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

by Belinda Missen

  He shakes his head. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘I am so, so sorry.’

  ‘And you did anyway.’ He sighs.

  Now I truly want the ground to open up and swallow me.

  ‘Are you … do you …?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he says, gesturing for me to leave the room. I don’t want to. I want to keep looking at the painting. I want to hear the secrets she wants to tell me. ‘Come on.’

  ‘Don’t say that. It’s not fine.’

  ‘It’s been two years now, so it is.’ He kicks a cupboard door shut. ‘In the grand scheme of things, at least.’

  I slide the door shut, determined not to cut this conversation short. ‘Is that why you won’t show your work?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘There’s not a lot to talk about,’ he says. ‘The abridged version? Car accident.’

  ‘The long version?’

  He pauses, rubs a hand over his mouth and stares at a spot on the ground by my feet. It’s his nervous tell, I know that now. ‘I was having a meeting for what was meant to be my first major show and she was on her way to meet me for dinner afterwards. You know how you spend years trying to break into the crowd and then everything begins to line up and a buzz starts? We were both busy that day and I was desperate to be there early so I left her to find her own way there.’

  I don’t know what to say. He’s just laid bare every single reason he’s had to dislike me and what I’m doing. I am a constant reminder of how he lost his wife. Another layer of understanding settles around me, and I make a note to tread more carefully in the future. We linger in silence a little longer.

  ‘Anyway,’ he says. ‘Like I said, it was two years ago. It sucks, I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t. But it’s not a gushing wound anymore. It’s more like a raised scar now. Ninety per cent of the time it doesn’t bother you, but occasionally you’ll bump it on something or someone sharp and realise it’s still a bit tender.’

  I want to scold him for sounding like he’s trying to brush it aside, so bloody insouciant about it all, but I can’t. Losing Mum upended our lives for what felt like years. Eventually, though, you realise the world doesn’t stop turning and you need to try and fit back into your place as best you can, even if the shape doesn’t quite hold right anymore. It is what it is and there’s isn’t a thing you can do to change it.

  ‘I understand,’ I say finally. ‘Sort of, I guess.’

  ‘I know you do.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ I blurt.

  Christopher turns away and opens the door. ‘If I hadn’t been chasing the spotlight and the fame and all the adoration, maybe it wouldn’t have happened. Or maybe it still would have. Who knows?’

  ‘Thank you for sharing that with me.’

  ‘It’s fine. It was bound to come out sooner or later,’ he says, reaching for sketchpads and a tin of pencils. ‘It’s not some grand secret. I’m only surprised your father hasn’t already told you.’

  ‘He’s not much of a gossip,’ I say. ‘Not sure if you’d noticed.’

  ‘You get that from your mother, then?’ he says with a smirk.

  ‘Oh, piss off.’ I reach for some of the things in his arms. ‘Here, let me help you.’

  We trundle down the hill towards a small wooden hut in the first paddock. The sound of summer grass swishes about my calves, seeds clinging to my jeans. A group of people dithers about in the field, phones in hands, deep in debate.

  ‘They like my class because it’s so lax and you can’t fail,’ he says. ‘Not really.’

  ‘What do you do? Is there, say, a set curriculum, or do you work on something different each week?’

  He shakes his head. ‘This is the first year, so I’m still feeling my way, but I like classes to be more student driven, which is code for I have no idea what I’m doing. If they want to paint or draw or whatever, then I’m happy to offer advice as they go. I know it’s not structured, but I don’t think one size fits all when you’re dealing with people of different skill and interest levels.’

  ‘That makes perfect sense.’ Everything in my arms tumbles onto the bench. I clear a space so I can sit.

  ‘Am I allowed to see your portfolio now?’ The bench seat moves under his weight as he gets comfortable beside me.

  I slap the black folder into his hand and watch nervously as he flips through the pages. There are the early university architectural photos, moody dark buildings against sharp bright skies, Peak District sunsets, mock advertising campaigns I had to submit for grading, and the occasional portrait.

  I find myself apologising for the quality of some of the older stuff, telling him what I’d do differently now. It’s the defensive position of someone desperately hoping to impress, especially after his first assessment of my work. If I explain it, he’ll understand. I recognise it from phone calls I’ve had in the last few days. Now, here I am falling into the same validation trap. It’s true, I want him to be impressed.

  ‘Stop apologising,’ he says, turning the page. ‘Oh, I love this shot.’

  I look across at the photo. It’s mossy grass and an icy reservoir surrounded by an orange and grey sunset at Bamford Edge.

  ‘That was an end of year camping trip with some other arts students,’ I explain. ‘A heap of us packed up cameras and oils, canvas and pencils, and took off for some inspiration and motivation. Not too long before I started at Webster.’

  ‘Did you enjoy it there?’ he asks. ‘At Webster, that is.’

  ‘I thought I did,’ I say quietly. ‘Now, I’m not so sure.’

  ‘You’re better off out of the machine.’

  ‘It was worlds away from what I’m trying to do now,’ I consider, though his words floor me. They’re supportive in a place I didn’t expect to find them. ‘There are things I loved about being there. Access to the big names, surrounding myself with beautiful art, and all under the bright lights of the big city.’

  ‘On the other hand?’ he asks.

  ‘It was quite a boys’ club in the end. No matter how much I worked, it never seemed to be enough.’ I sigh. ‘As busy as I am now, I’m enjoying being my own boss. There are days where I’ve been pottering all day, painting or whatnot, I look at the clock and realise it’s evening, but it hasn’t felt like work at all. I care so much about it, about getting it right and doing it for me, that I keep going until I’m satisfied.’

  ‘That’s how I feel about this place.’ He waves at the world beyond the hut. ‘I get to paint and sell my work and maybe pass on what I know to other people without trying to impress people or chase fame or any of that.’

  I frown at him.

  He leans across and whispers, ‘No offence.’

  ‘Except that it was me pursuing you.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I noticed,’ he says with a laugh as he places my portfolio on the bench and shuffles closer.

  ‘Can you give me some advice on an idea?’ I fold myself over and lean into his line of sight, batting my eyelids like a flickering candle.

  He swats at me with his pad of paper. ‘Considering I’ve spent the last few weeks trying my best to chase you away, my advice is probably the last thing you need.’

  Another compliment. Today has been a tiny victory, but one I’m grabbing with both hands. I’ll save the gloating for next time I see Lainey; it’ll make one hell of a story. For now, I take a photo of Christopher as he sketches out something beside me.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asks, peering up at me.

  Looking at him from behind the safety of my phone, I feel as if it’s him who’s seeing me for the first time. The hardness in his face is barely registering, replaced by something gentle in his eyes. He’s really quite lovely when he’s not trying to push people away.

  ‘We have an exhibition to announce,’ I say. ‘And I need a slightly more cheerful photo than the one on your website.’

  He rolls his eyes but says nothing.

  Over the ne
xt few minutes, sketches and histories are forgotten as we scribble down and refine the small, seemingly insignificant announcement post. Sure, it feels like a huge thing for me, but I don’t want to assume I’m going to move mountains just yet. Frustrated sighs give way to revisions and, eventually, we come up with something we both agree on.

  ‘This may sound like a silly question,’ I begin, slipping my phone and our new announcement back into my pocket.

  ‘You’d be surprised what counts as silly around here,’ he says.

  ‘How did you end up here?’

  I watch as he looks off into the distance. His mouth shifts and he sighs once or twice. I suspect he’s trying to work out exactly how much to tell me.

  ‘Originally, Claire and I were living in this tiny flat in the middle of town. I’m talking the living room doubled as the dining room, the studio, and entertaining area. What we really wanted was somewhere with sprawling views, room for a family and a studio, all that fluffy stuff. So, when this place popped up, we slapped down the deposit and popped the champagne. About a week after that, she died.’

  I cringe. ‘I’m so sorry she didn’t get to move in.’

  ‘Me too. Anyway, in the aftermath of that, I didn’t want to do the art thing anymore. I blamed her for anything that went wrong in my life for the next twelve months. Forgot to pay a bill? Claire, art, boo. Car broke down? Claire normally booked it in for a service. Go to make dinner but find I’m out of ingredients? Claire was the list-maker and shopper. So, when I moved out here about two months after the funeral, I boxed everything away and forgot about it.’

  ‘How’d you feel after that?’ I ask.

  ‘Strange. For a while it was nice to walk inside and see nothing but a regular house. It’s that old adage out of sight, out of mind, right?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘But time does its thing, you get past the big milestones; one month becomes six and friends pull you aside to remind you that life goes on. It was around that time, I found I wasn’t so much sad, but I was angry and frustrated. Actually, your father has talked about this with me before, along with the dumbing down of conversations. People start talking to you a little differently, slower. “Are you okay, Kit?”, “How are things going with you today, Kit?”, “Is today a good day or a bad day, Kit?”, “We’re all here for you.”’

  ‘I remember those days,’ I say. ‘“How’s your heart today, Katie, would you like to talk to me about anything? It’s okay if you don’t, but just know that we’re all here for you.” Which, of course, they’re not because at some point people lose patience and disappear back into the bushes and figure you’ll eventually work it out yourself.’

  He chuckles. ‘See, and you know they mean well, they just don’t know how to deal with it properly. Nobody does, even if you’re the one in the eye of the storm.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Anyway, I left my job as an accounts manager.’

  ‘You were an accounts manager?’ I chortle. ‘I didn’t see that one coming.’

  ‘I had a suit and tie job and sat at a desk and counted beans.’

  I try to imagine him walking around corporate land in business attire, and I’m surprised to find I quite like the idea.

  ‘Anyway, twelve months goes by and I met your father at a local craft market one weekend when I was looking at Fiona’s work. We got to chatting and he offered me some shifts at the shop.’ He brushes eraser shavings from his paper and holds it out to inspect. ‘And, I don’t know, one night I was just moping about feeling like something was missing, so I got a canvas out and started painting again. I didn’t want to go back into the whole cycle of exhibiting because that was still raw, so I decided to start this up and see where it went.’

  ‘And now you just sell online?’

  ‘See, that is such a weird experience. I didn’t expect anything to happen, but one piece sold, then another, and it’s continued. I generally move one or two a week. It’s daylight robbery, really.’ Christopher stands and peers around the corner of the hut. ‘Once people saw I was online, they were on at me to exhibit again, but it didn’t feel right. The school is what feels right.’

  ‘Can I say something?’ I ask.

  ‘Always.’

  ‘I’m thrilled you’re going to show. Your school is fabulous, and I can see these people enjoy being here with you. They hang off your every word, but your work should be seen by people too. Forget what I think of modern art or renaissance or Lady Jane, or any of that. When I see your work, I’m moved. I feel, and I feel deeply. You should show that.’

  ‘It feels like a huge thing,’ he says.

  ‘It is, absolutely it is. But don’t you think, maybe, if you don’t take that step you’ll be stuck in the past forever? At some point, it’s time to step out and be you again, isn’t it?’

  He looks at me. Understanding washes fear from his face and replaces it with soft, sad regret.

  ‘Is that why you haven’t got any recent photos?’

  I reach out absentmindedly and pat his thigh. His hand shifts and curls around mine and that’s how we stay for the next half-hour, watching birds flit and shake about in the rain, trying and failing to sketch with only one hand each. Still, neither of us lets go. We don’t need to say anything else because, for the first time, we understand each other perfectly.

  Chapter 18

  I’m so proud of you.

  Congratulations!

  This is amazing – I’ve never heard of this gallery before. They’re on my visit list NOW.

  I can’t wait for opening night.

  Digging into a bowl of cereal, I scroll through comments on my newsfeed. The announcement we made yesterday, the one I thought might not be more than a blip on the radar? Well, it’s exploded.

  Because here I am, not quite at sunrise on Monday morning, streets are still, and the city isn’t quite awake yet, but the rest of the world clearly is. Not only are there the usual comments from students, friends and family, but there are collectors from across the world who’ve picked up on this. They’re already asking how they can buy paintings that, to my knowledge, aren’t even finished yet.

  This kind of response is exactly what we both needed.

  Naively not expecting too much from our announcement, I spent last night organising my week’s appointments. One hundred and sixty-five people had contacted me about gallery space. So far. When I removed internationals, Londoners, anyone outside the greater city area, and those I’d already made appointments with, I was left with eighty-five more artists to meet this week. It seems like an impossible task.

  I made spreadsheets and wrote notes, cue cards to use as a post-university cramming exercise for everyone lined up for this morning. I had decided to hold the interviews upstairs in the flat so, unless I wanted people thinking my unmade bed was an invitation, all I had left to do was clean.

  After running the mop over the floor once last time, I load up the percolator and switch my phone to silent. I’m ready. At least I think I am. I’ve got five minutes until my first meeting, I’m dressed in my best casual, cool I-swear-I-know-what-I’m-doing look of expensive jeans and blouse, my hair no longer looks like I’ve climbed out of Chewbacca’s fur and I’ve pulled out the make-up for the first time since I moved here.

  ‘You absolutely know what you’re doing.’ I still myself for one final moment before there’s a knock at the door. I bounce downstairs excitedly to find a dreadlocked man standing on my doorstep, oversized portfolio in hand and a nervous smile on his face.

  ‘Hello, I’m Derry.’

  ‘Derry!’ I shake his hand and wave him inside, and my week begins.

  The gallery is a revolving door of curious faces and excited artists. My head swirls with all the possibilities, and I can’t quite help but leap a dozen steps into the future and imagine what life might be like in six months when this all works and business is booming. I am strikingly grateful that so many people are already willing to take a chance on me and my visio
n.

  And the art I see is incredible. It makes me want to be front and centre at one of Christopher’s classes, get myself all good and covered in oil paints just so I can learn to be half as good as them. There’s so much variety, both medium and style, and I find myself getting excited all over again. I’ve seen a lot of it already in my inbox, but to see it all in person tells me I’m going to have a lot more trouble picking a roster of exhibitions than I thought.

  When Fiona rings on Friday afternoon to tell me Lainey’s paper order has finally come through, it’s the perfect opportunity to get out of the house and process my thoughts on everyone and everything I’ve seen this week. I grab my keys, a small shopping list and head out the door.

  As I walk the streets, I realise I haven’t had much time to think about Lainey or her menu cards recently, never mind work on them. I managed one as a practice run but, by the time my appointments have finished up each evening, I’ve been ready for dinner and bed.

  The realisation that I also haven’t heard from her throws me off kilter. When I lived in London, we saw each other daily in the office, talked incessantly and always made time for dinner together. Not having that friendship within reach leaves a painful hole in my chest. I fire off a text message to her as I step inside the shop and look up at the sales counter, expecting to see Dad.

  But Christopher is standing there, apron knotted around his waist and pricing gun in hand. He looks happy if a little caught off-guard, and I find myself pleased to see him. We have the shared excitement of the exhibit to riff off now.

  ‘What on earth are you doing here, Beetlejuice?’ I ask, hoping my humour lands its intended target. ‘Are you determined to be everywhere I am?’

  ‘Now, hang on just a second.’ He places the pricing gun down, splays his hands across the counter and leans in. ‘You know I work here sometimes so maybe you’re the one stalking me. Have you thought about that?’

  ‘I am not stalking you.’ I smile as I walk towards the back of the shop.

  ‘No, but you are,’ he calls. ‘You pop up in my inbox, on my phone, you come barging into my class and upend it and, now, you’re in here. Like a Magic 8-Ball, all signs point to yes, Katharine.’