A Wall in Her Favour
Emma, why are you getting involved in this conversation? Victor didnt even turn towards me. He stood at the window holding a wine glass, broad-shouldered, confidently composed as ever, and spoke softlyalmost kindly, which was the worst of all. Andrew asked me, understand? Me. Dont trouble him with your ideas.
Andrew Seymour, our guest and Victors new business partner in some logistics venture, stared down at his plate. He looked uncomfortableI could tell by how he shifted in his chair, picking up his fork though it was clear he had no appetite.
I only mentioned that those huge city centre spaces are standing empty, I said evenly.
Emma. Victor finally turned, and I saw that look in his eyesthe one Id learnt to recognise after twenty-seven years. Not anger. Worse: condescension. Youve fed our guests, this meal is excellent, everythings splendid. Why not bring dessert now?
There were four more at the table. Andrews wife, Louise, glanced at me for a moment, sympathy flickering in her eyesor so I thought. I stood, gathered some dishes, and went to the kitchen.
I lingered at the sink, staring into the dark garden. It was drizzlinga fine autumn rain smudging the neighbours lights into pale blots. I was fifty-two years old. Behind me, laughter and glass clinking echoed as Victor entertained. I took the cake Id baked from the fridge and brought it to the dining room.
This was simply my life.
Our house stood in a good neighbourhood of a large English city where wed spent all our married years. Victor built it when his business began to thrive, fifteen years backa spacious, double-storey home with a garage and a garden Id designed myself because Victor was too busy and the hired gardener kept planting things in silly places. The house was beautiful. Guests always said, What taste you have, Mrs Richardson! I always smiled and thanked them, because every curtain, every shelf, and every currant bush by the fence was my doing.
But the house was in Victors name.
Id never worked in the way Victor did. After university, where we met, I taught technical drawing at a college for a couple of years. Then our son, Henry, was born, Victors business started growing, we moved around, held functions at home, attended events, and I was always needed by his side. I gave up my work. Victor used to say, Why bother with that pittance? Ill provide. And he always did, generously, but so that whenever I needed money just for myself, I either had to ask or save from the housekeeping.
I started making jewellery by accident, about ten years ago. I was stuck at the country cottage in the rain and discovered a box of old beads in a cupboard. By evening, Id made a necklacesurprisingly lovely. Then another, and yet another. Friends asked for gifts, and eventually to buy. I bought tools, learned to work with stones and silver clasps. It became my own thinga bit of space for myself.
Victor treated it as he did my tomatoes in the gardena hobby, something harmless.
You and your beads, hed say when I showed him a new piece. Its hardly serious, Em. Where are you going to flog those, at a market?
I didnt answer. What was the point?
Henry grew up and moved to London, got married and settled there. We saw each other on holidays. He called on Sundays, asked how I was, and I asked about his job. It was fine, reallywe loved each other, just lived separate lives.
Actually, I didnt have a life of my own.
There was the grand house, Victor, guests twice a week, charity luncheons Victor attended for his networking, and I was always there, in the proper dress, polite and smiling. I was his calling card, the lovely wife who made people feel at ease. Thats work too, I knowbut unpaid, and rarely thanked.
The letter arrived in February. A regular envelope, from a solicitors office on Bridge Streetan unfamiliar name. I opened it at the kitchen table while Victor still slept.
A cousin of my mothers, Miss Beatrice Haywood, whom Id met maybe three times, last at a relatives funeral decades ago, died in December. She had no children. Shed left me a property. Not a flat, not a plota whole building: a two-storey, postwar commercial place in the centre of the city, three hundred and forty square metres, long abandoned.
I read the letter three times.
Then I rang the solicitor.
Yes, Mrs Richardson, all correct. Miss Haywood named you sole beneficiary. And the land beneath the building is included in the inheritanceshe made sure it was all properly registered in her name back in the nineties. Clear title.
Land in the city centre? I repeated.
Yes, though its a small plotbut the location is excellent.
I thanked him and sat for a long time with the letter.
I didnt tell Victor. Im not sure whyor rather, I am. I knew exactly how it would go: hed visit, say it needed knocking down or selling, that he knew someone in construction, and once again Id be stood there watching things decided for me.
The first time, I went alonetold Victor I was visiting a friend.
The building stood in a back lane behind the old theatre, in that part of town where Victorian houses mingled with postwar blocks and new glass offices. The lane was quiet, lined with cobbles, trees budding with spring.
It looked dreadful. Peeling paint, boarded ground-floor windows, rusting gatesbut the brickwork was solid. I walked round twice, touched the walls, examined the roof. It held up. I slipped in through a side door left ajar.
High ceilings. Large windows with broken panes. Wooden floorboards upstairs, sagging in spots but mostly sound. Old tiles beneath the dirt. It smelled of damp and aged wood.
I stood in the centre, gazing up at a hole in the ceiling with the sky beyond.
Suddenly I felt something oddnot fear, not sadness, but a sense of arrival, as if Id found what was mine.
The solicitor was pleasant, in his mid-forties. We sorted the paperwork within a fortnight. I took them home and filed them in the jewellery roomVictor never went in there.
My friend, Natalie, who worked as an estate agent, was the first I told.
Are you serious? she asked after a long silence.
Yes.
Em, this is moneya property in the city centre, land. Big money. Do you realise?
I do. But Im not selling.
So what do you want?
I thought, then said, Remember when we went to those old art exhibitions? When we were young. The Art House on Birchester Road?
Of course.
Something like thata place for people. For exhibits, for creating, for learning. An art space, as they call it now.
Natalie was quiet for ages.
Emma, thats a huge investment. Refurbishing, all the utilitiesits expensive.
I know.
Do you have the funds?
Not yet. But I will.
She didnt probe further. Natalie understood how to listen, and keep silenta quality I adored in her.
I started raising money the only way I couldmy jewellery. Id made many pieces over the years and never sold them, simply created. Some I considered my best: silver pendants with local stones, handmade bracelets, sets that took weeks to craft.
Natalie helped. Through a friend, she got my pieces into a small independent boutiqueshe told them they were crafted by an anonymous artist uninterested in publicity. The first set sold within three weeks.
Emma, youd be amazed! Natalie beamed down the phone. Theyre asking if therell be more. Remember that labradorite ring you refused to give away? Gone in two hours.
How much for?
She named a figure.
I headed out onto the balcony because suddenly the room felt too small.
Within three months, Id sold a sums worth beyond anything Id imagined. I put the money onto a bank card in my own nameVictor knew nothing about it.
Meanwhile, I found buildersnot through Victors contacts, but on my own, after internet searches and a few café meetings during Victors office hours. The team I hired was just four, led by Mark, a quiet man my age who looked at the building without disdain.
Decent walls, he said, tapping the bricks. Need to redo the roof, replace some flooring, new windows. Complete rewire, obviously. Should take us four months if the works steady.
We wont stop, I replied.
He gave me a long looknot judging, just careful.
All right, he said.
Life at home rolled onI cooked, played hostess, attended Victors functions, sat through business conversations. Sometimes, while he was talking, I nodded along, but my mind was on window frames, mezzanines upstairs for storing canvases, the gallery lighting.
Victor never noticed. I was part of the background, and the background kept to its place.
There was one close callhe found a DIY store receipt in my handbag (Id stopped there for paint samples).
Whats this? he asked over supper.
Just something for the house, I answered calmly.
Looks like primer.
I want to fix up the basement wallstheres damp.
He shrugged and returned to his phone. The conversation lasted thirty seconds.
Mark turned out to be a craftsman: never hurried when he shouldnt, never dawdled when he shouldnt. We mostly discussed practical things. Sometimes Id just stand in the middle of the worksite amidst the sawing, hammering, sanding, and I felt wellin my body, in my head, as if the air had changed.
Natalie came by in June, when the windows were in and the walls smoothed.
My word, Emma, she exclaimed, its going to look stunning.
It will.
So, any ideas for actual events? We need a proper concept, you know.
Already thought about itexhibits by local artists, classes, renting studio space, a little café on the ground floor, maybe a reading corner.
Youve mapped it all out, Natalie smiled.
Ive been dreaming of it for three yearsI just never knew it might become real.
September brought Cathy, who sold her handmade dolls at a craft fair. She stood behind a small table, reading a book as people passed by. The dolls were marvellous. I picked one up.
Do you make these yourself? I asked.
I do.
How long now?
Seven years. She looked up. Like them?
Very much. Im Emma. Im opening a small art spacenot huge, but Im looking for people interested in working or exhibiting.
She set aside her book.
And so the group began to assemble. Cathy knew two painters. One of them brought a sculptor. The sculptor introduced a woman running ceramics classes in need of premises. By October I had twelve names on a list, waiting for opening day.
The funds were running low. Only a handful of my better pieces remained unsold. Mark still needed his final payment, plus we had to buy lighting and pay for a sign.
I sold the last item Id meant to keepa silver and amethyst set Id crafted over two years. Natalie rang the next day.
It sold within an hour! The woman said she’d never seen anything like it. Asked if there were more.
There arent, I said.
Are you upset?
No, I told herand meant it.
The studio opened in early November. I didnt make a big fussjust a post on the local online group, inviting artists and anyone interested. About sixty people came to the first evening.
Victor was away on business. I told him Id be at Natalies. He said, FineI’ll just sort myself out for dinner.
I stood in the hall, watched people looking at the art, talking, picking up Cathys dolls, and I had to steady my hands. Not from fear, but from the feeling when you get what youve wished for, for so long.
Mark came too. He stood by the wall, surveying the room.
Its turned out well, he remarked.
Thank you, I said.
Nothank you, he replied.
From then, things moved faster than Id hopedartists rented the studios, the ceramics classes filled up, the café on the ground floor, run by a young lady named Sophie, opened in December and quickly became a hub even for locals with no connection to the studio. The local papers ran a little featurethen another.
Once I bumped into a neighbour from across the street, a retired gentleman.
Is this your place? he asked, nodding at the building.
It is, I replied.
Ive lived here decadesnever before has there been anywhere really to go in this lane. Good work.
I thanked him and walked on, grinning all the way back to the car.
Victor found out in Januarynot from me, but by way of a business contact whod seen a newspaper article with a picture from our opening, naming me as owner. He mentioned it over dinner.
Emma, he said that evening after our guests left, Anything you want to tell me?
I was clearing dishes. Unhurried, calm.
Yes, I said, Sit down, and Ill make some tea.
I told him everything. About the inheritance, the building, the renovations, the jewellery. He listened wordlessly, face unreadablehis business mask.
When I finished, he was quiet, then: You kept all this from me.
I did.
Why?
I looked at him. He actually wanted to know. Or thought he did.
Because if Id told you, Victor, youd have decided for me. It wouldve become your project, not mine.
Thats unfair.
I suppose it isjust as youve never really asked me, in twenty-seven years, what I truly wanted.
He rose, stood at the window with his mug.
Do you want me to say Im proud of you?
No, I replied. You dont have to say anything.
He didn’t.
We lived a few more months together, unchanged on the surface, but something had shifted. Quietly, not with a bang but like ice meltingsoundless, slowly altering shape.
Then came the ball.
The city’s annual charity ball, every February, was a grand event for local business and the council. Victor always attended. This year, an invitation came in my name, too. A lady from the committee called to say theyd be offering, for the first time, an award for Best Renewal of City Space and my art spaceThe Haywood Rooms, named after my great-auntwas on their shortlist.
Could you attend in person? she asked.
I can, I said.
Victor found out about the award the same day. I told him. He looked at me strangelythe way you look at someone long-known but suddenly new.
Congratulations, he said flatly.
Thank you.
I bought my own dressdark blue, perfectly tailored and unadorned. I wore my own jewellery: a replacement labradorite ring, and small garnet earrings.
At the event, we sat at different tablesVictor, as a regular on the charity committee, near the stage; I, among the nominees. Our eyes met as I sat downhe nodded, so did I.
The ballroom was stunningan old city manor, with ornate plasterwork and crystal chandeliers. It was packedwell-dressed guests, music, flowers. I sat up straight, thinking how just a year ago Id have been at home, washing dishes, listening to laughter through a wall.
When our award was announced, I walked onstagemy legs a little unsteady, but it didnt show.
The committee chairman, an older man with a kindly voice, spoke about the impact of creative spaces. Then he called my name, handed me a small crystal trophy and an envelope.
Would you like to say a few words?
I took the mic. The room hushed. I spotted Natalie, smiling from the back. Victor too, face expressionless, unreadable.
Id like to thank everyone who believed in this place before it existedartists, craftsmen, all who came and stayed. And to my Aunt Bealong gone nowwho left me much more than a building.
I spoke for three minutes, no more. The room applauded. I walked back to my seat with the trophy.
Natalie darted over during a break and hugged me tightly. Emma, did you see his face?
I did.
And?
Nothing extraordinary, I said, smiling.
Victor approached after the formalities were done.
Nice speech, he said.
Thank you.
You look good.
Victorplease. Theres no need.
He waited.
We need to talk. Properly.
I know, I agreed. Well talk at home.
We talked for hoursnot a row, just two exhausted, middle-aged people finally honest. I told him I wanted a divorce.
He was quiet a long time. Then: Is there someone else?
No. I just want to live my own life.
Youve got your own life. Now.
Yes. And I want to continueon my own.
He paced the room.
The housewill we divide it?
The house is in your name, I said calmly. But the land it stands on is mine.
He stopped short.
What?
I explained. The land had been acquired long ago under my great-aunts namesomething Id only discovered during the inheritance. The solicitor and a lawyer verified it: the land was mine, outright.
Victor stared at me as if seeing me for the first time.
You knew this all along?
Since the inheritance was settled.
And said nothing.
Yes. Just as you kept silent about so many things.
He sat. We talked for hoursno shouts, no tears. Two tired people whod spent years side by side, now seeing something both strange and familiar in one another.
The lawyers finalised the divorce quietly. I left Victor the house, on terms my solicitor made very clear. The settlement I invested in The Haywood Roomsexpanding the café, adding a small upstairs gallery.
I rented a new flat nearby. Fourth floor, overlooking old rooftops and a gnarled lime tree that filled the whole street with its scent every spring, windows closed or not.
On my first night, I woke in darkness at three, listening to the silence: no voices, no footsteps, nobodys breath beside me. Only the occasional car below, and the rain beyond the glass.
I was fifty-three. I was alone, and unafraidand that, I thought, was important.
A year passed.
By the next winter, The Haywood Rooms was thriving. Three full-time artists had studios, ceramics classes ran thrice a week and were booked up for months. Sophie made the café into something homelywooden tables, old city photographs on the walls. On Fridays, a jazz quartet played in a corner.
Cathy had sold every last doll and was making new ones to order. We became friendsa rare, right-place friendship.
Natalie would sometimes tell me, Emma, you look ten or fifteen years younger.
Its just a good nights sleep, Id reply.
I kept making jewellerynot for profit, just for myself. In the evenings, when the dark crept in, Id switch on the lamp, spread out stones and silver by my table, and create. This was a quiet, private timebelonging only to me.
In early December, I bumped into Victor by chance near The Haywood Rooms. We spotted each other at once, walking opposite ways.
He seemed a little olderalmost unfamiliar after a year apart, or maybe I was finally seeing clearly.
Emma, he said.
Victor. Hello.
We stoppeda pause, but not an awkward one. Just the break between two people whove known each other too long, and have nothing much left to say.
How are you?
Well. And you?
Not bad. He hesitated. I heard you opened a second gallery upstairs.
Yes, in November.
Impressive, he said sincerelyno trace of old patronage, just honesty.
Thank you.
Another pause.
Listenbit of a question. Im looking at renting a showroom in the centre. Do you know anyone reliable doing refurbishments in the area?
I looked at him, feeling something old stir insidea reflex, twenty-seven years spent answering, helping, solving beside (or for) him. It was ingrained.
I smiled.
No, Victor. I dont know anyone.
His surprise flashed, but there was no offence.
All rightthanks.
Best of luck, I said.
And to you.
We went our separate ways. At the corner, I stopped, pulling up my collar against the chill. The scent of pine drifted over from the Christmas tree market down the street.
I thought of popping into The Haywood Rooms that eveningCathy was hanging her new collection, thered be people, Sophie would bake as always, thered be jazz, voices, and golden light streaming from the big old windows.
I walked on, quietly satisfiedbecause even after years of watching life from the background, you can choose to step forward and claim your own space. The wall that once kept me out now sheltered something newa place that belonged, at last, to me.
