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

by Belinda Missen

  Later, a text message arrives from John. There’s an address and a ‘can’t wait to see you’ tacked on the end. I slip the important things – ID, bank card and lipstick – into the pocket of my dress and make my way out the door. The last thing I see as I leave is my new rental contract stuck to the refrigerator door.

  When I arrive at the sleek concrete and glass function centre near Blackfriars, I expect to find John waiting for me. It seems like the polite thing to do, something you might do for the woman you’re apparently seeing. Twenty minutes later, when it becomes clear that’s not going to happen, my previous excitement at what tonight could mean flits out the door as I walk in.

  My name is on the guest list which, for some reason, surprises me. I’m guided inside and towards the lift lobby.

  Moments later, I step out onto a balcony that looks like it’s been dropped from a Hollywood movie. Views of the London Eye, OXO Tower and the Monument shimmer in the gloaming. There are tall potted plants dotted around herringbone parquetry floors, stools with spaghetti strap legs and small bar benches to place drinks upon. John spots me, an almost surprised look dancing across his face as he breaks away from a group in the corner.

  How he manages to make a plain black suit look so suave at the end of a full day of work is beyond me, but he does. My irritation ebbs momentarily.

  ‘You look good enough to skip the party for.’ He beams as he leans in to kiss me, his blue eyes sparkling under the lights. ‘Shall we?’

  ‘Skip the party?’ I ask, the scent of his aftershave drifting between us. ‘Please. You smell fantastic.’

  ‘You’re not so bad yourself.’ With a hand on the small of my back, he guides me towards the bar where I order a cocktail and a dose of courage.

  We’re surrounded by suits and ties, tuxedos even, that tell me this is a little more than ‘fancy wedding’ formal, and it feels like such a world away to what I’m used to. My job or, should I say, my old job paid well enough and our corporate nights were always a treasure trove of fun, but there’s something next level about tonight.

  I feel eyes settling on me. People who’d always associated me with my brother, who’s not here yet, are now realising there’s something else happening. Something they didn’t know about. I can see the surprise in their eyes and hear it in the whispered questions as we flash past people on our way to a quiet corner. Rupert, his boss, reaches out to shake my hand as I pass.

  ‘Are you not going to introduce me to your boss?’ I ask.

  ‘Don’t you already know him?’ John places his drink on the ledge and slips his hands in his pockets. ‘Anyway, you wanted to talk about something.’

  I did. But now, knowing he doesn’t want to introduce me, I wonder if he truly deserves to know anything at all? I look at him, his features set somewhere between interrogation and concern.

  ‘Maybe later.’ I chase the straw in my cocktail around and take a large sip.

  ‘Oh,’ he says, surprised. ‘It seemed rather important, is all.’

  ‘Yes, that’s why I wanted to tell you during the week,’ I simper.

  His brow folds into a valley. Even I’m surprised at my response. I hadn’t meant to bite. Well, not so hard, but it’s been one hell of a week and, really, is a few hours of his time too much to ask? As it turns out, I can answer that question: yes, it is. Everything I wanted to say slips back down into a quiet place and I say nothing. We’re called into dinner, which is when I catch Adam slipping into the function. Solo.

  I wish Sophie were here. She would be a friendly face and someone to talk to over the chorus of shoptalk that settles onto our table. Adam explains that she’s working late in Hampstead but said to say hello. Conversation quickly turns to rulings and precedent, difficult clients, and ones they wanted to laugh out the door. While I don’t mind listening to Adam occasionally, a whole table of people starts to be too much. I’m grateful for the sight of dinner.

  Food steals away conversation and stops me having to answer awkward questions from someone to my right. Because, for all my excitement about being invited tonight, I’m painfully aware I have no answers to those questions couples are asked.

  How we met is harmless enough, but what about the rest? Do we have plans? I suspect not, and I’m not keen on lying to people, either. But I must, because if I start telling everyone about my new venture, then everyone finds out before the man sitting beside me. Being here tonight is not high up on my list of good ideas. I breathe a sigh of relief when John directs my attention away from a question and towards the front of the room.

  ‘I don’t think this next award will come as a surprise to anyone in the room tonight.’ Rupert March looks down his nose, past the podium and towards me. He winks as John, who gives my thigh a gentle squeeze as his eyes crinkle up in the type of blissful happiness that should only be reserved for post-coital moments.

  ‘The In House Counsel of the Year award. Or as I like to call it, most billed hours,’ Rupert continues over the sound of friendly ribbing at our table. ‘I could go on about how everyone’s contributions are equally valued, and I can assure you they are. However, I’ve seen the notes from the cleaners after having kicked this one out the front door in the last dying hours of the evening. John Harrison, you have by far outstripped anyone in this room with your ridiculous eighty-hour weeks. I’m not sure if I should congratulate you or quietly weep at my own ineptitude. And I’m the one who owns the place!’

  Derisive laughter combines with enthusiastic clapping to propel John towards the front of the room, not entirely as embarrassed as he should be. For every overworked week, I could guarantee there was an apology in my inbox; a missed date, a cold dinner, or a restaurant I’d been sitting in on my own waiting for a man who’d never arrive.

  John takes hold of the heavy glass statue and reads the etching on the base before peering out at the rest of the room. ‘Next partner, right here,’ he mumbles into the microphone as he waits for the noise to die down.

  Still, no matter my annoyance at all those cancelled plans and late nights, I could never begrudge him his ambition. We’re all entitled to work towards our own ideal and, watching him stand before everyone in his crisp suit and perfectly coiffed hair, I am oddly proud of him. It’s in total conflict with every other emotion fighting for space inside me right now, but he is brilliant at his job and he deserves this.

  ‘I fear I must admit though, it’s not solely my work that has resulted in my being up here tonight. It’s a combination of all of you.’ He pauses. ‘The last-minute emails, thanks, Sarah. The random queries from Michael, you’re a champion, and the memes that come from our bastion of good taste, Nicholas. It’s Adam sending me to the photocopier because I’m standing by the door and I’ve somehow looked like I’ve had nothing to do for thirty seconds. And, by some means, in between that, I get to hang out in court and do my thing for the people.’

  He stops talking long enough to take in the adulating laughter that rises above the sound of chinking cutlery and mummering of waiters delivering more wine.

  ‘Now, there is someone I desperately need to thank, someone I’m forever indebted to and who will put salt in my coffee instead of sugar if I don’t mention her.’

  Adam reaches across and gives my shoulder a brotherly punch. Pride puffs me out like a seagull, and, for once, all those cancelled dates and cold dinners begin to feel worth it.

  ‘The most important woman in the room. Natalie, my secretary.’

  I hear mumbles at the edge of our table. I can’t look away from the stage, though I catch Adam cupping a hand over his eyes. I blink a few times and feel the tide recede in my mouth. I’m drier than a sandpit in summer and the taste it leaves behind tells me a cat’s been using that sandpit as a litter tray.

  ‘You are the reason the boat is upright when it could have run aground so many times already this year. From organising, chopping and changing meetings, taking all those little calls I don’t have time for, suggestions on case notes, and for your firs
t-class attention to detail. I could not have achieved any of this without your knowledge and support. You will always be more than just a secretary.’

  My stomach decamps and claws its way across the function room floor, leaving entrails in its wake. Every single set of eyes at our table are fixed on me, waiting for my reaction. The worst part is, I can’t do a thing except applaud along with everyone else and give Natalie a watery ‘I swear I’m not about to pop’ grin. She’s offering profuse apologies, but I’m not about to make a scene and ruin everyone’s night, as much as I would love that.

  Because it’s in this moment I realise that, even though I may get my discussion later tonight, we will never amount to a thing. Despite promising me repeatedly that he was open to the idea of a full and proper relationship, against everything I had hoped, he is never going to change.

  There’ll never be family dinners, engagements, weddings, or a family of our own. I suspect, for John, it was never going to be that in the first place. While the room calms and everyone finishes congratulating both him and Natalie, I sit at the precipice of the table counting a laundry list of ways the last nine months have been a waste of my time. This is why we’ve never introduced family, why he wanted to keep it ‘exclusive, but casual’, why he does everything he can to avoid all those hard discussions I want to have.

  Now, as I watch him traverse the room, I wonder how I’d never seen this for what it was, how I’d been so epically blind to it all. I am an idiot. While Natalie, bless her, gives off a glassy-eyed beam, everyone else at the table wears a look of awkward expectation. John enters my line of sight, looks at me and freezes.

  Finally, he realises his error. His mouth bobs about, a fish in its last gasping breaths. It’s not as if he’s going to take those words back either. There’s no way he’ll say, ‘Actually, sorry, Natalie, what I meant to say was Katharine,’, because imagine being the man who tells a woman she’s not actually that important after all.

  I stare right back at him, and I continue to do so, because there is no way I’m giving anyone the slightest reaction. I can hear the shattering crystal in my chest, tinkling down the staircase of my ribs and slicing painful holes in my diaphragm. But I don’t move because I can’t bear the thought of making a fool of myself in front of these people, my brother’s colleagues and bosses.

  Don’t cry. Don’t cry, I tell myself repeatedly, drawing my bottom lip through my teeth and biting down so hard I fear I’ll dig a hole through my chin. Around the rushing of blood through my ears, or maybe it’s the leaking of my brain, I hear murmurs of ‘Oh God’, ‘Someone pass the popcorn’, and ‘Can you believe what he just did?’

  ‘Well done.’ I smile, my voice mangled. ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Katharine.’ He sinks into the seat beside me. ‘I am—’

  His next few words stumble out like he’s auditioning for a mid-Nineties Hugh Grant romcom. So, I’m relieved when someone else takes the initiative to charge their glass, because I am having none of his apology, even when he moves in for an over-the-top kiss. How can he not see this? How is he so utterly blind to the awkward looks being exchanged and my brother mouthing words at me I can’t understand?

  Like every quality faux pas, the room quickly returns to its normal state, and we’re joined by wait staff who are doling out a drab dessert of Belgian chocolate mousse or tarte au citron, as if calling it anything other than lemon tart will make it any less bitter. And, God, I know this is not the end of the world, but when he wants to emphasise the most important woman in his room, a woman who happened to not be me, well, my heart crumbles like the biscuit base of the tart in front of me.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ John asks. ‘Would you like to nip outside for that chat?’

  Because of course he desperately wants to talk when it involves him making penance.

  I draw back and look at him, something like a smile fixed on my face. ‘Whisky sour.’

  ‘Since when do you drink whisky?’ he asks, amused, narrowing his eyes and drawing his hands across his mouth.

  ‘One for me, too,’ Adam speaks up.

  It’s then I decide that I can’t stay in this situation any longer. Sitting here after what’s just happened is nothing short of humiliating and, the moment John’s back is turned, I stand, say my quiet goodnights and head for the door.

  It’s not the bus stop I’m racing for. That would mean standing at the corner for twenty minutes so I can wait for the fallout. Instead, I head for the tube. Wind whips around my face and blows my hair into my eyes as I scamper across Blackfriars Bridge and away from him.

  Except it doesn’t, because he’s soon out the door and chasing me down.

  ‘Katharine!’ John calls. After all, it’s not hard to spot a girl in a red dress late at night. ‘Kate!’

  A woman with a pushchair, helium balloon bouncing above her wrist, tries to get my attention, but I push through the crowd pretending like I can’t hear either her or John. An overhead announcement is staticky and barely audible, much like the traffic in my brain. Walking towards the blustery end of the platform, I wish I’d remembered to bring my coat tonight.

  ‘Katharine?’ John appears. ‘What … Where are you going? I went to get a drink and you’d vanished.’

  ‘And thank you so much to my girlfriend Katharine.’ I glare at him. ‘Not the most important person in the room though, just so you know. Probably not even my girlfriend if I’m being honest with her.’

  He presses a palm to his forehead and paces. ‘Katie.’

  ‘Sure, she can’t make coffee like Natalie, but she does have a biblical number of apologetic messages in her inbox, cancelled dates and “Sorry, love, running late” texts. Probably because her boyfriend is too busy filling someone else’s inbox.’

  He holds a finger up to still me. ‘No, no, don’t even think about going there.’

  ‘Why not? After all, that was a lovely impassioned speech you gave up there.’ I begin. ‘About another woman.’

  ‘You know I would never do that to you,’ he says helplessly, shoulders dipping.

  ‘Do I?’ I raise a brow, crossing my arms over my chest.

  John rolls his eyes and my blood boils.

  ‘Nine months.’ I point as I stalk towards him. ‘Nine thankless months, and tonight is what it amounts to? The first event you’ve deigned to invite me to, and I get to listen to that? I mean, for God’s sake, I don’t expect a medal, but you thanked everyone in the room but your own bloody girlfriend, then came looking to me for validation as if you’d done the right thing while I had to sit there and pretend like it was nothing.’

  ‘I am so, gah, I am so sorry.’ He clasps his hands together. ‘Please, you have to believe me. I was up there, and the lights and I was all flustered and … Katharine, I am sorry. You know I value you above every single person in the room.’

  ‘You value me?’ I shout. ‘What am I? A fucking car?’

  John shakes his hands wildly, head swinging to and fro. ‘No, no, no, not like that.’

  ‘You know, it certainly explains the late nights.’

  ‘Really? And what about all the times I’ve called you only to be told you’re working late writing some bullshit notes about a finger painting. “Sorry, but unless you want to watch telly on my sofa?”’ he ends, mocking me.

  Another train blusters in, drops a load of passengers, and zips off down the line again. The force of wind from the train causes his fringe to flap, just a little.

  ‘Are you seriously throwing this back on me now?’ I ask. There are commuters at the other end of the platform trying to inconspicuously move closer to the commotion. ‘What’s wrong with spending a night together at home?’

  ‘Please, just come back to the party,’ he pleads. ‘Please. There’s nobody else. I promise you. It’s only ever been you. Only you.’

  ‘Do you love me?’ I ask. Even if it were only me, I’d been playing second fiddle to his job for far too long.

  ‘What?’

  �
��It’s not difficult,’ I say. ‘I want to know if you love me.’

  ‘Don’t make it about that,’ he says.

  ‘Well, you either do or you don’t. It’s not a difficult question.’

  He can’t say it because he doesn’t. It’s the ultimate kick in the guts. I stand in silence and hope for the next train already. He reaches out for my hand. I snatch it away. Now is as good a time as any.

  ‘That thing I wanted to talk to you about?’ I say, my voice quavering. ‘I’m leaving.’

  ‘You’re what?’ His head tilts like he hasn’t quite heard me correctly. ‘What do you mean you’re leaving?’

  ‘I’m moving home. To Sheffield.’ I swallow down a lump in my throat. ‘I quit my job last week. Not that you know because work precedes whatever this was. I wanted to tell you, of course, but you needed to stay and work late with Natalie, so here we are,’

  His mouth moves, but nothing comes out. I stop myself from blurting out the reason why I’m leaving. It’s not his business anymore, and maybe it never was. It makes me wonder if I should have told him any of this at all.

  ‘I can’t keep going like this.’ I look up at the station monitor. Two minutes and it’ll be done. I glance down at my feet momentarily and see the flutter of my heart in the fabric of my dress.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ he asks. ‘What is it? Is it marriage?’

  ‘I’d like some sort of commitment, yes.’ My chin draws back into my neck. ‘Is that too much to ask? Or, you know, maybe putting us first sometimes would be lovely.’

  ‘And what if I don’t want to get married?’ he says. ‘Then what?’

  ‘And what about having a family? Or have you changed your mind on that, too?’

  Eyes cast to the floor, he rakes his fingers through his hair as he shakes his head.

  ‘What was all that garbage about future planning?’ I ask. ‘Were you just telling me what I wanted to hear? You know what? Don’t answer that. You’re a lawyer. Adam was right, it’s what you’re trained to do. I should have known.’