James says Im embarrassing him and has banned me from his company parties.
Again with this junk! Ivy, I told you to throw that clutter off the balcony! Were not living in a dump!
Jamess voice, echoing down the empty hallway, slices through my ears. I shiver and the old wicker basket slips from my hands, scattering dry lavender sprigs onto the floor. Ive just returned from my parents cottage in the countryside, tired but content. In that tiny house, the one my parents left me, I truly feel alive.
James, its not junk, I say quietly, bending to gather the scattered treasure. Its memory. And I wanted to put some in the wardrobe so it smells nice.
Smell? he snorts contemptuously as he passes me into the living room. He throws his expensive silk tie onto the sofa back. Our wardrobes now smell of that £30 fabric softener spray. Stop bringing this rural rubbish into the house. Call the movers tomorrow and have them cart everything off the balcony and burn it.
I straighten, clutching the bunch of lavenderchildhood, summer, my mothers hands. To him its rubbish. I say nothing, slip into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Arguing would be pointless; every conversation about this over the past few years ends the same way. James, who has built a dizzying empire in construction, hides any reminder of our humble beginnings. He surrounds himself with pricey possessions, highstatus contacts, and glossy polish, leaving no room for old woven baskets or the scent of dried herbs.
Ive grown accustomed to it. Im used to my opinion being irrelevant when it comes to furniture, to my friendssimple schoolteachers and nursesno longer being invited because they dont fit the vibe. Ive resigned myself to being the pretty but silent accessory to my successful husband. Yet sometimes, like now, a wave of silent protest rises inside me.
At dinner James is in high spirits, animatedly talking about the upcoming eventthe anniversary of his holding company.
Can you believe it? Weve booked the Grand London Hall. All the investors, partners, even the mayor will pop in. Music, a programme, celebrity guests this will be the seasons premier social event in our circles!
I nod automatically, already picturing the preparations: pulling out my best dressthe dark blue one James chose for me in Parisselecting shoes, having my hair done by a top stylist. Despite everything, I enjoy these evenings. I love feeling part of his glittering world, seeing the admiration in his eyes when he introduces me to his contacts: My wife, Ivy.
Im thinking about what to wear, I smile. The blue dress should be perfect, right? Its so elegant.
James sets down his fork and looks at me with a cold, assessing starethe same look he gave this morning when he saw my lavender basket.
Ivy, he begins slowly, choosing his words. I need to talk to you about this. In short youre not going.
I freeze. My fork hovers midair.
What you mean Im not going? I ask, certain Ive misheard. Why?
Because its a very important function, he says, his tone flat. Very serious people will be there. I cant risk my reputation.
A fog lifts from my mind, replaced by a chilling dread.
I dont get it. How does my reputation affect yours?
James sighs heavily, as if explaining to a clueless child.
Ivy, listen. Youre a good woman, a wonderful homemaker. But you you dont know how to behave in that sort of society. Youre too plain. You talk the wrong way, with the wrong tone. You cant even tell Picasso from Matisse, or Sauvignon Blanc from Shiraz. Last time you spent half an hour with the wife of our main investor discussing an applepie recipe. Apple pie, Ivy! She looked at me with such pity
Each word lands like a whip. I sit, unable to move, feeling my face flood with colour. I recall that previous corporate dinner, the investors wifea sweet ladyasking me about something domestic, weary of endless stockprice chatter. I answered cheerfully only to be shamed.
Youre embarrassing me, he finally says, the final, terrible words. I love you, but I cant let my wife look like a provincial oddone out next to the wives of my partners. Theyre all Oxford graduates, gallery owners, society darlings. And you youre simply not from that world. Im sorry.
He rises from the table and slips out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with an unfinished dinner and a shattered life. I stare at a point on the wall, the ringing in my ears echoing his words: Youre embarrassing me. Fifteen years of marriage, the son we raised, the home I made cosy all crossed out by his ruthless verdict. I am a disgrace.
That night I cant sleep. I lie beside a peacefully sleeping James, staring at the ceiling, remembering our first meeting. He was a young, ambitious engineer; I was a university student. We lived in a dorm, survived on potatoes and tinned meat, dreaming big. He dreamed of a massive business; I dreamed of a large, happy family. His dream seems realised. And mine?
Morning finds me at the mirror. The woman looking back is fortytwo, tired eyes, fine lines at the corners of her mouth. Attractive, wellkept, but featureless. Ive dissolved into my husbands world, his interests. I stopped reading novels because he called them boring fluff. I abandoned my painting because theres no time. I became a shadow, a convenient backdrop for his success. And now that backdrop is unwanted.
The next days blur. James, feeling guilty, showers me with giftscouriers with huge bouquets, a box of new earrings on the dressing table. I accept everything silently, pretend to forgive, to understand. Its easier that way, but something inside finally snaps.
On the day of the corporate gala James fusses from dawn, picking cufflinks, changing shirts repeatedly. I help him tie his bow tie, my hands moving mechanically.
How do I look? he asks, admiring himself in the mirror, dressed in a flawless tux.
Splendid, I reply evenly.
He turns, catches my reflection, and for a split second his eyes flash something like regret.
Ivy, dont be angry, okay? Im doing this for us. Its business.
I nod wordlessly.
When he shuts the door behind him, I walk to the window and watch his sleek black car pull away. I feel not pain but an emptiness, a strange, frightening reliefas if a cage I built for myself has finally opened.
I pour a glass of wine, turn on an old film, try to distract myself. Yet the same words replay: provincial, oddone out, embarrassment. Could this be who Ive become?
The next day, while clearing out the attic to make space, I stumble upon my old student sketchbook. I open it; the scent of oil paint, long forgotten, hits me. At the bottom lie my old brushes, a few darkened tubes. I pull out a small cardboard sketcha landscape I painted during a practice trip to Suzdal. Naïve, clumsy, but alive. Suddenly, tears flood my eyes. I weep for myself, for the girl who once dreamed of being an artist, who traded that dream for a comfortable, quiet life.
I wipe away the tears and make a firm decision.
A few days later I find an advertisement for a small private painting studio on the other side of town, tucked in the basement of an old house. Its run by an elderly artist, a member of the Artists Union, known for rejecting modern trends and teaching the classical school. Its exactly what I need.
I tell James nothing. Three times a week, while hes at work, I catch the tube train and head to my classes. My teacher is Anna Lewis, a short, wiry woman with piercing blue eyes and perpetually paintstained hands. Shes strict and demanding.
Forget everything you think you know, she says on the first day. Well learn to see, not just look. Light, shadow, form, colour.
I relearn still lifes, mixing paints, feeling canvas under my fingers. At first my hands betray me, the brush feels foreign, the colours muddy. I get angry, frustrated, ready to quit several times. Yet something pulls me back to that pinescented, paintsplattered basement again and again.
James doesnt notice the changes. Hes absorbed in a new massive project, comes home late, dines, falls asleep in front of the TV. I stop waiting for him, start living a secret life filled with new smells, sensations, meaning. I watch how light falls on city buildings, the hues of autumn leaves, the skys colour at sunset. The world around me suddenly regains depth and colour.
One afternoon Anna Lewis steps up to my easel, where a nearly finished still lifeseveral apples on a rough linen clothrests. She watches silently, tilting her head. I hold my breath.
You know, Ivy, she finally says, you have something that cant be taught. You have feeling. Youre not just copying objects; youre capturing their essence. Those apples hold the weight and sweetness of a fading summer.
Its the highest praise Ive ever heard. A lump rises in my throat. For the first time in years someone values my inner world, not my ability to manage a home or pick the right dress.
I start painting more and more. I arrive at the studio before anyone else and stay after everyone leaves. I paint still lifes, portraits of fellow students, cityscapes. I feel alive again. My appearance changes too; the fatigue in my eyes gives way to a sparkle, my movements grow confident.
One evening James returns home earlier than usual and finds me in the lounge, seated on the floor surrounded by my works, selecting pieces for the studios upcoming exhibition.
Whats all this? he asks, surprised by the canvases. Where did you get these?
Mine, I reply, not looking up.
He steps closer, picks up a portrait of an elderly caretaker I met outside the studio. The mans face is lined, but his eyes shine with kindness and wisdom.
You painted this? genuine amazement colours his voice. When?
Over the past six months. Ive been going to the studio.
He stays quiet, his gaze shifting between the painting and me. It looks as if hes seeing me for the first time. He has always assumed my realm was the kitchen and the home. He never imagined there was another world inside me, one he never knew.
Not bad, he finally says. Actually talented. Why didnt you tell me?
And you would have listened? I raise my eyes to him. Theres no blame, no hurt, only a calm statement. You were busy.
James feels uneasy. He suddenly realises that while hes been building his empire, a new, unknown world has grown beside himthe world of his own wife.
The exhibition takes place in a modest hall attached to the local community centre. Simple frames, plain walls. My old friends, the teachers I invited, fellow students, Anna Lewis attend. James is there too, in his expensive suit, looking as out of place as I once did at his parties.
He walks along the walls, studying the works. His face remains impassive. I see him pause at my paintings, frown, think.
People approach, congratulate, shake hands. Friends hug, chatter excitedly.
Ivy, youre brilliant! Why keep this hidden?
I just smile.
Near the end, when most guests have left, an elegant older lady approaches me. I recognise her faintly.
Ivy, am I right? she asks with a warm smile. Im Eleanor Finch, wife of Victor Sinclair. We met at your reception a couple of years ago.
I remember. She is the wife of the main investor whose husbands wife I once spoke to about apple pie. My heart drops.
Yes, hello, I manage.
Im amazed, Eleanor says sincerely. Your work it has so much soul, so much light. Especially that portrait of the caretaker. Its extraordinary. James never mentioned he had such a talented wife. He should be proud of you!
She speaks loudly, and James, standing nearby, hears everything. I see him flinch and turn slowly toward us. His eyes hold a complex mixsurprise, confusion, and something like shame.
I, actually, collect contemporary paintings, Eleanor continues. Id love to purchase that landscape, and the portrait if its still available.
I cant believe my ears. The woman my husband called a disgrace now stands before one of the most influential people in our circle, offering praise instead of pity.
We drive home in silence. I watch the city lights flicker past the window, feeling like a completely different person. I am no longer a shadow. I am an artist.
Back in the foyer, James stops me.
Congratulations, he says hoarsely. That was unexpected.
Thank you, I reply.
You know, in a month we have the New Years gala for our top partners. I want you to come with me.
He looks at me with a hopeful, almost pleading expression. He finally understands that a wifeartist praised by Eleanor Finch is a far more valuable accessory than a silent beauty.
I look at himmy successful, confident husband, now resembling a troubled schoolboy. There is no glee, no desire for revenge, only a gentle sadness and a huge sense of selfrespect earned in that dusty basement, among the smell of paint and turpentine.
Thank you, James, I say calmly, taking off my coat. But I cant promise. I have a pleinair trip with Anna Lewis scheduled for those dates. Its crucial for me now.
