The Spare Bedroom: A totally heartwarming, funny and feel good romantic comedy

by Elizabeth Neep

  ‘Yes. Sure, let’s start over,’ I said.

  ‘Great. How about lunch? There’s somewhere I’d like to show you.’ He smiled, his green eyes still knowing just how to convince me.

  ‘Lunch. Just the two of us. Just friends?’

  ‘Just friends,’ Sam said, relieved somehow that everything was out in the open – for him at least. ‘Now out you get, you ripped-jeaned, shoe-wearing artist, you.’ Sam pulled to a halt outside CreateSpace. ‘Go, hold Tim’s clipboard like a pro.’

  I was holding the clipboard. I was holding the clipboard like a pro.

  ‘Jessica, could you just come here and hold this?’ Tim ushered me over, beckoning me to grab hold of the corner of a large, paint-splattered canvas. I walked across the exhibition room, the blank white of its walls just waiting for the pieces to be hung. The magnitude of the gallery sank in, and I was ashamed for once thinking that painting professionally was something just anybody could do. I took hold of the canvas and cocked my head to work out which way up it was supposed to go. The dense horizontal brush strokes, rising with warmth and intensity, told me which corners to grab. After brushing up on my Leo Todd knowledge, it didn’t look like one of his, but I knew by now that Tim was drawing in a whole host of local artists into the same show. This abstract painting, heavy with texture, rugged then smooth, was breath-taking. It reminded me of the kind of pieces that I had passed on to Devon, in the hope that she’d take note. I sighed; it wasn’t like I was here for the art, but I was holding the canvas like a pro. This job would be easy. Not that it was forever, or even for long – the thought made my stomach sink. I had one week to get out of Sam’s. Less than one week. I’d have to ask Tim to pay me early to give me even a hope of not handing my first paycheque directly to the hostel staff. I looked at the painting as panic started to set in. At least it was CreateSpace – that name on my CV might even be enough to entice Hannah Sommers to give me a minute of her time.

  Tim tutted at how long I was taking. I looked at his hipster attire, long grey T-shirt further highlighting his long grey hair. He was a true artist. In fact, everyone he’d roped in seemed to be, in some form or another. That, in many ways, was the problem. Throw a bunch of artists into a room and ask them to orchestrate a travelling exhibition and for all your creative ‘big picture’ thinking and passionate temperaments, you’re lacking some serious administrative details. Plus, the exhibition had been assigned two large gallery spaces to fill, so there was twice as much scope for things to go wrong. It was chaos. I’d been here almost five hours and already voices had been raised, four paintings had been misplaced, ticket enquiries went unanswered, we had had two IT meltdowns and one (suspected) broken finger. And that was just Tim. He was a genius, sure – I’d googled his work just moments after I’d met him – but it also didn’t take a genius to work out that this Carlo guy had handled all of the practicalities. Tim needed help. And that was why I was here.

  ‘Jessica. Where’s my clipboard?’

  I put it down when you asked me to pick this bloody great canvas up. ‘Just a second!’ I said, running obediently across the room to place the clipboard back in my hand.

  ‘What’s the time?’ he demanded.

  ‘Five to two,’ I read off the clock (that we could both clearly see, but hey, I was here to help).

  ‘Great, we can still get the Room B paintings unpacked before lunch,’ Tim said, pushing his thick-rimmed glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

  ‘Well, actually I…’ I began, as Tim began to walk away, clearly losing interest. ‘I… was going to meet someone for lunch.’

  ‘Someone?’ Tim stopped and looked at me intensely. With just white space behind him, his one-tone outfit made his long limbs look even more imposing. It took all my strength to hold his gaze.

  ‘A friend,’ I said, awaiting his reply with trepidation. I’d forgotten that first days were almost as nerve-racking as first dates.

  ‘Jessica, you can cancel on friends. Lord knows you’ll have to in this job, even more so at Art Today.’ Tim dismissed my personal life in the way only someone without one could. ‘Now, the canvases are in the van parked out—’

  ‘My ex-boyfriend,’ I blurted out, surprised as the words filled the air.

  ‘Well,’ Tim began again, looking from the clock (I knew he could see it) to me. ‘Why didn’t you say so, Jessica?’ He let his glasses fall a little further to the end of his nose as his expression softened. ‘Lunches with ex-boyfriends can be few and far between.’ He didn’t need to know that mine was a little closer to home, that I was currently living with the said ex-boyfriend and that this particular ex was actually his friend, engaged to be married to his other friend. Tim sauntered over to gaze out of the large open window. I hoped he couldn’t spot Sam waiting outside. I tried to maintain the same expression while questioning whether Tim was the type to enjoy the drama of a love triangle regardless of whether his friends were involved.

  ‘Go. And show him what he’s missing,’ Tim said with flair. I thanked him, smiled and turned to walk out of his studio before he could ask any more questions. ‘And Jessica?’

  ‘Yes?’ I turned back to look at my new boss.

  ‘For the love of God, put some mascara on.’

  Chapter 13

  I could finally breathe. My heart rate slowed with every step I took away from the gallery and into the open air, feeling caught between needing a job and wanting to run away. I had left this world behind – badly, but still. I couldn’t keep pretending to be an artist forever.

  I loathed Art Today for reasons I struggled to articulate, for want of words and want of time, but at least handling Devon’s emails and personal fancies was a safe distance away from the rare few artists that had actually made a living out of art. It had taken my whole time at uni to grow up from that dream. No one wanted to be that time-waster with a guitar still trying to land a record deal. I wondered how many musicians had made their way from centre stage to helping to make the media, like my own journey from paintbrush to actually being paid.

  I saw Sam leaning against a brick wall on the other side of the paved square that backed onto the gallery. Top buttons still undone, sunglasses still covering his eyes, he effortlessly emitted Shoreditch-meets-Sydney chic – something I had been trying and failing to master ever since I had arrived. And I’d spent way more time in London than him.

  ‘Hey, trouble,’ he called over, even though I had clocked him the second I had walked out. I strutted across the palm tree-dotted paving, careful not to trip in my kitten heels – heels that I wouldn’t even be wearing were it not for Sam. Boyfriends really were useful. Not that he was my boyfriend. We were just friends. Going somewhere he wanted to show me as just friends. Missing me as just friends.

  Together, we strolled away from CreateSpace and I quickly glanced back to see whether Tim’s statuesque figure was watching from the windows. I tried to savour being alongside Sam but Jamie’s presence was palpable despite her not being there. Turning a corner, we came to the harbour and both of us sighed upon seeing a hint of the sea. At least that still thrilled me every time I saw it. It reminded me that I was actually in Sydney. Yes, in the box room of my engaged ex-boyfriend, but in Sydney nonetheless. As we walked, Sam and I tried to chat like the ‘just friends’ we were pretending to be now – him asking about my morning, telling me about his. Winding our way up a cobbled side street, Sam abruptly stopped, turning to face me, a big grin spreading across his flushed face. I stopped to look up at him, heart caught in my throat, pace quickening.

  ‘Jess?’ he asked softly, taking a step towards me.

  ‘Yes?’ I mimicked his tone, taking a step closer in return.

  ‘Guess what?’ He gazed down at me, taking off his sunglasses to reveal a sparkle in his eye.

  ‘What?’ I looked up at him, hope filling my own. We were just friends. Just friends. Sam took another step closer, placing a strong hand to my side, steadying me.

  ‘I think you’ll be pleased
to know…’ His voice hushed to a whisper. Pleased to know what? I couldn’t take any more surprises and yet there was one I knew part of me wanted to hear.

  ‘We’re here!’ he said, stepping back again and putting the same hand out to indicate the dubious-looking café we were about to enter. Oh, for fuck’s sake. I followed him inside. Just friends, we were just friends.

  ‘This is the best brunch spot in Sydney,’ Sam boasted as he thrust a menu in my face.

  ‘But it’s not brunch time,’ I objected, checking my watch. I had an hour for my lunch break, but putting on a lick of mascara had bizarrely bought me an extra five minutes.

  ‘Oh, J.’ Sam smiled, shaking his head and ordering us two banana smoothies. ‘You have so much to learn.’ He leaned further across the table. ‘Here in Sydney, it’s always brunch time.’

  I laughed. Okay, I could make my peace with that. I studied his features, open and warm. I hated that I could never hate him – believe me, I had tried. All his looks, his touches; were they all just the actions of a friend missing a friend?

  ‘So, what’s good?’ I asked, telling myself again that I was happy to be here with him in his very special brunch spot. The yellow walls needed a lick of paint, the tiled floor could do with replacing, but something about the laidback staff and acoustic music playing made it feel like home.

  ‘Well, Jamie always gets the Big V,’ Sam explained whilst I tried not to spray my first sip of smoothie in his face. ‘V stands for vegan, Jess, vegan.’ He smiled and shook his head at me again. Of course Jamie would be a vegan. Typical.

  ‘And what do you get?’ I asked, moving swiftly on, eyes staring at the menu without taking in any of the words.

  ‘I get The Best,’ he said. It felt like a dig. Then Sam pointed his finger to indicate the item on my own menu. Oh, ‘The Best Breakfast’.

  ‘Two of The Best it is.’ I looked at Sam, flashing him my best smile and fluttering my eyelashes just a little more than usual (thank you, Tim). Even though I couldn’t have him, I still wanted him to want me. It confused me how much I thought he already did.

  Five minutes later our plates arrived – in fact, I thought they did, but I couldn’t actually see my plate for the sheer amount of food piled on it. Sam smiled, raising an eyebrow as if to say: I bet you can’t eat it all. I raised my own: game on, Sam, game on.

  Together we devoured the food and devoured each other – conversationally at least. He wanted to know everything. How I’d been over the past few years, how I found my job at Art Today. How did CreateSpace compare? (Well, one’s a magazine and one’s a gallery, Sam, but allow me to humour you.) How long did I plan to stay in Sydney? Was I sure I didn’t leave a special someone behind? I answered him honestly – for the most part – leaving aside anything about housemates, tequila and the fact that I wasn’t really an editor.

  ‘It’s crazy that you’re here.’ Sam looked at me and forced a laugh as the waiter cleared our plates. I finished mine, Sam struggled; not half the man he used to be. ‘I remember…’ he began, but stopped himself. ‘Do you need to get back to the gallery?’ he asked instead. Well, I did. But not until he had finished what he had started to say.

  ‘You remember what?’ I asked. Sam shook his head at me for the trillionth time. He knew I wasn’t the type to let things go.

  ‘I remember sitting here and writing you a postcard once,’ he explained, playing with the cuffs of his crisp white shirt.

  ‘A postcard?’ I asked. ‘I never received a postcard.’

  ‘That’s because I never sent it,’ Sam said with a weak smile, shuffling a little in his seat. I wasn’t used to seeing him this uncomfortable.

  ‘It was when I first arrived in Sydney. I was sitting here, thinking about you and how we ended, and how I had never told you I was leaving the UK, and I wanted you to know that I was okay, and I wanted to know that you were okay and, well…’ He looked down into his empty smoothie jar, all of a sudden at a loss for words.

  ‘Why didn’t you send it?’ I asked, laying a hand on top of his. To anyone else we would have looked like a couple; I guess we didn’t know how not to. But he has a fiancée.

  ‘I just thought, what’s the point? I was here and you were in London.’ He shrugged and raised his eyebrows, locking his eyes back on mine. A petite waitress returned to our table to ask whether we had finished. Sam asked for the bill, a shyness coming over him, as I wondered whether he preferred coming here with Jamie or me. For all the excruciating moments I had shared with them both since blundering into their box room, I hadn’t seen him laugh much, not really. Sure, her Sydney-Sam was more relaxed about work, but somehow he seemed more on guard about almost everything else. My Sam had a silly side, a flirtatious, frivolous side, a side somehow finding itself sitting right across from me, all over again.

  ‘I think I would have liked to have got it,’ I admitted, lowering my voice just enough for him to have to lean into me a little further.

  ‘I met Jamie the very next week,’ he said. ‘Funny how these things happen, eh?’

  ‘Yeah, hilarious,’ I muttered.

  ‘Well it’s nice to tell you all about it now,’ he said. Three years too late.

  ‘Yeah, now that you’re engaged.’ Bitterness escaped my clipped response, before I salvaged the sentence with an upward inflection. ‘I can’t believe you’re getting married!’

  ‘Yeah.’ Sam’s smile looked a little forced. ‘Me neither. And I can’t believe you’re here now,’ he continued. Something told me he could say it a thousand times and it still wouldn’t make sense to him, to either of us. ‘Great timing, Jess.’ His face softened, eyes still weary. Sadness filled my stomach. ‘We’re late.’ Sam resumed his chipper tone, taking in the time from his expensively hedged wrist. It was all a little too late.

  Sam paid for lunch and wouldn’t let me argue. I mean, it was probably for his benefit; the sooner I could save my wages and get out of his and Jamie’s place, the better. Not that it would be his problem after this week.

  Retracing our steps, we walked a little closer together. It was strange to walk side by side without holding hands, our lunch making it feel stranger still.

  ‘Oh, before I forget,’ Sam began, turning to face me. ‘Jamie and I are having some of our friends round from church tonight.’ Oh. We hadn’t even talked about the whole church thing. ‘You’re welcome to join us if you like.’ Happy families and the live-in riffraff. I’d rather go for that run.

  ‘Oh thanks, I actually…’ I scrambled for another lie, scared by how easily they were surfacing. ‘I actually have plans with the people from work tonight. I’ll just let myself in later. If that’s okay with you?’ Sam looked satisfied and discontented all at the same time; something told me I wasn’t the only one caught in the push and pull of our past and present.

  ‘Look at you, J!’ Sam patted my shoulder as I tried my best not to feel patronised. ‘Making friends already!’

  ‘Yeah.’ I offered him a smile, one that didn’t reach my eyes. Maybe I could see if Tim or the guys on reception wanted to go out. I’d need to find something to fill the time.

  ‘Well I guess we’ll see you later, then?’ Sam smiled again, a confused expression darting across his brow. ‘Or if it’s a late one, I’ll see you in the morning.’

  He turned to walk in the direction of his surgery. ‘Oh, and J.’ He looked back over his shoulder. I met his gaze, hungry for his words, hoping they’d make everything feel right again. ‘Try to remember shoes this time.’

  Back in the studio, I found Tim a few degrees away from a meltdown. He and Olivia, a member of his team he’d clearly got custody of in the break-up, had begun to unpack the second set of pieces from the van, which were now scattered haphazardly around the room. The paintings were propped up against the wall, their unprotected edges rubbing against the dirty studio floor. Had no one ever heard of a dust sheet? My heart sank at the mistreatment of these abstract works of all shapes and sizes, exploding with colour, many boasting a
similar texture to the canvas I’d been carrying earlier that day. Their colours and contours demanded my gaze like long-lost friends before Tim’s voice grabbed my attention.

  ‘It’ll never fit, it’ll never fit,’ I heard him mutter as I approached, clipboard duly in hand.

  ‘There are worse problems to have,’ I joked, a sarcasm-fuelled comment met with we-wish-looks-could-kill stares. Now wasn’t the time. ‘What’s the problem?’ I asked pragmatically, pretty sure I wouldn’t have the solution. Tim began to explain in a flurry of broken sentences. The pieces. Too big for the space. Too many. Not in line with Paris and Milan. Not what the attendees would expect. I looked at Tim, his authority fading before my eyes.

  ‘Slow down, slow down.’ I found myself soothing him like a child, not entirely sure what I was going to say next. It wasn’t like I knew anything about curating an exhibition.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ I asked the same question again, slower this time, my eyes pleading with Tim for a clearer response.

  ‘That bastard promised Leo Todd’s team we had space for the entire collection.’ Tim shook his head. I didn’t need to guess who ‘the bastard’ was. ‘Exactly how they were displayed in Paris and Milan.’ Leo Todd has been shown in Paris and Milan. You didn’t even get through that competition. ‘Then promised me my idea to get the local artists involved was a good one…’

  ‘It was a great idea,’ Olivia piped up, brown-nosing before Tim could shoot her down.

  ‘But now we don’t have enough space for everything,’ Tim flurried on in hysterics.

  ‘Can’t you cut out some of the local artists?’ I asked and both Tim and Olivia looked at me like I was from another planet.

  ‘No,’ Tim objected and I had to commend his loyalty. ‘Plus, I’m not letting Carlo think my ideas have to pander to his.’ So not about loyalty at all then. ‘Leo Todd has a specific way of doing things, a specific order, a specific… Oh God.’ He held his head in his hands as I tried to work out whether Tim was enduring a break-up or a breakdown. Not that the two were mutually exclusive. I should know.