“Stop wasting your time on those silly paintings, you daft woman!” the man snapped. He had no idea Id just sold one of those “silly paintings” anonymously for a fortune.
The paint smelled sharp and sweetthe scent of freedom.
Edward James Whitmore, my husband, hated that smell. He stood in the doorway of my tiny studio, which was really just a partitioned corner of our living room in Chelsea.
“Again,” he exhaled. It wasnt a question.
His tailored suit looked out of place against my paint-splattered canvases. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, eyeing the palette.
“Eleanor, we agreed. No mess in the evenings. You reek of turpentine for days. Weve got guests coming Saturdaywhat will they think?”
I dipped my brush into crimson without a word. The red bled into the canvas, alive and warm as blood.
“This isnt a mess, Edward.”
“Then what is it?” He jabbed a finger at the nearly finished canvas. “Meaningless splashes of colour. Ruined canvas. Money down the drain.”
His pragmatism was like a vicesqueezing, methodical, crushing anything bright or alive into flat, grey, comprehensible facts.
“This space couldve been useful. Shelving for my tools. Or at least for winter tyres. Id already found a perfect option.”
I dragged a bold scarlet line across the canvas. It was crooked, defiant, tearing the composition apartexactly what I wanted.
“Focus on something useful, not these childish daubs!”
His words landed like dirty stones. Once, theyd cut deep. Left invisible scars.
But not today.
Today, I had a shield. Invisible, unbreakable. I turned to him slowly, my face calm. He expected tears, excuses, shoutingthe usual script. He got none.
“I am focused, Edward.”
He faltered at my tonesteady, unwavering. No hint of deference. He blinked, as if adjusting his vision.
“On what? Destroying our household budget?”
I turned back to the canvas. My silence infuriated him more than any argument.
On the laptop beside my easel, an unread email glowed. I hadnt closed it before he came in. It still shone there, a beacon in the dim light.
**”Dear Mrs. Whitmore, were pleased to inform you that your piece ‘Breath of August’ has sold at private auction. Final bid: £30,000.”**
“Clear this up by tomorrow,” he tossed over his shoulder, already in the hallway. “Ive booked a fitter for the shelves. Be home by eleven.”
The door slammed.
I picked up my finest brush, dipped it in pristine white, and placed the final dot on the canvas.
A point of no return.
Morning changed nothing and everything.
The flat smelled the samelingering traces of last nights dinner and Edwards expensive cologne. But I breathed differently. Deeper.
He sat at the table as usual, absorbed in his tablet, sipping a green smoothiehealthy, tasteless, like his whole life. He didnt look up.
“Ill be late tonight. Dont bother cooking; Im dining with clients.”
Once, Id have nodded. Said, “Of course, darling.”
Today, I sipped my coffeerich, bitter, realin silence.
He glanced up, unsettled by the lack of response. “Did you hear me? The fitters coming at eleven. Be here.”
I took another sip.
“Fine.”
He smirked, retreating into his digital world, satisfied. Hed gotten what he wantedcompliance. He just didnt realise what Id agreed to. Id be home. That was all.
The moment the door closed, I opened my old laptop. Another life waited there, hidden behind a password. **Eleanor Whitmore.** My pseudonym.
My real name. My maiden name. The name Id never changed on my passport, the one known in certain circles.
The offshore account had been opened a year ago, after a particularly vile row. Just in case. The remnants of Grans inheritancewhat Edward called “pocket money”had quietly funded my online exhibitions.
The transfer took minutes. The numbers didnt dazzle me. They grounded me.
At ten, my phone rang. Unknown number.
“Eleanor Whitmore?” A mans voicedeep, smooth, faintly husky. No edge, just velvet.
“Speaking.”
“Oliver Sinclair. I own the gallery that represented your work. First, congratulations. It was a sensation.”
I stayed quiet, unsure how to respond.
“The collector who bought ithes quite prominent. Hes enthralled. And hes asking he wants to commission another piece. For his country estate. Your choice of subject. He trusts your vision entirely.”
Those last words rang like music.
“Ill think about it,” was all I managed.
“Of course. No rush. But know this, Eleanorwhat you create isnt daubs. Its art. The world should see it.”
We spoke for ten more minutespigments, light, texture. He understood. Spoke my language.
When I hung up, the doorbell rang.
Eleven on the dot. Punctualitythe courtesy of kings and fitters.
I glanced at my cornercanvases, paints, the beautiful chaos that was my soul.
I answered the door with a small, knowing smile.
The fitter was a tired-eyed young man.
“Morning. Here to measure for shelving. For tools, was it?”
“Good morning,” I said calmly. “Theres been a mistake. The orders cancelled.”
He blinked. “Cancelled? Your husband confirmed”
“He was hasty.” I handed him a fifty. “For your trouble.”
He hesitated but took it. “Right. Your call.”
I shut the door and leaned against it. First step taken. Not defensive. Offensive.
I didnt need to hunt for a studio. Id known where it was for monthsa converted factory in Shoreditch, huge windows. Id saved the agents card.
The call took minutes. Deposit paid online. Three months upfront. Done.
Edward came home early that evening, in a foul mood. Deal fallen through, no doubt.
He stormed into the living room, shoes still on, eyes locking onto my untouched corner.
“Eleanor!” he barked. “Whats this? Where are the measurements?”
I stepped out of the kitchen with peppermint tea.
“I cancelled it.”
He froze, halfway out of his jacket. Turned slowly.
“You did what?”
“Cancelled. The shelving.” I enunciated. “We dont need it.”
He flung his jacket onto the sofa. “Have you lost your mind? I decide what this house needs! I earn the money!”
“We both know thats not entirely true,” I said softly.
He loomed over me, reeking of anger and cologne.
“What nonsense is this?”
“Your last venture was funded by Grans money. We just called it household budget.”
His face flushed crimson. A direct hithis egos weak spot.
“You” he hissed. “Ungrateful! I gave you everything! A home, security! And you waste time onthis!”
He snatched my latest canvasthe one with the white dotand raised it, ready to snap it over his knee.
I didnt scream. Didnt lunge.
I tapped my phone, put it on speaker.
Olivers velvet voice filled the room. “Eleanor? Good evening. I was just about to call.”
Edward froze, canvas mid-air.
“Oliver, good evening,” I said evenly. “Business proposal. Ill accept your clients commission. With one condition.”
A pause. Oliver thought fast.
“Im listening.”
Edwards eyes darted between the phone and the canvas. A predator robbed of his prey.
“I need help transporting several pieces. Including one currently at risk. To my new studio.”
I held Edwards gaze. Confusion swam in his eyes.
“New studio?” Oliver echoed. “Brilliant! Consider it done. My team can be there in an hour. Same address?”
“No.” I wrote the Shoreditch address on a notepad. “Different. Ill text it. And Oliver? The advancesame account.”
I hung up.
Edward set the canvas down carefully, as if it were glass.
“Whatwhat was that? What commission? What studio?”
“Your daubs, Edward. My work.”
“Work?” He laughed nervously. “Your paintings? Whod buy them?”
“One already sold. Enough for a studio. Enough to never ask you for money again.”
I walked to the bedroom, pulled out a pre-packed holdallnot a suitcase. A suitcase wouldve implied I might return.
Edward followed. “How much? How much for thatsplotch? Five hundred? A thousand?”
I paused in the doorway.
“It doesn
