David, youre making a right spectacle of me, he snapped, banishing me from his company parties.
Again with that junk, Imogen! I told you to toss that clutter off the balcony! Were not living in a dump!
Davids voice echoed down the empty hallway, a harsh clang in my ears. I flinched, and the old woven basket slipped from my hands, scattering dry lavender sprigs across the floor. Id just arrived from the countryside, weary but content; in that modest cottage left by my parents I felt truly alive.
David, its not junk, I whispered, crouching to gather the fragrant remnants. Its memory. I was hoping the lavender would make the cupboards smell nice.
Lavender? he sneered, strolling past to the lounge. He peeled a silk tie from his neck and flung it onto the sofa. Our cupboards smell of £30 fabricsoftener. Enough of this rustic nonsense. Call a removal firm tomorrow, clear the balcony, and burn whats left.
I straightened, clutching the lavender bundlesummer, childhood, mums hands. To him it was rubbish. I said nothing, slipped into the kitchen, and set the kettle on. Arguing would have been pointless; any debate on the subject ended the same way over the past few years. David, now a soaring figure in construction, was ashamed of anything that reminded him of our modest beginnings. Hed built a fortress of pricey gadgets, highsociety contacts, and glossy polish, leaving no room for battered baskets or the scent of dried herbs.
Id grown used to being invisible when it came to décor decisions, to the point where my schoolteacher and GP friends no longer visited because they didnt fit the vibe. Id resigned myself to being the pretty, silent accessory to my successful husband. Yet, occasionallylike nowa quiet rebellion rose inside me.
At dinner David was in high spirits, rattling off plans for the upcoming anniversary of his holding company.
Can you believe it? Weve booked the Grand Ballroom at The Savoy. Investors, partners, even the mayor promised to swing by. Live music, a programme, celebrity guests Itll be the social event of the year!
I nodded automatically, already picturing the ritual: retrieve my best dressthe deep navy one hed picked for me in Milanchoose shoes, get my hair done by a trendy stylist. Despite everything, I liked those evenings. I liked feeling like a piece of his glittering world, seeing his eyes sparkle when he introduced me: My wife, Imogen.
Im thinking of what to wear, I said with a smile. The blue dress, perhaps? Its rather elegant.
David set down his fork and stared at me with a cold, appraising gazethe same look hed given this morning when hed glared at my lavender basket.
Imogen, he began slowly, choosing his words. I need to talk about this. In short you wont be going.
I froze, fork hanging midair.
What you mean I wont go? I blurted, certain Id misheard. Why?
Because its a very important event, he intoned. There will be very serious people, and 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?
David sighed heavily, as if explaining to a clueless child.
Imogen, youre a good wife, a wonderful homemaker, but you you dont belong in that sort of society. Youre too plain. You talk the wrong way, to the wrong people. You cant tell Picasso from Matisse, or sherry from sauvignon. Last time you spent half an hour discussing applepie recipes with the wife of our chief investor. Applepie, Imogen! She looked at me with such pity
Each word cracked me like a whip. I sat, unable to move, feeling my face turn red. The memory of that corporate dinnerwhere the investors wife, weary of endless stocktalk, asked me about homecookingsuddenly felt like a humiliation.
You disgrace me, he finally declared, the words final and dreadful. I love you, but I cant have my wife looking like a provincial white crow among the elite wives of my partners. Theyre all Oxford or Cambridge grads, gallery owners, society belles. And you youre not from that world. Im sorry.
He rose from the table, leaving me alone with a halfeaten meal and a shattered life. The phrase You disgrace me rang in my ears, burning into my temples. Fifteen years of marriage, a son we raised together, a home Id filled with comfortall erased by his ruthless verdict. I was a disgrace.
That night I lay awake beside a peacefully sleeping David, staring at the ceiling. I recalled our first meeting: him, a young ambitious engineer; me, a student at the local university. Wed lived in a dorm, survived on chips and tinned meat, dreaming big. He chased a sprawling business empire; I dreamed of a warm, bustling family. He clearly achieved his dream. What about mine?
Morning found me in front of the mirror. A fortytwoyearold woman stared backtired eyes, fine lines around her mouth, tidy but featureless. Id dissolved into my husbands world, stopped reading because he called it boring prose, abandoned my sketching because theres no time. Id become a backdrop for his success, and now that backdrop was deemed inappropriate.
The next few days drifted like fog. David, feeling guilty, tried to compensate with gifts: a courier delivered a massive bouquet of roses, a box of new earrings appeared on the bedside table. I accepted everything in silence, pretending forgiveness for the sake of ease. Inside, something finally snapped.
On the day of the corporate gala, David fretted from dawn onward, fussing over cufflinks, changing shirts repeatedly. I helped him tie his bow tie mechanically.
How do I look? he asked, admiring himself in the mirror, flawless in an immaculate tux.
Splendid, I replied evenly.
He caught my reflection, and for a breath his eyes hinted at regret.
Dont be angry, love. Im doing this for us. Its business.
I nodded wordlessly. When his sleek black car pulled away, I stood at the window, feeling not pain but a hollow emptinessstrangely, a liberating one, as if a cage had finally opened. I poured a glass of wine, turned on an old film, and tried to distract myself, but the words kept looping: provincial, white crow, disgrace. Was that really all Id become?
The following day, while clearing out the attic, I stumbled upon my old student sketchbook. Its oily scent hit me like a wave. Inside lay faded brushes, darkened paint tubes, and a small cardboard studya naïve landscape Id painted in Suzdal. Tears welled up, bitter and long, mourning not the humiliation but the girl whod once yearned to be an artist, now swapped for a comfortable, predictable life.
Wiping the tears, I made a firm decision.
Within days I found an online ad for a tiny private painting studio in a semibasement of a Victorian terrace on the other side of town. 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. Exactly what I needed.
I told David nothing. Three times a week, after his long workdays, I hopped on the tube and headed to my lessons. My teacher was called Annabel. She was a short, wiry woman with piercing blue eyes and perpetually paintstained hands. Strict, demanding, she greeted me on the first day:
Forget everything you think you know, she said. Well learn to see, not just look. Light, shadow, form, colour.
I relearned stilllife, mixed paints, felt the canvas under my fingers. At first my hand rebelled, the brush felt foreign, colours muddy. I cursed myself, nearly gave up, but something kept pulling me back to that scent of turpentine and linseed oil.
David remained oblivious, consumed by a new massive project, arriving home late, dinner in front of the TV. I stopped waiting for his inquiries; I cultivated a secret life full of new scents, textures, meanings. I began noticing how light fell on street façades, the amber of autumn leaves, the shifting hues of the sky at dusk. The world regained its depth and colour.
One afternoon Annabel approached my easel, where a nearly finished stilllife of apples on rough linen lay. She stared silently, head tilted.
You know, Imogen, she finally said, you have something you cant teach. You feel the essence. Those apples carry the weight and sweetness of a fading summer.
Her praise hit me like a warm hand on a cold shoulder. For the first time in years, someone valued my inner world, not my housekeeping or dress sense.
I began painting more, arriving early, leaving last. Stilllives, portraits of fellow students, urban sketchesmy spirit revived. My eyes brightened, my movements gained confidence.
One evening David came home early, found me on the livingroom floor surrounded by my work, selecting pieces for the studios upcoming exhibition.
Whats all this? he asked, genuinely surprised. Where did it come from?
Its mine, I replied, not pausing.
He picked up a portrait of an elderly caretaker from the studios courtyard. The mans wrinkled face glowed with kindness.
You painted this? he asked, awe in his voice. When?
The past six months. Ive been going to the studio.
He stared, his gaze flicking between the canvas and me, as if seeing me for the first time. Hed always assumed my place was the kitchen, never imagined another world hidden inside me.
Not bad, he said finally, a hint of genuine admiration. Why didnt you tell me?
Would you have listened? I raised an eyebrow. You were busy.
David shifted uneasily, suddenly aware of the world Id built while he built his empire.
The exhibition took place in a modest hall of the local community centre, plain frames, simple lighting. My old friends, fellow students, and Annabel attended. David was there too, in his expensive suit, looking as outofplace as I once felt at his parties. He drifted along the walls, his expression unreadable, yet I saw him pause, frown, contemplate.
Guests congratulated me, shaking hands, hugging.
Immy, youre a talent! Why hide it? they exclaimed.
I smiled politely.
Later, an elegant older lady approached, her face vaguely familiar.
Imogen, am I right? she asked warmly. Im Eleanor Whitaker, wife of Victor Sinclair. We met at your reception a couple of years ago.
My mind raced back to the investors wife, the one with whom Id discussed applepie.
Yes, hello, I stammered.
Im thrilled, Eleanor continued, eyes bright. Your works have so much soul, so much light. Especially that portrait of the caretaker. Victor never mentioned you have such talent. He should be proud!
She spoke loudly enough for David, standing nearby, to hear. He flinched, then turned slowly toward us, a mixture of surprise, embarrassment, and something like shame in his eyes.
I, uh, I collect contemporary art, Eleanor added, and Id love to purchase that landscape and the portrait if theyre available.
I could hardly believe it. The woman my husband deemed a disgrace was now praising my art before one of the most influential people in our circle.
We drove home in silence. I gazed at the city lights flickering past, feeling wholly transformed. I was no longer a shadow; I was an artist.
Back at the door, David stopped me.
Congratulations, he said hoarsely. That was unexpected.
Thanks, I replied.
You know, in a month we have the New Years gala for our top partners. Id like you to come with me.
He looked at me with a hopeful, almost pleading gaze. He had finally realised that a wifeartist, lauded by Eleanor herself, was a far more impressive accessory than a silent prettyface.
I looked at my successful, confident husband, who now resembled a schoolboy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. There was no spite, no desire for revengejust a gentle melancholy and a swelling pride born in that dusty basement among turpentine fumes.
Thank you, David, I said calmly, removing my coat. But I already have a pleinair session scheduled with Annabel that weekend. Its important to me. Im not missing it for a gala, not even yours. Ive spent too many years fitting myself into your world. Now, Im painting my own.
