“Stop wasting time with your silly paintings, you foolish woman!” the man snapped. He didnt know Id sold one of those “silly paintings” anonymouslyfor a fortune. The sharp, sweet scent of oil paint hung in the air, the smell of freedom.
Eugene Philip Harrington, my husband, despised that smell. He loomed in the doorway of my tiny studioreally just a partitioned corner of the drawing room. “Again,” he sighed. It wasnt a question. His tailored suit looked absurdly out of place against my paint-splattered canvases. He wrinkled his nose at the palette. “Agatha, we agreed. No mess in the evenings. The turpentine reeks for hours. We have guests coming Saturdaywhat will they think?”
I dipped my brush into crimson without a word. The red bled into the fibres, alive and warm as blood. “Its not mess, Eugene.”
“What is it, then?” He jabbed a finger at the half-finished canvas. “Mindless smears. Wasted linen. Money down the drain.”
His pragmatism was a press, methodical and unrelenting, crushing anything bright or vivid into flat, grey mundanity. “This space could be put to proper use. Shelving for my tools, at least. Or winter tyres. Ive already found an excellent design.”
I dragged a bold red line across the canvas. It was jagged, defiant, tearing the composition apartexactly as Id intended.
“Stop wasting time on these daubs, you silly girl!”
His words fell like stones, heavy and dirty. Once, theyd wounded me, left unseen scars.
But not today.
Today, I wore an invisible shieldunyielding as steel. I turned slowly, my face calm. He expected tears, excuses, shoutingthe usual script. He got nothing.
“Im busy, Eugene.”
He faltered at my tonefirm, without a trace of deference. His eyes flickered, as though adjusting focus. “Busy with what? Draining our savings?”
I turned back to the canvas. My silence irked him more than any argument.
On the laptop beside my easel, an unread email glowed. I hadnt closed it before hed arrived. It still shone there, a beacon in the dim light:
*Dear Mrs. Whitcombe, We are pleased to inform you that your piece “August Breath” has sold at private auction. Final sale: £32,000.*
“Clear this up by tomorrow,” he called from the hall. “The carpenters coming at eleven. Be here.”
The door slammed.
I took my finest brush, dipped it in pure white, and placed the final dot on the painting.
The point of no return.
Morning changed nothingand everything.
The flat smelled the same: last nights supper, Eugenes cologne. Yet I breathed differently. Deeper.
He sat at the table, absorbed in his tablet, sipping a tasteless green smoothiewholesome, like his entire life. He didnt look up. “Ill be late tonight. Dont bother with supper; Ill dine with associates.”
Once, Id have nodded. Said, “Of course, dear.”
Today, I sipped my coffeebitter, rich, realin silence.
He glanced up, unsettled by my lack of response. “Did you hear? The carpenters coming at eleven. Be here.”
I took a slow swallow. “Fine.”
He smirked, returning to his spreadsheets. Hed gotten what he wantedsubmission. He just didnt realise what Id confirmed: Id be here. That was all.
The moment the door shut, I opened my old laptop. Another life waited there, password-protected. *Agatha Whitcombe.* My pseudonym. My maiden namethe one Id never surrendered, not even on my passport.
The foreign bank account had been opened a year prior, after a particularly vile row. A contingency. Id squirrelled away the remnants of Grans inheritancewhat Eugene dismissed as “pocket change.” That “change” had quietly funded my participation in online exhibitions.
The transfer took minutes. The numbers didnt dazzle me. They were solid ground beneath my feet.
At ten, my phone rang. Unknown number.
“Agatha Whitcombe?” A mans voicedeep, calm, velvet-rough. No steel in it.
“Speaking.”
“Kiril Lebedev. I own the gallery that handled your piece. First, congratulations. It was a sensation.”
I said nothing.
“The collector who bought ita very prominent manis enthralled. He wishes to commission another. For his country estate. The subject is yours to choose. He trusts your vision entirely.”
Those last words were music.
“Ill… consider it,” I managed.
“Of course. No rush. But know this, Agathawhat you create isnt daubs. Its art. The world should see it.”
We spoke for ten minutes more. Of pigments, light, texture. He understood. Spoke my language.
When I hung up, the doorbell rang.
Eleven on the dot. Punctualitythe courtesy of kings and carpenters.
I looked at my cornermy canvases, my chaos, my soul.
And I answered the door with a faint, knowing smile.
The carpenter was young, tired-eyed. “Afternoon. Im here to measure for shelving. Tools, was it?”
“Good afternoon,” I said evenly. “Theres been a mistake. The orders cancelled.”
He blinked. “Cancelled? Your husband confirmed this morning”
“He acted hastily.” I handed him a twenty. “For your trouble.”
Baffled, he pocketed the note. “Right. Your business. Cheers.”
As the door shut, I leaned against it. First step takennot back, but forward.
I didnt search for a studio. Id known its location for monthsspotted it during one of my aimless walks, escaping another lecture on “financial prudence.” A converted factory, huge windows. Id saved the agents card.
The call took moments. Deposit paid online. Three months rent.
Eugene returned early that evening, in a foul mood. A deal had likely collapsed. He strode in, still in his shoes, his gaze snapping to my untouched corner.
“Agatha!” he barked. “Explain. Where are the measurements?”
I emerged with peppermint tea. “I cancelled the order.”
He froze mid-shrug, his jacket half-off. “You what?”
“Cancelled. The shelving.” I enunciated slowly. “It isnt needed here.”
He flung his jacket onto the sofa. “Have you lost your mind? I decide whats needed! I earn the money!”
“We both know that isnt entirely true,” I said softly.
He loomed over me, reeking of rage and expensive aftershave. “What nonsense is this?”
“Your last venture was funded with Grans money. We just call it household funds.”
His face purpled. A direct hitto his pride. “Youungrateful wretch! Ive given you everything! A home, security! And you squander it onthis!”
He seized the canvasthe one with the white dotand raised it high, poised to snap it over his knee.
I didnt scream. Didnt lunge.
I dialled, put it on speaker. Kirils voice filled the room.
“Agatha? Good evening. I was just about to call.”
Eugene froze, the canvas aloft, his face slack with shock.
“Kiril, good evening,” I said, calm. “A business proposal. Ill accept your clients commission. On one condition.”
A pause. Kiril was quick. “Name it.”
Eugenes eyes darted between the phone and the painting. A predator robbed of its prey.
“I need transport for several works. Including one currently… at risk. To my new studio.”
I held Eugenes gaze. Confusion swam in his eyes.
“New studio?” Kiril said. “Splendid! My team can be there in an hour. Same address?”
“No.” I took a pen, wrote the factorys address. “And Kirilthe advance? Same account.”
I hung up.
Eugene set the canvas down gingerly, as though it were glass. “Whatwhat was that? What commission? What studio?”
“The daubs, Eugene. My work.”
“Work?” He laughed nervously. “Whod buy that?”
“One already has. Enough for a studio. Enough never to ask you for paint money again.”
I fetched my pre-packed bagnot a suitcase, just a holdall.
He followed. “How much? Five hundred? A thousand?”
I paused at the door. “It doesnt matter. Your worldwhere I was a silly girl with daubsis gone. Mine remains. In it, tyre racks belong in garages. And drawing rooms are for painting.”
His face contorted,
