28October
Ive been trying to keep it together all day, but the echo of Jamess voice still rings in the flat. Youre embarrassing me, he snapped, and youre not welcome at any of my corporate events.Hed already been shouting from the hallway, That junk again, Poppy! I told you to get rid of that rubbish on the balcony. This isnt a dump!
The sound bounced off the empty entryway and made me jump, sending the old woven basket Id been carrying tumbling. Lavender sprigs spilled out onto the floor. Id just returned from my parents cottage in the Cotswolds, exhausted but content. That little house is the only place where I truly feel alive.
James, it isnt junk, I whispered, bending to gather the dry stems. Its memory. I wanted to put it in the wardrobe so it would smell nice.
He snorted, passing me on the way to the sitting room. He slipped off his expensive silk tie and flung it onto the sofa. We have a £30 fabric softener bottle in the cupboard that smells like bleach. Stop bringing farmyard smells into this house. Call the cleaners tomorrow and have them clear the balcony, then burn it all.
I straightened, clutching the lavender bundlesummer, childhood, my mothers hands. To him it was just clutter. I said nothing, drifted to the kitchen and turned on the kettle. Arguing would have been pointless; every conversation about this over the past few years ends the same way. James, whos built a soaring empire in construction, is ashamed of anything that reminds him of our modest beginnings. Hes surrounded himself with luxury, status connections, glossy façades, and theres no room for old woven baskets or the scent of dried herbs.
Ive grown used to it. Used to my opinion being irrelevant when it comes to furniture, to my friendsschool teachers, nursesno longer being invited because they dont fit the mould. Ive resigned myself to being the beautiful, silent accessory to my successful husband. Yet, beneath the surface, a quiet protest still rises.
At dinner James was in high spirits, buzzing about the upcoming anniversary of his holding company.
Can you believe weve booked the Grand Hall at the London Exhibition Centre? 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!
I nodded automatically, already picturing the preparations: the dark blue dress he bought for me in Milan, the shoes, the hair styled by a toptier stylist. Despite everything, I love those eveningsfeeling part of his glittering world, seeing the admiration in his eyes when he introduces me as my wife, Poppy.
I think the blue dress will be perfect, I said, smiling.
James set his fork down, his gaze turning cold, assessingjust like the morning he looked at my lavender basket.
Poppy, he began slowly, choosing his words, I need to talk about this. You wont be going.
I froze, fork suspended midair.
What you mean I wont go? I asked, certain Id misheard. Why?
Its a very important event, he said flatly. There will be very serious people. I cant risk my reputation.
A chill settled over me, replacing the fog in my mind.
How does my reputation have anything to do with yours? I asked, my voice shaking.
James sighed heavily, as if explaining to a child.
Youre a good wife, a wonderful homemaker, but you you dont belong in that world. Youre too plain, you speak the wrong way, you cant tell Picasso from Matisse, or Sauvignon Blanc from Shiraz. The last time you spent half an hour discussing an applepie recipe with the wife of our chief investorapple pie, Poppy!she looked at me with such pity
Each word struck like a lash. I sat, unable to move, feeling my face flush. The memory of that corporate dinner, the investors wife asking about household matters while we were supposed to be talking stocks, resurfaced. I had simply tried to be friendly and it turned into a humiliation.
Youre embarrassing me, he finally said, the final, crushing verdict. I love you, but I cant let my wife look like a country bumpkin next to the wives of my partners. Theyre all Oxbridge graduates, gallery owners, society dames. Youre youre not from that world. Im sorry.
He rose and left the kitchen, leaving me alone with an unfinished dinner and a life shattered into pieces. The phrase Youre embarrassing me rang in my ears, burning into my temples. Fifteen years of marriage, a son we raised, a home I made cosyall crossed out by his cold judgment. I felt reduced to a disgrace.
That night I lay awake beside a sleeping James, staring at the ceiling. I recalled how we met: a young, ambitious civil engineer and a student at the teachers college, sharing cheap meals of potatoes and canned meat, dreaming of a big business and a warm family. His dream seemed realised; mine?
Morning found me in front of the mirror, staring at a fortytwoyearold woman with tired eyes and fine lines at the corners of her mouth. She was presentable, tidy, but blandlost in her husbands world. Id stopped reading novels because he called them boring fluff, abandoned my sketching for no time, become a shadow, a convenient backdrop for his success.
The next days blurred. James, feeling guilty, tried to mend things with giftsa courier delivering a huge bouquet of roses, a box of new earrings on the bedside table. I accepted everything silently, pretending to forgive, because that was easier. Inside, something finally snapped.
On the day of the corporate gala James was a whirlwind, fussing over cufflinks, changing shirts repeatedly. I helped him tie his bow tie with mechanical hands.
How do I look? he asked, admiring himself in the mirror, dressed in an immaculate tuxedo.
Splendid, I replied evenly.
He caught my reflection, a flicker of regret crossing his eyes.
Dont be angry, love. Im doing this for us. Its business.
I nodded, watching his black, polished car pull away from the driveway. Instead of pain, I felt emptinessand a strange, almost frightening relief, as if a cage Id built for myself had finally opened. I poured a glass of wine, turned on an old film, tried to distract myself, but the words kept looping: country bumpkin, white raven, embarrass me. Was this all I had become?
The following day, while clearing out the attic, I found my old student sketchbook. The scent of oil paints, long forgotten, hit me. Inside lay my brushes, some darkening tubes, and a small cardboard studya naïve landscape Id painted during a practice in Sudeley Castle. Tears welled up, then fell, not for the humiliation but for the girl who once dreamed of being an artist and had swapped that dream for a steady, quiet life.
I wiped the tears and made a decisionfirm, irrevocable.
A few days later I discovered an advertisement for a small private painting studio on the other side of town, tucked in the basement of an old Victorian house. The tutor was 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 I needed.
I told James nothing. Three times a week, while he was at work, I took the Tube and headed to my lessons. My instructor, Anna Whitaker, was a short, wiry woman with sharp blue eyes and paintstained hands. She was strict and demanding.
Forget everything you think you know, she said on the first day. We will learn to see, not just look. Light, shadow, form, colour.
I relearned still life, mixed pigments, felt the canvas. At first my hand was clumsy, the brush foreign, colours muddy. I was angry with myself, ready to quit, but something always pulled me back to that paintsmelling basement.
James barely noticed. He was consumed by a new massive development, coming home late, eating dinner in front of the TV. I no longer waited for him with endless questions. I had my secret life, filled with new scents, sensations, meaning. I began to notice how the evening light fell on the streetside buildings, the hues of autumn leaves, the shifting colours of the sky at dusk. The world around me suddenly regained depth and colour.
One afternoon Anna Whitaker stopped at my easel, where a nearfinished still life of apples on rough linen lay. She stared silently, head tilted.
You know, Poppy, she finally said, you have something you cant teach. You have feeling. Youre not merely copying objects; youre conveying their essence. Those apples carry 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. I arrived at the studio before anyone else and left last. I painted still lifes, portraits of fellow students, urban scenes. I felt alive again. My eyes brightened, my posture grew confident.
One evening James came home early and found me in the lounge, surrounded by my canvases, selecting pieces for the studios upcoming exhibition.
Whats this? he asked, genuinely surprised. Where did it come from?
Its mine, I replied, not looking away from my work.
He stepped closer, picked up a portrait of an elderly caretaker Id met in the studios courtyard. The mans face was lined, but his eyes shone with kindness.
You you painted this? he asked, astonishment in his voice. When?
Over the past six months. Ive been going to the studio.
He lingered, eyes shifting between the painting and me, as if seeing me for the first time. Hed always thought my place was the kitchen, never imagined there was anything else inside me.
Its good, he said finally. Even talented. Why didnt you tell me?
And you would have listened? I asked, meeting his gaze. No accusation, no bitterness, just a calm statement. You were busy.
James looked uneasy. He suddenly realised that while he built his empire, a whole new world had grown beside himthe world of his own wife.
The exhibition was held in a modest hall at the local community centre, simple frames on plain walls. My old friends, the teaching colleagues Id invited, fellow students, and Anna Whitaker were there. James was there too, in his expensive suit, looking as outofplace as I had felt at his corporate gatherings. He walked the perimeter, face impassive, but I saw him pausing at my paintings, brow furrowed, lost in thought.
Guests came over, shook hands, complimented my work.
Poppy, youre brilliant! Why did you keep this hidden? a friend exclaimed.
I merely smiled.
Near the end, an elegant older lady approached me, a face I recognised faintly.
Poppy, 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 flashed back to the investors wife, the applepie conversation.
Yes, hello, I stammered.
Im amazed, Eleanor said, eyes bright. Your paintings have so much soul, so much light. Especially that portrait of the caretaker. Victor never told me his wife was so talented. He must be proud of you!
She spoke loudly enough for James, standing nearby, to hear. He flinched, turned slowly toward us, a mix of surprise, embarrassment, and something like shame in his eyes.
I collect contemporary art, Eleanor continued. Id love to purchase that landscape, and the portrait if its still available.
I could hardly believe my ears. The woman whose husbands wife Id once embarrassed was now praising me, offering genuine recognition.
We drove home in silence. I watched the city lights blur past the window, feeling like a completely different person. No longer a shadow, I was an artist.
In the hallway, James stopped me.
Congratulations, he said hoarsely. That was unexpected.
Thank you, I replied.
You know, our New Years party is in a month, for the top clients. Id like you to come with me. He looked at me with a pleading hope, as if seeing me as a status accessory rather than a partner.
I looked at my strong, successful husband, who now seemed more like a schoolboy whod caused a rift. There was no vindictiveness in me, only a quiet sadness and a profound sense of selfworth forged in that dusty basement among paint and turpentine.
Thank you, James, I said calmly, taking off my coat. But I have a pleinair trip with Anna Whitaker scheduled for those dates. Its important to me. Ill be painting the cliff coast at sunrise. You understand, dont you? Its just part of who I am now.
