Victor claimed I was making a spectacle of him and barred me from his corporate gatherings.
Again with that junk! Emma, I asked you to toss that lot off the balcony! We dont live in a dump!
Victors voice, echoed off the empty hallway, cut like a knife. Emma flinched and dropped the old wicker basket, letting dry lavender sprigs spill onto the floor. She had just returned from her parents cottage, weary but content; there, in that tiny house left by her father and mother, she truly felt alive.
Victor, it isnt junk, she murmured, bending to gather the scattered treasure. Its memory. And I wanted to scent the wardrobes with it.
Scent? he sniffed with contempt, slipping past her into the sittingroom. He discarded his silk tie onto the sofa. Our wardrobes smell of a £30 bottle of fabric conditioner. Enough with this countryfolk trinketry. Call the builders tomorrow and have them clear the balcony. Burn it if they must.
Emma stood upright, clutching a handful of lavender the scent of childhood, of summer, of mothers hands. To Victor it was rubbish. She said nothing, slipped into the kitchen and set the kettle on. Arguing was pointless; for years any discussion on the subject ended the same way. Victor, who had built a soaring empire in construction, shunned anything that reminded him of their modest origins. He surrounded himself with costly trinkets, highstatus connections and glossy polish, leaving no room for old baskets and dried herbs.
She had learned to accept that her opinion counted for nothing when choosing furniture, that her schoolteacher friends and the local GP no longer visited because they didnt fit the mould. She settled into the role of the beautiful, silent appendage to her successful husband. Yet, now and then, a quiet surge of protest rose within her.
At dinner Victor was in high spirits, rattling off plans for the companys anniversary.
Imagine, weve booked the Grand Ballroom at the O2. All the investors, partners, even the mayor will drop by. Live music, a programme, celebrity guests Itll be the social event of the year for our circle!
Emma nodded automatically, already picturing the preparations: retrieving her best dress the dark blue gown Victor had chosen for her in Milan pairing it with sleek shoes and a coiffure from a top stylist. Despite everything, she liked those evenings; she liked feeling part of his glittering world, seeing the admiration in his eyes when he introduced her as my wife, Emma.
I think the blue dress will do, wont it? she said, smiling. Its so elegant.
Victor set down his fork and looked at her with a cold, appraising stare, the same one hed given her when she brought the lavender basket up the stairs.
Emma, he began slowly, choosing his words, I need to talk about this. In short you wont be going.
Emma froze, her fork hanging midway to her mouth.
What you mean I wont go? she asked, certain shed misheard. Why?
Because its a crucial event, he replied flatly. There will be very important people. I cant risk my reputation.
A fog lifted from her mind, replaced by a chilling dread.
I dont see how my reputation is involved, she said.
Victor sighed heavily, as if explaining to a child.
Emma, understand. Youre a good housewife, a lovely homemaker, but you you dont belong in that sort of society. Youre too plain. You speak the wrong way, with the wrong intonation. You cant even tell a Picasso from a Matisse, a Shiraz from a Bordeaux. Last time you spent half an hour with the wife of our chief investor talking about an applepie recipe. An applepie, Emma! She looked at me with such pity afterwards
Each word struck like a lash. She sat, unable to move, feeling her face turn the colour of a bruised plum. She remembered that investors wife, a sweet woman who had asked her about domestic matters after a long day of talking stocks. Emma had happily obliged, only to be shamed for it.
You disgrace me, Victor finally said, the final, terrible verdict. I love you, but I cant let my wife appear a provincial whitebird against the backdrop of my partners wives. Theyre all Oxbridge graduates, gallery owners, society dames. You you simply arent from that world. Im sorry.
He rose and left the kitchen, abandoning her with an unfinished supper and a life shattered to pieces. The words you disgrace me hammered in her temples, burning everything inside. Fifteen years of marriage, a son theyd raised, a home shed filled with warmth all crossed out by that ruthless judgment. She felt herself reduced to a stain.
That night she lay awake beside a peacefully sleeping Victor, staring at the ceiling. She recalled their first meeting: he, a brighteyed young engineer; she, a literature student in a cramped dorm, sharing cheap potatoes and tinned stew, dreaming of big futures. He had wanted a vast business empire; she had wanted a big, happy family. He seemed to have achieved his dream. And hers?
In the morning she faced the mirror. The woman looking back was fortytwo, with tired eyes and fine lines at the corners of her mouth. Attractive, wellkept, but faceless. She had dissolved into Victors world, gave up reading because he called books boring fluff, abandoned her sketches because theres no time. She had become a background for his success, and now that background was deemed unsuitable.
The days that followed drifted like fog. Victor, feeling guilty, sent couriers with bouquets and a box of new earrings. Emma accepted them in silence, pretended forgiveness, because it was easier. Inside, however, something finally snapped.
On the day of the corporate gala Victor busied himself from dawn, fussing over cufflinks and changing shirts repeatedly. Emma helped him tie his bow tie with mechanical hands.
How do I look? he asked, admiring himself in the mirror in a flawless tux.
Splendid, she answered evenly.
He turned, caught her glance in the mirror, and for a fleeting moment a look of regret flickered across his face.
Emma, dont be angry, alright? Im doing this for us. Its business.
She nodded wordlessly.
When his sleek black car rolled out of the driveway, she walked to the window and watched it disappear. Instead of pain she felt a hollow void, a strange, liberating relief, as if a cage she had built for herself were finally opening.
She poured herself a glass of sherry, turned on an old film and tried to distract herself, but the same words kept returning: provincial, whitebird, disgrace. Was that all she had become?
The next day, while clearing out the attic to make space, she uncovered a dusty sketchbook from her university days. The scent of oil paint rose, almost forgotten, and at the bottom lay a faded cardboard study a naive landscape she had painted during a field trip to the Cotswolds. Tears sprang unbidden, pouring out for the girl who once dreamed of being an artist, now exchanged for a comfortable, quiet life.
She wiped her cheeks and made a firm decision.
A few days later she found an advertisement for a small private painting studio on the other side of town, tucked in the basement of an old Georgian house. 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 sounded perfect.
She told Victor nothing. Three times a week, while he was at work, she took the tube to the studio. Her teacher, Anna Llewellyn, was a petite, wiry woman with sharp blue eyes and perpetually paintstained hands. She was strict and demanding.
Forget everything you think you know, Anna said on the first day. Well learn to see, not just look. Light, shadow, form, colour.
Emma relearned how to arrange stilllifes, mix pigments, feel the canvas. At first her hands were reluctant, the brush felt foreign, the colours muddy. She grew angry, considered quitting, but something kept pulling her back to the smell of turpentine and linseed oil.
Victor remained oblivious, engrossed in a new skyscraper project, coming home late, eating dinner in front of the television. Emma no longer waited for him with questions; she cultivated a secret life rich with new scents, textures, meaning. She began to notice how light fell on the sootstained brick of city streets, the amber of autumn leaves, the shifting hues of the sunset. The world around her suddenly regained depth and colour.
One afternoon Anna approached Emmas easel, where a nearly finished stilllife of apples on coarse linen lay. She stared silently, head tilted.
You have something that cant be taught, Emma, the artist 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 Emma had ever received. A lump rose in her throat; for the first time in years someone valued her inner world rather than her ability to host or dress.
She painted more and more, arriving early and staying late. Stilllifes, portraits of fellow students, cityscapes she felt alive again. Her appearance changed, tiredness gave way to a spark in her eyes, her movements grew confident.
One evening Victor returned home unusually early and found her on the floor of the lounge, surrounded by her works, selecting pieces for the studios upcoming exhibition.
Whats all this? he asked, genuinely baffled. Where did it come from?
Mine, she replied, not looking up.
He picked up a portrait of an elderly caretaker she had met in the studios courtyard. The mans face was etched with wrinkles, yet his eyes shone with kindness.
You painted that? Victor asked, astonished. When?
Over the past six months. Ive been going to the studio.
He stared, eyes flicking between the canvas and his wife, as if seeing her for the first time. Hed always thought her place was the kitchen, never imagined she concealed another world.
Not bad, he finally said. Even talented. Why didnt you tell me?
Would you have listened? Emma lifted her gaze. There was no accusation, only a calm statement. You were busy.
Victor felt uneasy. In the years hed built his empire, a whole new world had grown beside him his own wifes world.
The exhibition was held in a modest hall attached to the local community centre. Simple frames, plain walls. Emmas old friends, the few shed invited, the studio students, Anna, all gathered. Victor arrived in his expensive suit, looking as out of place as Emma had at his corporate parties. He drifted along the walls, his expression unreadable, while Emma watched him pause at each of her paintings, frowning, thinking.
People approached her, shook hands, praised her.
Emma, youre brilliant! Why keep this hidden?
She smiled politely.
Near the end, an elegant, middleaged lady approached. Emma recognised her faintly.
Emma, am I right? the woman asked with a warm smile. Im Eleanor Hart, wife of Victor Hartwell, the chief investor. We met at your reception a couple of years ago.
Emmas mind flashed back to the investors wife who had once asked about apple pie.
Yes, hello, she stammered.
Im amazed, Eleanor said sincerely. Your works have so much soul, so much light. That portrait of the caretaker remarkable. Victor never mentioned a talented wife. He should be proud!
She spoke loudly enough for Victor, standing nearby, to hear. He flinched, turned slowly, his face a mixture of surprise, bewilderment and something like shame.
I, actually collect contemporary art, Eleanor continued. Id love to buy that landscape, and the portrait if its still available.
Emma could hardly believe her ears. The woman who had once dismissed her now offered genuine admiration and a purchase.
They rode home in silence. Emma watched the city lights blur past the window, feeling utterly transformed. She was no longer a shadow; she was an artist.
Back in the hallway Victor stopped her.
Congratulations, he said hoarsely. That was unexpected.
Thank you, she replied.
You know, in a month we have the New Years gala for our top partners. I want you to come with me.
He looked at her with a mixture of hope and pleading, as if she were now a valuable accessory rather than a silent ornament.
Emma regarded her successful, confident husband, who now seemed as out of his depth as a schoolboy caught cheating. There was no triumph in her heart, no desire for revenge, only a gentle sorrow and a profound sense of selfrespect she had forged in a dusty basement among paint and turpentine.
Thank you, Victor, she said calmly, pulling off her coat. But I have a pleinair workshop with Anna Llewellyn on those dates. Its important to me.
