I narrow my eyes at him as I slink away, which he readily copies. I hate that he’s right, though I’ll never admit it. Fiona is laughing as I walk through the office door.
‘He’s very jovial today,’ I whisper.
‘Oddly, he’s been like this all week.’ She winks at me. ‘Absolutely no idea why.’
‘Oh, no, don’t you do that. No.’ I wave a flustered hand by my face, peering out the door towards where he was just stood. It’s odd to consider that, after everything, I’d be the one responsible for his good mood. Surely not. Maybe he just got laid. I’ll bet that’s it.
‘He’s incredibly excited about the exhibition,’ she continues. ‘As in broken record.’
‘He is?’ I close the office door. ‘We haven’t spoken since Sunday, I think. I don’t know, it’s been a long week.’
In fact, I know it’s been that long since we spoke. Despite all the online traffic and fielding enquiries, it seems we’ve both been so busy we haven’t had time to talk.
‘How’d you go this week?’ Fiona drags my attention kicking and screaming out of cyberspace.
‘Amazingly, thank you,’ I say, taking a paper bag from her. I check to ensure all the sheets are in there. ‘How much do I owe you for this?’
‘It’s only a few quid,’ she says. ‘Just pay up the front with Kit.’
Kit. It’s such an odd nickname. When we first met, he always seemed so gruff and blunt and not at all playful in the way his nickname suggests. Even with what I know now, I can’t wrap my brain around any name other than Christopher. I lean into the door, spying him in one of the aisles. He’s not eavesdropping at all.
‘I’m just going to grab some other stuff on my way out,’ I say.
‘Sure thing.’ Fiona offers me what’s left of a limp tomato sandwich. ‘Come for lunch this weekend?’
‘I’d love to.’ I hug her and step back onto the shop floor.
Now that I’ve met with artists, my focus for next week is setting up the darkroom. If I can offer film processing, not only will it prop up cashflow, but it will be the perfect excuse to indulge in my own photography.
The last time I developed film may have been university, or just afterwards in the darkness of my bedroom. I’m sure I’ll be able to pick it up again quickly. With a little help from Google and the furthest corners of my memory, I’d spent the week compiling a list of everything I needed to buy.
I’m so busy stuffing my basket with safelights, trays, developer, stop bath and fixer, that I momentarily lose Christopher in the store. It’s not until I’m headfirst in an aisle of photography paper that he rounds the corner and stops on the spot.
‘Hello,’ I say.
His mouth twitches as he peers into my basket. ‘Chemicals? Sinister.’
‘It’s for the darkroom,’ I say. ‘And boiling random bodies.’
‘A darkroom?’ he says. ‘That’s one thing I’ve yet to master.’
‘You mean there’s something you don’t know?’ I clutch at my chest.
‘You’d be surprised.’ He follows me to the sales counter, where I start unpacking everything from my basket.
‘You know, you should be nicer to me. I’m your boss.’
He snorts. ‘You really aren’t.’
‘Technically, I am,’ I try, though I’m having a hard time not laughing. ‘Line of succession and all that. Works for the Queen.’
He snorts long and loud. ‘You idiot.’
I lean over the counter to check the total as he rings up the last item. ‘Yikes.’
‘You okay? If it’s a problem, I can put some of this aside and you can come back for it later?’
There he goes again on the toss of a coin, from raging innuendos to compassion in no time flat. I probably should put some of it back, but I’m too far gone now. I don’t want to look like a retreating idiot. I’m committed to the cause.
‘No.’ I scowl, quickly remembering the problem I do have. ‘Actually, what are you doing tonight?’
‘Well, hello there,’ he says, surprised. ‘Are you going to cook me dinner?’
‘She can’t cook!’ Fiona calls.
My jaw drops as I hand over my credit card. ‘I can cook.’
‘She exploded eggs last time she boiled them.’ She pops her head out of the office.
Christopher sniggers as he packs my bags and says, ‘Please tell me that’s not true.’
I stare at him.
‘It is true.’
He laughs again. ‘Katharine, that’s terrible.’
‘I forgot they were on the hob. I’d much rather have eaten them than clean them off my ceiling, I promise you.’
‘So, you’re not offering to cook?’ he continues.
‘What? No.’ I shake my head. ‘I was going to ask for your help though.’
‘Sorry, what?’ He leans further in. ‘You may have to repeat that.’
‘I need help.’
‘Sorry, I still can’t hear you.’ He leans in, hand cupped over his ear. ‘You’ll have to speak up.’
‘I said I need your help.’ This time, I’m louder. ‘Happy?’
‘A little,’ he murmurs. ‘What do you need help with?’
‘So, I spent this week meeting heaps of local artists and now I have all these submissions to go through. While I can sit there and calculate social media followings and tick a box that says I like their art, I’ve realised I’m not up to speed with the local scene yet. I thought you might have a better idea. I’d be keen to hear your opinions.’
‘Oh,’ he pips.
‘Don’t tell me you’re surprised.’
‘A little, yes. If you like, I can swing past after we lock up here today,’ he begins. ‘I’ll probably be about an hour or so?’
I nod. ‘I can work with that.’
Chapter 19
An hour later, I’m pacing like an expectant father, running through a list of things that need doing before Christopher arrives. Surfaces have been wiped clean, piles of papers tapped into shape, filthy dishes stashed in the dishwasher and I’ve done an FBI level of checking and hiding anything that could be incriminating.
Even though we’ve had some lovely moments these past few days, and even though I know both the flat and the gallery are clean, I’m terrified he’s going to take one look around and tell me it’s too dark, too small, unacceptable and we’ll be back to square one.
When I hear the rolling crunch of tyres on gravel in the car park, I bolt downstairs and swing the front door wide because here I am, I’m so excited, please don’t let this be painful.
‘Hello.’ I bounce on the balls of my feet.
‘Hey.’ He winces as he slams the door shut.
‘How was the last hour of your shift?’
‘Fiona is nuttier than a cashew factory,’ he says, reaching back into his car. ‘But she told me I had to bring you some milk, so here you are.’
As he walks past, he thrusts a pint into my hands and wanders inside, leaving me staring at the bottle of milk. I’m on the verge of changing his nickname from Kit to Advent Calendar, because he comes with a new surprise every day. He’s even bought my favourite brand. Unreal.
‘Katharine?’ he calls. ‘Aren’t you going to show me around?’
I jolt. ‘Coming!’
I walk him through the gallery, talking about all the work we had to do, highlighting the especially tricky parts, and what I’d like to see happen in each room.
Listening for his responses, I soon realise I’m almost hanging off every word he says. He’s supportive and suggestive in a way that doesn’t override my original ideas but builds and works on them. It’s an extra set of eyes I didn’t know I needed right now, and I’m so grateful for his input.
‘I adore this colour.’ He runs a finger across the wall. ‘It’s going to be really effective. Cosy.’
‘You know what would make it look even better?’ I ask.
‘Art?’
‘Yes.’ I clap my hands. ‘Shall we?’
‘Lead the way.’ He gestures towards the staircase.
‘Right, so I’m having a slight dilemma,’ I explain over my shoulder as he clomps up the stairs behind me. ‘Because I only have a set run of time, I’m not sure who to show and how long for.’
‘What was the standard for exhibitions at Webster? When you weren’t turning down your favourite Sheffield artists, that is.’
‘Oh!’ My mouth pops. ‘That wasn’t me.’
‘No, I know.’ He steps inside. ‘Come to think of it though, I might frame that email as a reminder that they always do come crawling back.’
‘Oh, stop it.’ When I turn to scold him, he’s already laughing. ‘You’re awful.’
While I dither about playing hostess, collecting drinks, and putting the milk away, we have a lovely bit of back and forth about the optimum exhibition length. If time weren’t an issue, I’d likely do month-long runs. At Webster, some of our exhibitions ran for three or four months each, but we could afford to do that on the back of the names we showed. Here, on limited time and with such a huge range of options, we decide three weeks is a good timeframe.
‘See, that’s what I was thinking, but it feels too short.’ I look at him. ‘Don’t you think?’
‘I’ve seen it done for some of the smaller places around here,’ Christopher explains with a shrug and shake of the head. ‘And you’re not cutting people short. You aren’t pushing them straight out the door. You’re giving them a good span of time, but also cycling new faces through the door. Remember, each artist will bring their own social circles in, so … Why am I telling you this? You know this.’
‘Never underestimate how much I don’t know.’ I waggle a finger at him. ‘But this is great. Brilliant.’
While I divide my diary into three-week blocks, he reaches for one of the portfolios piled on the table. As he does, a half-written menu card slips out onto the table. Funny, I thought I’d put all that away. With a flash of surprise, he picks it up and turns it over.
‘I didn’t think Uber Eats was this fancy with its menus. Unless this is what you’re plating up for dinner?’
‘Ah.’ I try and pluck it away from him, embarrassed, but he holds it out of reach. ‘That’s for Lainey’s wedding.’
‘Loud girl from the shop?’ he says.
‘That’s her.’
‘And that’s your handwriting?’ He looks at it again.
‘It’s my fancy handwriting.’ I shoulder him gently. ‘Don’t expect any pretty notes anytime soon.’
‘Katharine, this is stunning.’ He holds the card at an angle as if looking for finer details.
‘Thank you,’ I say quietly. ‘Though it doesn’t feel particularly stunning after umpteen invites, place cards, or whatever else she decides she needs.’
‘You’ve done all that?’
I start rattling off points on my finger. ‘Engagement invites, engagement thank you cards, wedding invites, place cards, menu cards, and wedding thank you cards to come.’
‘That’s a hell of a lot of work,’ he muses. ‘Was this a school taught thing, or something you picked up on your own?’
‘Remember you were talking yesterday about not wanting to create your art after Claire died?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘That was my version.’
‘You’re writing my Christmas cards this year, so you know.’ He hands me the card, which I stash, along with the rest of them, in the drawer of the coffee table. ‘I’ll pay you, of course.’
‘You’re not paying me to write Christmas cards,’ I say dismissively. ‘Don’t be silly.’
‘I am if I say I am.’ He fixes me with a look I can’t quite put my finger on. ‘And she should be paying you for your work, too.’
‘No,’ I say, maybe a little too defensively. ‘We’ve been friends since university. That’s a long time and we’ve been through a lot, so, you know. Plus, it seemed like a great way to be involved.’
Even though I make excuses for her, deep down I know he’s at least halfway right.
‘What?’ He leans back in his chair. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘Did you want to stay for dinner then?’ I ask.
My question hangs in the air for an unkept moment and, when he looks down at his lap, I wonder if I’ve overstepped the invisible line of friendship.
‘Sure.’ He shrugs. ‘I was planning on takeout once I was done here anyway, so why not?’
‘How do you feel about Thai?’ I ask.
Evidently, he feels very good about it, because an hour later we’re hunched over plastic containers with an uncorked bottle of wine. An arc of favourite portfolios is spread out across the table and we can’t come to an agreement about who to choose next.
‘Now, I know you love your old-fashioned art.’ Christopher holds up a folder for an artist who’s a brilliant Renaissance mimic with a negligible social media following.
‘This isn’t about personal preference though, is it?’ I ask. ‘We did plenty of shows at the museum that I didn’t love.’
‘Really? Like what?’
I sit quietly for a moment and spin the roulette wheel of my memory. ‘I don’t love cubism. We did that about three years back. It was awful.’
‘Good to see we agree on two things, then.’
‘We do?’ I feel myself turn into him. ‘I mean, I get it. It’s art and it’s in the eye of the beholder and blah blah blah, but what the hell is going on? It looks like a game of KerPlunk on an acid trip.’
Christopher roars with laughter. Pure, loud, delighted laughter. In the short time I’ve known him, he’s always given off this air of someone who takes the world far too seriously. He can be boorish and wickedly blunt but, right now, all I can think is Oh God, I made him laugh, I made him laugh … I. Made. Him. Laugh.
‘That is brilliant.’ He wipes tears from his eyes. ‘Ker-Plunk.’
‘What else have we got?’ I reach across him, steadying myself with a hand on his shoulder. I return to my seat, but my hand stays, shifting only slightly further down his back. I’m sure I don’t imagine the fact he leans into my touch.
I say nothing, instead concentrating on picking and sorting and working our way through the rest of the folio. Christopher is mostly quiet with his opinions, though he talks through the common-sense stuff like having a balance between the very new and the established, huge follower numbers and small numbers but an effective presence.
When we finish, we’ve narrowed the list down to six artists, filled out my calendar, coloured and drawn up a Gantt chart. I feel terribly accomplished and blown away by his help.
‘Now, all you need is contracts,’ he says, cleaning one pile of paper while I sift through another. ‘Send them off, then all you need to do is wait, really. Once you get into the cycle of it all, it’s a waiting game.’
I offer him another drink to say thank you, but he chooses to pack up and go home. He’s quiet as he gets ready, and I’m not entirely sure if I’ve said something to upset him or touched on a sore point, so I don’t push it any further. After the way things have changed between us, I feel nauseous at the idea that I might have inadvertently undone that.
Downstairs, he turns to me as we reach the car park behind the gallery.
‘Can I tell you a secret?’ He leans in and fixes me with such a look I’m certain he’s about to unload nuclear codes on me. ‘Can I trust you with that?’
I avert my eyes for a moment and, when I look back, he smirks. ‘I suppose so.’
With a hand on my elbow, he leans into my ear and whispers, ‘All those portfolios we worked through tonight?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I have absolutely no idea who any of those people are.’
‘You what?’ I shriek, yanking him back as he attempts a quick getaway. ‘What do you mean you have no idea who they are? We just sent invites out to the top six!’
‘Which you picked,’ he says. ‘You didn’t need me.’
My jaw
drops.
‘Katharine, you need to trust yourself more,’ he says. ‘You did all of this, I just sat back and nodded. You’ve done it before. This is just a different scale.’
‘I didn’t do that,’ I sputter. ‘You’ve been much more help than you realise. In fact, I may very well have been lost without you.’
My admission stills the air, and, for a moment, we do nothing but watch each other. I feel my limbs getting shaky. I can’t believe I just said that aloud.
‘Yes, you did.’ His keys jingle in his hand. ‘See you Sunday?’
‘Art class?’ My head tips. ‘Yes, of course. Sunday.’
With that, he kisses me on the cheek and leaves me gawping after him. I’m a goldfish, my glass bowl has been smashed and I’m flopping about without water.
When I turn around and walk back inside, his coat is still slung over the sofa.
Chapter 20
‘Did you know Christopher’s wife died?’ I ask.
Adam takes a piece of cardboard from me and steps up the ladder. I watch with bated breath as he tries wedging it into the tight space of the window frame. When he appeared on my doorstep this morning desperate for something to do, I’d already spread myself about one of the spare rooms upstairs, measuring and cutting cardboard. After spending the weekend working on the admin side of the business and Lainey’s menu cards, I was desperate for something creative of my own. I wanted to set up my darkroom.
I chose a smaller upstairs room with a sink and running water. Despite the window, it’s the perfect location for it. But, if there’s one thing I’ve learned about darkrooms this morning, it’s that they’re not quite as easy to construct as the internet will have you believe.
‘Dad mentioned something about him last night,’ he says. ‘You know, one of those whispered comments that give off a whiff of taboo even though it’s not that big a deal.’
‘It’s quite a big deal, I think. You know how it was with us.’ I rush in under him and drag foam tape across the bottom of the board, all my extremities crossed for a perfect seal. ‘Two years ago. Still a bit fresh, isn’t it? I don’t think Dad would be hiding that conversation to save embarrassment, maybe just as a bit of respect.’
Accidentally in Love: An utterly uplifting laugh out loud romantic comedy Page 21