this? a friend exclaimed.
I only smiled.
Near the end, an elegant older lady approachedshed appeared at a previous reception.
Eleanor, am I right? she asked warmly. Im Helen Sinclair, wife of Victor Harper. We met at your reception a couple of years ago.
My mind raced back to the investors wifethe one Id once discussed an applepie recipe with.
Yes, hello, I managed.
Im struck, Helen said earnestly. Your paintings have so much soul, so much light. Especially that portrait of the old man. Victor never mentions how talented his wife is. He should be proud.
She spoke loudly enough that David, standing nearby, heard everything. He flinched, then turned slowly, a mixture of surprise, confusion, and a hint of shame in his eyes.
I collect contemporary art, Helen 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 praising me before one of the most influential women in his circle.
We drove home in silence. I watched the city lights blur past the window, feeling utterly transformed. I was no longer a shadow; I was an artist.
In the hallway, David stopped me.
Congratulations, he said quietly. That was unexpected.
Thank you, I replied.
Next month we have the Christmas party for our top partners. Id like you to come with me.
He looked at me with a pleading hope, as if my presence could now be an asset. I stared at my successful, selfassured husband, who now resembled a schoolboy whod finally realized hed been holding me back. There was no spite, no desire for revengejust a gentle sadness and a deep sense of selfworth earned in that dusty basement among the smell of turpentine.
Thank you, David, I said calmly, taking off my coat. But I have a pleinair painting trip with Mrs. Whitfield at that time. Its important to me. I understand, he whispered, stepping aside as I walked past him toward the studio door at the end of the hall, the one Id painted over myselfsunflowers blooming on a stormy sky. The key turned smoothly in the lock. Inside, my brushes waited, the canvas bare but for a single stroke of gold at the center, like a beginning.
