Accidentally in Love: An utterly uplifting laugh out loud romantic comedy

by Belinda Missen

  ‘Speaking of, what are you doing Sunday? Frank’s heading for a round of golf with the boys if you want to come over. We can drown your work sorrows and my wedding woes and watch cheesy rom-coms with biscuits and coffee and maybe work on place cards?’

  ‘Sounds great,’ I say around a mouthful. ‘I have all the time in the world right now.’

  ‘You know, you still haven’t told me who you’re bringing as your plus one,’ Lainey says in a way that tells me she’s casting a long line and fishing for information. ‘John, maybe?’

  ‘I’ll ask, though last time he said no.’

  ‘You mean to tell me he hasn’t realised yet that you are the most amazing woman he’s ever clapped eyes on, and that he needs to wife you immediately?’ Lainey watches me with her huge green eyes, mozzarella dangling towards her mouth from a height that implied I might have been looking at Michelangelo’s Creation of Lainey. Well, pizza is life, isn’t it?

  ‘No.’ I shake my head with embarrassed laughter. ‘Probably not.’

  My other New Year’s revolution was to sort out my love life. As it turns out, that’s not going entirely to plan, either. My not-quite boyfriend, John Harrison, started as a one-night stand that has spiralled out of control. It’s lasted way longer than I expected and now feels like I’ve been living on the precipice of something more for months.

  I wasn’t asking for a gigantic rock that caught my sweater like a doorknob, although I was sure he could probably afford one on his lawyer’s salary. All I wanted to know was where I stood. Girlfriend? Fly-by-night shag? Was it too much to ask him to help define what we were? Contrary to what Pink Floyd wants you to believe, suspended animation is not a state of bliss. We were allegedly exclusive, though had never really talked about it. Are we dating? Are we not dating? Maybe we should do the whole family introductions thing. After all, it had been nine months.

  Not knowing where I stand makes me feel like I’m somebody’s dirty little secret. Lately, that’s begun chipping away and exposing my soft fleshy underbelly for what it was: tragically romantic.

  ‘When are you going to nip that in the bud?’ Lainey asks. ‘Hey?’

  ‘Not tonight.’ I drain the last of my glass and look at her, locking that romantic daydream away. ‘If anything, he’ll be a nice distraction.’

  She tuts and sighs, though I’m not entirely sure she disagrees with me.

  ‘I know.’ I hold my hands up defensively and her eyes widen with laughter. ‘Let me have my small mercies. Please. All I’m asking for tonight is an orgasm. At least then something good will have happened today.’

  ‘I know you say you’re not dating—’

  ‘We aren’t officially dating.’ I wipe a napkin across the smile on my face. ‘We are simply exploring each other’s naked forms. It’s art.’

  ‘It’s all art, darling.’ Lainey laughs. ‘Speaking of dating though, this Friday night dinner is becoming a regular date for us. One that I enthusiastically support.’

  Had life become so routine that the biggest night of my social calendar is a cheeky feed in the back corner of a 600-year-old pub? While it’s nice to have close friends and regular catch-ups, it was obvious this pub had more of a life than I did. Outside of Lainey, the friend who keeps me grounded, there’s John, the man I call after a few too many drinks or, on a night like tonight, when I need to lose myself in someone else.

  And that’s exactly what I do at the end of the night, not more than two minutes after my bus deposits me near my Camberwell block of flats. The dial tone and the sound of background traffic is my company as I start walking. When I think it’s going to ring out, he answers.

  ‘Katharine,’ he says matter-of-factly.

  ‘Hello.’ I try but can’t help the silly grin that threatens to light up the darkened street.

  ‘Hello, you.’ His voice dips and is now warm, familiar, and exactly what I want to hear. ‘What are you up to at this time of night?’

  ‘I’m almost home,’ I say, listening to him mutter about how late it is. ‘Late dinner with Lainey.’

  ‘Late nights with Lainey sounds like a local radio show.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ I spin on the spot, randomly checking over my shoulder. A couple with their arms linked and heads dipped towards each other disappear into the shadows of a side street. When my box slips, I hoist it higher under my arm. ‘What are you doing right now?’

  ‘I have just walked through my front door after a fascinating phone call about a breach of contract case. In a few moments, I may pour myself a cheap whisky, and sit myself down on my sofa and watch the Thames pass by. Now, I think I’ll tug seductively on my silk tie.’

  I smile, worrying my bottom lip. ‘Why don’t you bring yourself, and that tie, around to mine? You can poke holes in my deposition?’

  He snorts, and I can hear him untwisting a bottle cap. ‘Poke holes in your deposition?’

  ‘You like it? It’s the only lawyer joke I know.’

  ‘I am … yep, never going to hear that word the same way again.’ He tries and fails at sounding disgusted.

  ‘So, are you coming around to interrogate me, or what?’ I try.

  ‘Katharine, it’s just gone ten thirty,’ he whines. ‘You can’t come here?’

  As much as I love the plush fittings and oversized shower at John’s Pimlico flat, I tap my access card against the door lock and shuffle into my building. The box of belongings I’ve been lugging around all night gets dribbled along the floor and into the lift. ‘It’s been a long day. I’ve just got home. I’m going to head inside, then into my shower where I will endeavour to prepare more bad law puns for you. You’ve got twenty minutes.’

  ‘It’ll take me at least thirty on the bus.’

  ‘I can clean my place up in thirty minutes, sure.’

  John groans. ‘You’re gonna make me get up, aren’t you?’

  ‘I will get you up, yes.’ I giggle, then thank the late night I’m the only one in the lift. ‘Come on. I’m offering you no strings sex.’

  ‘Let’s clarify something,’ he says through a chuckle. ‘All of your sex is no strings, so this is just Malibu Stacy with a new hat.’

  ‘Have you got a problem with that?’ Though I say that, it pinches at something uncomfortable, a tight reminder of what I’m not getting out of this.

  ‘On the contrary,’ he mumbles. ‘It’s my favourite kind.’

  ‘See you in thirty?’ The elevator arrives on my floor and my reflection disappears as the doors slide open.

  ‘Make it twenty.’ He hangs up and dead air fills my ear.

  Chapter 3

  I roll over and reach for my bedside table, fumbling about for my phone and coming up with a pile of photos wedged beneath an instant camera. The first one is of John, taken only a few hours earlier in the grey and dusty morning light.

  Across the hall, I can hear the shower running. It’s odd in that it means he’s stayed the night and hasn’t left me a ‘Dear Katharine’ text like he often does. I wonder if I should pounce and ask what it means, whether these increased overnight stays signal something bigger about to happen, but I’m quite enjoying being snuggled in bed, listening to the sound of his humming occasionally floating above the water.

  I twiddle the white-rimmed photo between my fingers. He’s smiling out at me, face half obscured by a pillow that still smells of aftershave, black hair dangling in his eyes where his fringe is getting too long. I joke about him not getting his hair cut, when the truth is, I adore it this length. His left eye is open only enough to show me that immutable spark that hides behind his eyes for everyone but me and his mouth is perfectly carved into a tired smile.

  Barely moments after taking the photo, the flash still casting shadows on the wall, he threw a languid arm around my waist. Our limbs were still heavy and warm with sleep as he pulled me underneath him as we greeted the morning the best way we knew how.

  Evidence of his stay is spread across the room, slacks crumpled beside the bed, shirt s
omehow hanging from the doorknob, and his tie is knotted around the bedhead for reasons I’d never speak aloud.

  A crash in the kitchen steals my attention. It’s not the cymbal-like clash of pots and pans of someone making breakfast, but the muted clunk of ceramic that doesn’t quite bounce on tiles. My skin prickles because, unless John has grown tentacles in the last few hours, it means that there are now two people other than myself in my flat. Realisation hits me in a cold sweat.

  Only one other person has a key to my flat: my brother. I sit up straighter and chew on a hangnail while I consider exactly how I’m going to get out of this. Hint: I won’t.

  Adam is thirty-eight, three years older than me, and lives with his wife Sophie in a bigger, brighter, and far more expensive flat in Gladstone House, where I’m certain the minimum dress code for some of the cafés is suit and tie. Bonus points for a horsehair wig.

  I pull on the first pair of jeans I see, sniff test a loose T-shirt and take a deep breath. Sweat tickles down my spine as I step out of the bedroom.

  When people ask me to describe my flat, I find it easier asking them to imagine a small but cosy hotel room. In fact, I’ve often wondered if this building wasn’t a hotel built and discarded by some huge conglomerate. I have a bedroom, small living room, bathroom, laundry in a cupboard, and a kitchenette, which is where I find Adam. His mousy brown hair protrudes from the horizon of my kitchen counter like a shark fin in the ocean.

  ‘And a very good morning to you.’ I slip my hands into my pockets and rock on the balls of my feet.

  He grumbles, still hunched over the floor, still mopping up his accident.

  ‘You okay?’ I lean over the counter to see more of him. He barely registers a glance over his shoulder.

  ‘Dropped a bloody mug, didn’t I?’ He stands, tossing a limp brown bundle of kitchen towel into the sink. ‘Anyway, I thought you were in the shower.’

  ‘Ah, no,’ I say. ‘That’s not me.’

  He nods in the direction of a bouquet of flowers on the white stone bench; dusty pink peonies and roses, sweet peas and ivy wrapped in brown paper and held together with twine. ‘Got anything to do with these?’

  What is it about older brothers that makes younger sisters feel like they’ve done something to be embarrassed about? The moment a brother meets a boyfriend is always destined to be a little awkward, but this feels like it’s about to get a whole lot worse.

  I dig about my messenger bag for my phone and slip it on charge, surprised to find a barrage of messages from colleagues. Correction: past colleagues. Shaking that from my mind, because I do not want to talk about it, I busy myself searching for a vase. Digging the card out from between the foliage, I smile and feel heat bloom in my cheeks.

  Here’s to stolen moments – J x

  As much as John and I couldn’t decide what we were, I loved that he bought me the occasional bouquet. Especially when it involved opening my front door last night to find him in his suit and tie looking like he’d just stepped out of the courtroom. I’d already stripped down to my pyjamas and drunk the first glass from a bottle of wine, which is enough to tell you how different we are as people. As he tried hiding behind the oversized bloom of foliage, I’d clutched a fistful of waistcoat and pulled him through the door.

  Adam plucks the card from my hand.

  ‘Who’s J?’ His head bobs about in an impression of the chicken from Moana as he tries desperately to make eye contact with me.

  ‘Somebody.’ I snatch it back. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’

  ‘Well, if you had opened the email I sent yesterday, you would know Dad has asked us to come home for lunch today.’ He looks at me, wide-eyed. ‘Complete with a robust “Are you two workaholics still alive? Or do I need to have a stroke before either of you make it up for a visit?” message attached.’

  ‘No,’ I say slowly. ‘I noticed your email there, it just kind of slipped my mind.’

  ‘Slipped your mind in the middle of the night.’ Adam tips his head towards the bathroom. ‘So, come on. Who is he?’

  My brain does an Olympic level of gymnastics trying to work out how I’m going to get around this situation.

  I could sneak into the bathroom and leave a spare key while bundling my brother out the door, using the excuse of needing breakfast to get him moving. Adam is always up for a full English and a pot of coffee at a greasy spoon. God, he’d been banging on about his favourite café for months before I first moved to London. When I did finally get there, let’s just say he was more in love with the congealed bacon than I was.

  Naively, I hope he’ll drop the subject altogether, but there’s currently another man in my flat and my brother is a lawyer which means that, as far as this was concerned, there’s blood in the water and he’s circling. Never mind the box of belongings sitting by the phone, the same box I dragged home from work last night; these flowers are much more exciting.

  ‘Come on, you can tell me.’ He crosses a finger over his chest. ‘Pinkie swear.’

  ‘Really?’ I narrow my eyes and cock my head. ‘Because that’s not a pinkie swear.’

  ‘It’s not exactly a state secret though, is it?’ He finally pours himself a coffee. ‘Jeremey, Jason, Jarrod, Jared, Jarryd, Julian, Julius?’

  I shake my head quickly, my eyes set towards my bathroom door. Yes, I can leave John the spare key, send him a text. He did it once for me at his flat. That’s exactly what I’ll do. ‘Come on, let’s go. We should go get breakfast.’

  ‘Oh, no, no you don’t.’ He stops. ‘Is it a she? Jennifer? Julie? Jessica?’

  ‘Stop,’ I grumble.

  ‘Because it’s okay if it is.’

  ‘I know it’s perfectly okay,’ I say with a sigh. ‘I’d just—’

  ‘Can I buy a vowel?’

  ‘No, you cannot buy a vowel,’ I snap and stamp my foot.

  ‘Katharine?’ John’s voice curls itself into a question as he appears from the bathroom. ‘Do you think my penis ascribes to the golden ratio?’

  Adam’s eyes grow wide and his face lights up like the Blackpool Illuminations. Right now, I want to remind him of how much he looks like our father, with his brown hair full of salt and pepper fleck and dark eyes crinkling in horror at the edges, but I don’t.

  I clear my throat beneath a mortified chortle. ‘That’s not … no, that’s not quite how that works.’

  ‘What about my arse, then?’ He stands in the small passageway, seemingly bracketed between the bathroom and my bedroom. Right as he’s about to pivot like a runway model and show me his backside, he spots my brother in the kitchen. The towel drops slowly from his ruffled hair to his crotch. For the first time ever, I’m sure I see John blush. ‘Adam. Hello.’

  Adam turns to me, slack-jawed, full of brotherly repulsion. ‘That is officially the second worst way he could have used the word “golden” in this flat.’

  ‘Adam,’ I scowl, feeling my cheeks douse in embarrassment. Strike a match of inappropriate brotherly comments, and I may well light up like a grassfire.

  Silence stretches out between the three of us and my attention swings in a pendulum, back and forth between the two of them, waiting for something, anything. Eventually, John steps forward, fire-engine red Egyptian cotton the only thing protecting his modesty, and he extends his hand.

  ‘Good morning,’ he says.

  Hesitantly, my brother accepts and shakes his hand. ‘Ah, yep. Hello.’

  ‘Much on today?’ John asks casually.

  Listening to him talk, anyone would think he was in a regular office environment, not standing in my flat dripping wet and under the increasingly heavy scrutiny of my brother, who’s dumbfounded. But John’s just so damn nonchalant about it all; cool and calm and confident, as if this were so ordinary and everyday.

  ‘More than you, by the looks of things,’ Adam says slowly, wiping a not entirely inconspicuous hand on the back of his trousers as he mumbles about hand sanitiser.

  ‘Yeah, about that. I’m goi
ng to go get dressed.’ John presses a kiss into my hair and the bedroom door closes behind him.

  If the foot of God were to appear from the sky and squash me in some Monty Python-esque skit right now, I would not be upset. In fact, I’d welcome the sweet victory of death. Beneath the silence that stretches through my kitchen, we listen to John yawn as he dresses.

  Though Adam is silent, I can almost see his thoughts playing out above him in comic book speech bubbles. He’s shocked but, when John announces that he’s leaving, that gives way to concern.

  I follow John and pull the door closed behind us as far as I can without wedging my neck between the frame and the door and cutting off my own air supply. He blows his cheeks out and offers up a silent, anxious laugh.

  ‘That’s one way to make a man disappear up into himself,’ he says with a smirk.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I mouth, cringing, before I whisper, ‘I didn’t realise he was going to be here this morning.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ He takes a step closer and draws a finger down my cheek, sliding a lock of wayward hair behind my ear. It’s slow and it burns, and it takes me right back to last night. ‘Cat’s out of the bag now, isn’t it?’

  That may be, if he would finally agree that we were something halfway serious. Hope sinks with the reminder that we still have not sorted things out. Again.

  Pressing a hand to his chest, I can feel the heat of his body through his expensive shirt and smell my cheap and cheerful apple-scented body wash against his skin. Would it be wrong to kick my brother out and drag John back to the bedroom? I want to. A brief flicker of sanity stops me.

  ‘About that. Can I see you during the week?’ I venture tentatively. It’s not our normal thing. We’re strictly weekends and Friday nights only, but a girl can try. ‘In light of today, I think there are a few things we need to talk about.’