James told me I was making a fool of him and banned me from his company gatherings.
Again with the junk! Emma, I asked you to throw all that stuff off the balcony! Were not living in a dump!
Jamess voice echoed down the empty hallway, cutting sharp into my ears. I jumped, dropped the old wicker basket, and a handful of dried lavender twigs tumbled onto the floor. Id just come back from my parents cottage in the countryside, tired but content. In that little house, left to me by my folks, I felt truly alive.
James, its not junk, I whispered, bending to gather the scattered treasures. Its memories. And I wanted to put some in the wardrobe so it smells nice.
Scent? he sniffed contemptuously as he passed into the sitting room. He tossed his expensive silk tie onto the sofa. Our cupboards reek of that £30 airfreshener. Stop bringing this rustic nonsense into the house. Call the movers tomorrow and have them clear the balcony, then burn the lot.
I straightened, clutching the lavender bundlechildhood summer, Mums hands, the smell of home. To him it was trash. I said nothing, walked to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Arguing was pointless; every conversation about this had ended the same way for years. James, whod built a booming construction empire, was ashamed of anything that reminded us of our modest beginnings. Hed wrapped himself in a fortress of pricey gadgets, highstatus contacts, and glossy success, and there was no room in that castle for old woven baskets or the scent of dried herbs.
Id learned to accept that my opinion meant nothing when it came to furniture choices, that my friendsschool teachers and nursesno longer visited because they didnt fit the vibe. I settled into the role of the beautiful, silent sidekick to my successful husband. Still, a quiet rebellion often rose inside me, like now.
At dinner James was in high spirits, bragging about the upcoming anniversary of his holding company.
Can you believe we booked the whole Grand Hall for the bash? All the investors, partners, even the mayor said hed drop by. Live band, programme, celebrity guests itll be the event of the year for our circle!
I nodded automatically, already picturing the preparation: pulling out my best dressthe deep navy one James had picked for me in Milanchoosing shoes, getting my hair done by a top stylist. Despite everything, I liked those evenings. I liked feeling like part of his glittering world, seeing the pride in his eyes when he introduced me to his colleagues: My wife, Emma.
I think the blue dress will be perfect, I said, smiling. Its so elegant.
James set his fork down and looked at me with that cold, assessing stare hed given me when Id first brought the lavender basket.
Emma, he began slowly, choosing his words, I need to talk about the party. Youre not going.
I froze, fork midair.
What you mean I wont go? I asked, certain Id misheard. Why?
Its a very important event, he said flatly. Therell be very serious people. I cant risk my reputation.
A fog lifted from my mind, replaced by a chilling dread.
I dont get it. What does my reputation have to do with yours?
James sighed heavily, as if explaining to a child.
Emma, listen. Youre a good woman, a wonderful homemaker, but you you dont fit 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 Shiraz from Pinot. The last time you spent half an hour with the wife of our main investor discussing an apple crumble recipe, she looked at me with such pity
Each word struck like a lash. I sat there, unable to move, feeling my face turn pale. The memory of that corporate dinner when the investors wife, weary of endless talk about shares, asked me about my family recipes Id answered cheerfully, only to be called a disgrace.
Youre embarrassing me, James finally said, his voice final. I love you, but I cant let my wife look like a country bumpkin among the wives of my partners. Theyre all Oxford or Cambridge grads, gallery owners, society beauties. Youre youre not from that world. Im sorry.
He rose from the table and left the kitchen, leaving me with a halfeaten meal and a shattered life. I stared at a point on the wall, the phrase Youre embarrassing me buzzing in my ears, burning into my skull. Fifteen years of marriage, a son we raised, a home Id filled with warmth all erased by that cold verdict. I was a disgrace.
That night I couldnt sleep. I lay beside the peacefully snoring James, looking at the ceiling, recalling how we first met. He was a young, ambitious engineer; I was a literature student. We lived in a flat, ate chips with canned meat, and dreamed. He dreamed of a big business, I of a big, loving family. His dream seemed fulfilled. Mine? Not so much.
In the morning I faced the mirror. A 42yearold woman stared backtired eyes, fine lines at the corners of her mouth. Attractive, wellkept, but faceless. Id dissolved into my husbands world, stopped reading because he called books boring fluff, abandoned my painting hobby because theres no time, became a shadow, a convenient backdrop for his success. Now that backdrop was unwanted.
The next days drifted like fog. Feeling guilty, James tried to make up for it with giftsan enormous bouquet, a box of new earrings on the dressing table. I accepted everything in silence, pretended to forgive, because it was easier. Inside, something finally snapped.
On the day of the corporate party James was a whirlwind. He fussed over cufflinks, changed shirts repeatedly. I helped him tie his bow tie, my hands moving on autopilot.
How do I look? he asked, admiring himself in the mirror, dressed in a flawless tux.
Splendid, I replied evenly.
He turned, caught my reflection, and for a brief second I saw a flash of regret in his eyes.
Dont be angry, love. Im doing this for us. Its business.
I nodded quietly.
When the front door closed behind him, I walked to the window and watched his sleek black car pull out. Instead of pain, I felt a emptiness, then a strange, frightening relieflike being freed from a cage Id built myself.
I poured a glass of wine, turned on an old film and tried to distract myself, but the words kept looping: country bumpkin, white crow, embarrass. Was this all Id become?
The next day, while clearing out the attic to make space, I found my old student sketchbook. Opening it released the scent of oil paint, long forgotten. Beneath lay my old brushes, a few darkened tubes, and a small cardboard sketch of a landscape Id painted during a practice in a village. It was naïve, innocent, but alive. I suddenly burst into tearsbitter, long, mourning not the insults but the girl who once wanted to be an artist and had traded that dream for a comfortable, quiet life.
After wiping my eyes, I made a firm decision.
A few days later I found an online ad for a small private painting studio in the other side of town, tucked away in the basement of an old Victorian house. It was run by an elderly artist, a member of the Royal Society of Artists, known for teaching the classical school and shunning modern trends. Exactly what I needed.
I told James nothing. Three times a week, while he was at work, I caught the tube, rode the bus, and headed to my lessons. My teacher was Mrs. Anne Lyle, a short, wiry woman with piercing blue eyes and paintsplattered hands. She was strict and demanding.
Forget everything you think you know, she said on the first day. Well learn to see, not just look. Light, shadow, form, colour.
I relearned still life, mixed paints, felt the canvas. At first my hands were clumsy, the brush foreign, the colours muddy. I got angry, frustrated, wanted to quit, but something pulled me back to that pinescented, paintladen basement again and again.
James didnt notice any change. He was absorbed in a new massive project, came home late, ate, and fell asleep in front of the telly. I stopped waiting for his questions. I had my secret life nowfull of new smells, new sensations, new meaning. I began to notice how light fell on street buildings, the shades of autumn leaves, the skys colour at sunset. The world around me suddenly regained depth and colour.
One afternoon Mrs. Lyle stood at my easel, looking at an almost finished still lifeseveral apples on rough linen. She stared silently, head tilted. I held my breath.
You know, Emma, she finally said, you have something you cant be taught. You have feeling. You dont just copy objects, you capture their essence. Those apples hold the weight and sweetness of a fading summer.
It was the highest praise Id ever received. A lump rose in my throat. For the first time in years someone valued not my housekeeping or dress sense, but my inner world, my soul.
I started painting more and more, arriving early, leaving last. Still lifes, portraits of fellow students, cityscapes. I felt alive again. My eyes brightened, my posture grew confident.
One evening James came home unusually early and found me in the living room, surrounded by my canvases, sorting them for the studios upcoming exhibition.
Whats all this? he asked, genuinely surprised.
My work, I replied, not looking away.
He walked over, picked up a portrait of an elderly caretaker Id met in the studio courtyard. The old mans face was lined, but his eyes shone with kindness and wisdom.
You you painted this? he asked, awe in his voice. When?
Over 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. Hed always thought my place was the kitchen, never imagined there was more inside me.
Not bad, he said finally, a hint of admiration. Very talented. Why didnt you tell me?
Would you have listened? I asked, meeting his gaze. There was no blame, no resentment, only a calm fact. You were busy.
James felt uneasy. He suddenly realised that while he built his empire, a whole new world had been growing beside himhis wifes hidden world.
The exhibition was held in a modest hall attached to the local community centre. Simple frames, humble space. My old friends, the teachers Id invited, fellow students, and Mrs. Lyle were there. James arrived too, in his expensive suit, looking as outofplace as Id always felt at his parties.
He walked the walls, eyeing the works, his face unreadable. I saw him pause at my paintings, frown, think.
People came over, congratulated me, shook hands, embraced me warmly.
Emma, youre brilliant! Why did you keep this hidden? they asked.
I just smiled.
Near the end, an elegant older lady approached me. I recognised her faintly.
Emma, am I right? she said warmly. Im Eleanor Sinclair, wife of Victor Sinclair. We met at your reception a couple of years ago.
I remembered herthe investors wife Id once chatted with about an apple crumble. My heart sank.
Yes, hello, I stammered.
Im amazed, she said earnestly. Your work its full of soul, of light. That portrait of the caretaker is incredible. James never mentioned he had such a talented wife. He should be proud.
She spoke loudly enough that James, standing nearby, heard everything. I saw him flinch, turn slowly towards us, his expression a mix of surprise, confusion, and something like shame.
I actually collect contemporary art, Eleanor continued. Id love to buy that landscape, and the portrait if its still available.
I could hardly believe my ears. The woman my husband had called a disgrace was now praising my art, offering to buy it.
We drove home in silence. I watched the city lights flash by, feeling completely transformed. I was no longer a shadow; I was an artist.
Back in the hallway, James stopped me.
Congratulations, he said, his voice low. That was unexpected.
Thanks, I replied.
You know, in a month we have the New Years gala for our biggest partners. I want you to come with me.
He looked at me with a hopeful, almost pleading expression. Hed suddenly realised that a painter wife praised by Eleanor Sinclair was a far more impressive accessory than a silent beauty.
I looked at my strong, successful husband, who now seemed a bit like a schoolboy caught out. I felt no spite, no desire for revengejust a light sadness and a massive sense of selfworth Id found in that dusty basement, among the smell of turpentine and paint.
Thank you, James, I said calmly, taking off my coat. But Im not sure I can. Ive got a pleinair trip with Mrs. Lyle that week. Its really important to me. Ill be painting by the river every morning, chasing the light. Youll have to go without me.
