My husband says I disgrace him and has barred me from his corporate gatherings, she would later recall, her voice tinged with the weight of years gone by.
The lot of it again, Eleanor! I asked you to throw that junk off the balcony! Were not living in a dump! Victors voice rang through the empty hallway, echoing off the plaster. Startled, Eleanor dropped the old wicker basket, and a cascade of dried lavender sprigs tumbled to the floor. She had just returned from the family cottage in the Cotswolds, weary but content; there, in that modest home left to her by her parents, she truly felt alive.
Victor, it isnt junk, she whispered, kneeling to gather the fragrant debris. Its memory. And I wanted a sachet for the closets, so theyd smell nice.
Sachet? he sneered, slipping past her into the drawingroom. He stripped a silk tie from his neck and flung it onto the settee. Our closets smell of that £30 fabricsoftener bottle. Stop hauling this countryfolk trinketry into the house. Call the removal men tomorrow and have them cart everything off the balcony and burn it.
Eleanor straightened, clutching the lavender bundlechildhood summers, her mothers gentle hands. To Victor it was nothing but clutter. She said nothing, slipped into the kitchen, and set the kettle on. Arguing would have been futile; any discussion on the subject in recent years ended the same way. Victor, who had built a soaring empire in construction, shunned anything that recalled their humble beginnings. He erected a fortress of expensive possessions, highstatus acquaintances, and polished glamour, leaving no room for handwoven baskets or the scent of dried herbs.
She had grown accustomed to her voice being ignored when furniture was chosen, to her schoolteacher and nurse friends no longer being invited because they didnt fit the format. She had resigned herself to being a beautiful, silent accessory to her successful husband. Yet, like now, a quiet tide of protest rose within her.
At dinner Victor was buoyant, extolling the upcoming anniversary of their holding company.
Can you believe it? Weve booked the Grand Hall at The Savoy for the whole night. Investors, partners, even the mayor promised to turn up. Music, a programme, celebrity guests itll be the social event of the year for our circle!
Eleanor nodded automatically, already picturing the preparations: her finest dressa deep navy gown Victor had once chosen for her in Milanpaired with elegant shoes and a coiffure from a fashionable stylist. Despite everything, she still liked these evenings, liked feeling part of his glittering world, liked the admiration in his eyes when he introduced her as my wife, Eleanor.
I think the blue dress would be perfect, she smiled. Its so elegant.
Victor set down his fork and met her gaze, his look cold, appraisingmuch like the morning when he had scrutinised her lavender basket.
Eleanor, he began slowly, choosing his words, I need to talk to you about this. In short you wont be going.
She froze, fork midway to her mouth.
What you mean I wont go? she asked, certain she had misheard. Why?
Because its a very important function, he declared. There will be very serious people, and I cannot risk my reputation.
A fog lifted from her mind, replaced by a chilling dread.
I dont understand. What does my reputation have to do with yours?
Victor sighed heavily, as though explaining to a child.
Eleanor, youre a good woman, an excellent housewife, but you you dont belong in that sort of society. Youre too plain. You speak the wrong way, with the wrong intonations. You cant tell Picasso from Matisse, or Chablis from Sauvignon. The last time you spent half an hour discussing an applepie recipe with the wife of our chief investorapple pie, Eleanor!she looked at me with such pity
Each remark landed like a lash. She sat, unable to move, feeling her face flush. She recalled that corporate evening, the investors wifean amiable ladywho had asked her about domestic matters after a long day of stock talks. Eleanor had gladly obliged, only to be later embarrassed.
You disgrace me, Victor finally intoned, his voice final. I love you, but I cant let my wife appear a provincial oddoneout beside the wives of my partners. Theyre all Oxbridge graduates, gallery owners, society dames. You you simply arent from that world. Im sorry.
He rose from the table, left her alone with a halfeaten meal and a shattered life. The phrase you disgrace me hammered in her temples, burning everything inside. Fifteen years of marriage, a son they raised, a home shed filled with warmthall erased by that merciless verdict. She was a disgrace.
That night she lay awake beside the peacefully sleeping Victor, staring at the ceiling, recalling their first meeting. He had been a young, ambitious engineer; she a university student. Theyd lived in a dorm, survived on beans and tinned meat, and dreamed. He dreamed of a great business, she of a big, loving family. His dream seemed fulfilled; hers, not so much.
In the morning she faced the mirror. A woman of fortytwo stared backtired eyes, fine lines at the corners of her mouth. Attractive, wellkept, yet faceless. She had dissolved into her husbands world, stopped reading novels because he called them boring fluff, abandoned painting because there was no time. She had become a backdrop to his triumph, and now that backdrop was deemed unsuitable.
The days that followed drifted like fog. Victor, feeling some vague guilt, tried to placate her with giftsan extravagant bouquet of roses, a box of new earrings on the dressing table. Eleanor accepted them in silence, pretended forgiveness because it was easier. Yet inside something finally broke.
On the day of the corporate gala Victor fussed from dawn, choosing cufflinks, changing shirts repeatedly. Eleanor helped him tie his bow tie mechanically.
How do I look? he asked, admiring himself in the mirror, immaculate in a tuxedo.
Splendid, she replied evenly.
He caught her glance in the mirror, and for a heartbeat his eyes flickered with something like regret.
Dont be angry, love. Im doing this for us. Its business.
She nodded quietly.
When the door shut behind him, she walked to the window and watched his sleek black car pull away. In that instant she felt not pain but a void, and a strange, terrifying reliefas if a cage she had built for herself had finally opened.
She poured herself a glass of wine, turned on an old film, tried to distract herself, but the words kept circling: provincial, oddoneout, disgrace. Was that all she had become?
The next day, clearing out the attic to make space, she uncovered her student sketchbook. The smell of oil paint rose, almost forgotten, striking her nose. Inside lay her old brushes, a few darkened tubes, and a small cardboard studya naive landscape she had painted during a practice in Suzdal. It was clumsy, innocent, but alive. Tears sprang, bitter and long, mourning not the insult but the girl who had once dreamed of being an artist, now swapped for a comfortable, quiet life.
She wiped the tears and made a firm, irrevocable decision.
Within days she found an advertisement for a modest private painting studio on the other side of the city, tucked in the basement of an old townhouse. It was run by an elderly artist, a member of the Royal Society of Artists, known for rejecting modern trends and teaching the classical school. It was exactly what she needed.
She told Victor nothing. Three times a week, while he was at work, she rode the tube to her lessons. Her teacher was Miss Anne Llewellyna short, wiry woman with piercing blue eyes and perpetually paintstained hands. Strict and demanding, she greeted Eleanor on the first day:
Forget everything you think you know, she said. We will learn to see, not merely look. Light, shadow, form, colour.
Eleanor relearned stilllife, mixing pigments, feeling the canvas. At first her hands were foreign, the brush heavy, the colours muddy. She grew angry, frustrated, on the brink of quitting, yet something pulled her back into that oilfilled, turpentinescented basement again and again.
Victor remained oblivious, engrossed in a massive new development, arriving home late, dining in front of the telly. Eleanor no longer waited for him with questions. She had a secret life nowfilled with new smells, sensations, purpose. She began noticing how light fell on the streetside buildings, the hues of autumn leaves, the way the sky changed at dusk. The world around her suddenly regained depth and colour.
One afternoon Miss Llewellyn stood before Eleanors almostfinished stilllifeseveral apples on a coarse linen. She stared silently, head tilted.
You know, Eleanor, she finally said, you possess something that cannot be taught. You have feeling. You dont just copy objects; you convey their essence. In those apples lies the weight and sweetness of a fading summer.
It was the highest praise she had ever received. A lump rose in her throat. For the first time in many years someone valued her inner world, not her domestic abilities or sartorial choices.
She began painting more. She arrived at the studio before anyone else, left last. Stilllives, portraits of fellow students, cityscapesshe felt alive again. Even her appearance shifted; tiredness in her eyes gave way to a spark, her movements grew confident.
One evening Victor returned home unusually early and found her in the lounge, surrounded by canvases, selecting pieces for the studios upcoming exhibition.
Whats all this? he asked, genuinely surprised. Where did it come from?
My own, she replied, not looking up.
He stepped closer, picked up a portrait of an elderly caretaker she had met outside the studio. His face was lined with wrinkles, but his eyes shone with kindness.
You did you paint that? he asked, genuine awe in his voice. When?
The past six months. Ive been going to the studio.
He stared, eyes flicking between the painting and her, as if seeing her for the first time. He had always believed her place was the kitchen and the home. Now he glimpsed a world hed never imagined.
Its good, he said finally. Even talented. Why didnt you tell me?
Would you have listened? she answered, her gaze steady. You were busy.
Victor felt uneasy. He realised that while building his empire, an entirely new, unknown world had grown beside himthe world of his own wife.
The exhibition opened in a modest hall attached to the local community centre. Simple frames, plain walls. Eleanors old school friends, the studio students, and Miss Llewellyn attended. Victor also came, in his expensive suit, looking as out of place there as Eleanor had at his corporate parties. He walked the walls, studying the works, his face impassive. Eleanor watched him pause at her paintings, furrow his brow, think.
Guests approached, congratulated, shook hands. Friends embraced, chattered excitedly.
Eleanor, youre brilliant! Why hide this? they said.
She only managed a smile.
Near the end, when most guests had left, an elegant older lady approached. Eleanor recognised her faintly.
Eleanor, am I right? the woman asked, warm smile. Im Eleanor Sinclair, wife of Victor Stokes. We met at your reception a couple of years ago.
Eleanors mind leapt back to the investors wife, the one shed spent half an hour discussing applepie.
Yes, hello, she stammered.
Im amazed, Eleanor Sinclair continued, sincere. Your work it holds so much soul, so much light. Especially that portrait of the caretaker. Victor never mentioned a talented wife. He should be proud.
She spoke loudly enough that Victor, standing nearby, heard every word. He flinched, turned slowly toward them, his expression a mix of surprise, bewilderment, and something like shame.
I, by the way, collect contemporary art, Eleanor Sinclair added. I would love to purchase that landscape and the portrait, if theyre not already sold.
Eleanor could hardly believe her ears. The woman who had once dismissed her as a disgrace now stood before her, offering genuine admiration.
They rode home in silence. Eleanor watched the city lights flicker by, feeling wholly transformed. She was no longer a shadow; she was an artist.
Back at the doorway, Victor stopped her.
Congratulations, he said hoarsely. That was unexpected.
Thank you, she replied.
Know thisour Christmas party is in a month, for our most important partners. I want you to come with me.
He looked at her with a mixture of hope and pleading. He suddenly realised that a painter wife praised by Eleanor Sinclair was a far more prestigious accessory than a silent beauty.
Eleanor regarded her strong, selfassured husband, now looking more like a wayward schoolboy than the man she once admired. There was no malice in her heart, no desire for revengeonly a gentle sorrow and a profound sense of selfrespect she had reclaimed among the dust of the studio, amid the scent of turpentine and paint.
Thank you, Victor, she said calmly, removing her coat. But Im afraid I cant. I have a pleinair session scheduled with Miss Llewellyn those days. Its essential for me now. She hung her coat by the doorthe same door he had once walked through without a backward glanceand walked toward the studio stairs, her footsteps steady, her shadow long behind her.
