Scene from a marriage

INT. LIVING ROOM/STUDIO. DAY.

SUNLIGHT pours through two half-opened window blinds, casting shadows across two works of art - detailed, worldly, expansive - on a long white wall. A female ARTIST, attractive, dark hair, sits anxiously on a bright red sofa. The ARTIST'S HUSBAND sits typing by a laptop on a nearby round red table. The phone rings.
ARTIST(answering): Hello? Oh hello. Hi. I missed your call. How was your holiday?

A MONTAGE of small talk, the words REVERBERATE and ECHO, the images begin to BLUR and WHITE-OUT, the ARTIST taps her fingers impatiently.

ARTIST(cont.): Good. Great. (a laugh) Oh. (a long pause) Right. I see. (a sigh) No, I know. Yes. Pardon? No. I see. Never mind. That's just the way it is. I completely understand.

The ARTIST stares defiantly, admiringly, without vanity, at her work on the wall, and shakes her head.

CUT TO:

INT. LIVING ROOM/STUDIO. DAY.

The ARTIST'S HUSBAND opens the blinds completely and leans back on his chair. It SQUEAKS.

ARTIST'S HUSBAND: She was the first private gallerist to see the work. She loved it. She said so. She wanted to show the work. It's not her gallery. It's her father's.

The ARTIST smiles bravely and picks up the phone and dials a number.

ARTIST(into phone): Yes, hello. I'd like to order another board. (another smile) Yes. It's me. Oh, one hundred and twenty-two centimetres by eighty-five? No. No, it's for a new piece...

The ARTIST looks at her husband. The CAMERA crosses their faces, passes slowly over the work, encircles the room, moves into the light and out the window. We travel through the window and through the foliage of a line of trees, and across the road, across open land, above a park, where we meet a balloon and float, float HIGH above the city skyline and river.