26October2025 Diary
I woke to the echo of Emmas voice from the hallway, sharp as a clap of thunder. James, Ive thrown the old basket off the balcony again! This place isnt a junkyard! she snapped, clutching a woven wicker basket that spilled dried lavender sprigs onto the stone floor. She had just returned from the countryside cottage, her face flushed with the days work, yet she still wore that quiet smile that made me feel, for a moment, alive again.
I tried to keep my tone even. Emma, thats not junk, its memory, she whispered, kneeling to gather the lavender. I wanted to make sachets so the cupboards smell nice. I let out a disdainful snort and brushed past her into the sitting room, loosening the silk tie that had cost more than I care to admit. I tossed it onto the sofa. Our cupboards already smell of the £30 airfreshener that the cleaners use. Stop bringing that countryfolk nonsense in here. Tomorrow call the movers and have them clear the balcony, then burn the lot.
She stood tall, lavender clutched in her hands, the scent of my childhood and my mothers garden. To me it was nothing but clutter. She said nothing, slipped into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Arguing would have been pointless; every conversation about this over the past few years ended the same way. My rise in the construction business had left me building a fortress of expensive things, highstatus contacts and glossy appearances. Inside those walls there was no room for handwoven baskets or the smell of dried herbs.
I had become accustomed to Emmas opinions being dismissed when it came to décor. Her friendsschool teachers and nursesno longer visited because they didnt fit the image. She accepted the role of the beautiful, silent sidekick to my success, though sometimes, like today, a flicker of protest rose within her.
At dinner I was buoyant, rattling off plans for our companys anniversary. Can you believe weve booked the Grand Hall in London? Investors, partners, even the Mayor is supposed to drop by. Live music, a programme, celebrity guests itll be the social event of the year! Emma nodded, already picturing the dark blue dress Id bought for her in Milan, the shoes, the hair stylist. I liked how those evenings made her feel part of my glittering world, how her eyes lit up when I introduced her as my wife, Emma.
She smiled, I think the blue dress will be perfectso elegant.
I set my fork down, looked at her with a cold, assessing starethe same look Id given her when she presented that lavender basket. Emma, I began slowly, choosing my words, theres something I need to tell you. You wont be coming to the event.
Her fork froze halfway to her mouth. What I wont go? Why?
This is a very important function, I said flatly. There will be very serious people there, and I cant risk my reputation.
A chill settled over her. My reputation? What do I have to do with that?
I sighed heavily, as if explaining to a child. Youre a good wife, a wonderful homemaker, but you dont belong in that sort of society. Youre too plain, you talk the wrong way, you cant tell a Picasso from a Matisse, a Chablis from a Shiraz. Remember the night you spent half an hour with the chief investors wife discussing an apple crumble recipe? She looked at me with such pity
Each sentence landed like a whip. I could see the colour draining from her face. The memory of that corporate dinner, the investors wife asking about homecooking, my embarrassment at her earnest interestit all felt like a disgrace.
You disgrace me, I finally said, the words final and cold. I love you, but I cant let my wife appear as a provincial oddball next to the daughters of my partnersOxford graduates, gallery owners, society dames. Youre simply not from that world. Im sorry.
I rose from the table, left her alone with her halfeaten dinner and a shattered sense of self. The words You disgrace me echoed in my head, pulsing like a throbbing wound. Fifteen years of marriage, our son, the home Id filled with my own touchesall seemed overridden by my harsh verdict.
That night I lay awake while Emma slept beside me, staring at the ceiling. I recalled how we met: a young, ambitious civil engineer and a university student from a modest background, sharing cheap meals of potatoes and canned meat, dreaming of a big business and a happy family. He succeeded. What about her dream?
In the morning Emma stood before the mirror, a 42yearold woman with tired eyes and fine lines at the corners of her mouth. She looked tidy, but her expression was blank. She had stopped reading, calling it boring literature, and had abandoned her painting because there was no time. She had become a backdrop to my achievements.
The days that followed were a haze. I tried to make amends with extravagant giftsa courier with a massive bouquet of roses, a box of new earrings on the dressing table. She accepted them silently, pretending forgiveness was easy. Inside, something snapped.
On the day of the corporate dinner I fussed over every detailcufflinks, shirts, the perfect bow tie. Emma helped me tie it, her hands moving mechanically. How do I look? I asked, admiring my reflection in a polished waistcoat. Fantastic, she replied evenly. He caught a glimpse of regret in my eyes, but said nothing.
When I stepped out, I watched my sleek black car pull away, and a strange, relieving emptiness washed over me. It felt as though a cage I had built for her had finally opened. I poured myself a glass of wine, turned on an old film, but my mind kept circling back to the words provincial, oddball, disgrace.
The next day, while sorting the attic, Emma discovered her old sketchbook. The smell of oil paint hit her, and she found a naïve landscape shed painted in a small town. She broke down, crying for the girl who had once dreamed of being an artist, not a housewife.
A few weeks later she enrolled in a modest private painting studio in a converted cellar on the other side of town, run by an elderly artist, Mrs. Anne L. She kept it secret from me, slipping out after work, riding the tube three times a week. Mrs. L, a stern woman with piercing blue eyes permanently stained with paint, demanded that Emma unlearn what she thought she knew and truly seelight, shadow, form, colour.
I remained oblivious, absorbed in a new massive development, coming home late, eating in front of the television. Emma no longer waited for me with questions; she cultivated her own quiet life, filled with new scents, textures, and meaning. She began to notice how light fell on the citys brickwork, the hues of autumn leaves, the changing sky at dusk. The world around her regained depth and colour.
One afternoon Mrs. L approached Emmas easel, where a nearly finished stilllife of apples on rough linen rested. She studied it silently, then said, You have something that cant be taught, Emma. You capture the very soul of those applesthe weight and sweetness of a fleeting summer. It was the highest praise I had ever heard, and for the first time in years someone valued her inner world rather than her domestic skills.
Emma began painting more, arriving early, leaving last. Her worksstilllifes, portraits of fellow students, cityscapesfilled the studio walls. Her eyes brightened, her posture grew confident.
One evening I returned home earlier than usual and found her on the floor of the living room, surrounded by canvases, selecting pieces for an upcoming exhibition. Whats this? I asked, genuinely surprised. My own work, she replied, not looking up. I took a portrait of an elderly caretaker from the studios courtyard; his lined face glowed with kindness.
You painted this? I asked, astonishment in my voice. When?
For 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. He had always thought my place was the kitchen and the hallway.
The exhibition was held in a modest hall attached to the community centre, simple frames on plain walls. My old colleagues, the investors, even the Mayors wife attended, each with a glass of champagne. I stood at the edge, in my expensive suit, feeling as out of place as Emma had felt at my corporate parties.
Guests praised her work, calling her a talent. An elegant older woman approachedEleanor Clarke, wife of Victor Sinclair, the chief investor whose wife had once asked Emma about an apple crumble. Emma, Im astonished, she said warmly. Your paintings have such soul, especially that portrait of the caretaker. James never mentioned his wife had such talent. He should be proud. I felt a jolt of shame and something akin to humility.
Eleanor continued, I collect contemporary art; I would love to purchase that landscape and the portrait if theyre still available. I could hardly believe the words. The woman I had labeled a disgrace was now being praised by one of the most powerful figures in our circle.
We drove home in silence, the city lights flickering past. Emma stared out the window, no longer a shadow but a painter with her own identity.
In the hallway, I stopped her. Congratulations, I said hoarsely. That was unexpected.
Thanks, she replied.
You know the New Years gala is in a month for our top partners. Id like you to come with me.
She looked at me, the confident, successful man I had built, now appearing almost childish. There was no vindictiveness in her eyes, only a quiet sorrow and a deep sense of dignity earned in that dusty cellar, among the smell of turpentine and paint.
Thank you, James, she said calmly, taking off her coat. But I have a pleinair week with Mrs. L at that time. Its important to me.
I watched her walk away, feeling both proud and humbled.
Lesson learned: success built on the fear of being seen as lesser blinds us to the real worth of those beside us. True respect comes not from imposing status, but from recognising the quiet brilliance that thrives in the shadows.
