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

by Belinda Missen

  ‘It seems unfairly cruel to lose a spouse at such a young age.’ I can hear the strain in his voice as he forces the top corners into place. ‘It’s not quite like divorce, is it? At least they can tell you they hate your guts and run off with the co-worker they swore wasn’t the reason for the two a.m. text messages. Death doesn’t really give you answers, does it?’

  ‘I guess not.’ I peer up at him as he takes the tape from me and works along the top of the window. Finally, the light begins to disappear from the room. ‘He’s a brilliant painter though.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘And he’s agreed to exhibit, so that’s good.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘I went out to his school last weekend to meet everyone. That was nice,’ I say. ‘And yesterday too. Took my camera this time; it was nice to potter around and take photos after spending all week in the office.’

  ‘Katharine, do I detect a bit of crush?’ he says.

  ‘What? No!’ I scoff. ‘I mean, he’s not as awful as I thought he was, but he’s still a bit, you know.’

  ‘Snobbish like you?’

  I gasp, though it barely hides my laughter. ‘How very dare you.’

  Of all the things I’ve thought about, and I’ve done a whole lot of thinking since I left him by the side of his driveway yesterday afternoon, none of it has been in a romantic context. My brain has been running business at a million miles an hour for the last few weeks. There’s no room there for romance, and I’m sure he feels the same way.

  ‘He is you, but with a penis.’ He looks down at me, brows raised. ‘Seriously. He’s dry and stubborn and nobody can tell him anything once he’s set his mind to something. That’s you, and that’s exactly why you rubbed each other the wrong way.’

  ‘I am not like him.’ I baulk at the accusation. ‘And I don’t not like him. We’ve had chats. He’s … he’s okay. We get along well when he’s not being rude.’

  ‘Yeah, you are,’ he insists, leaning back to inspect his handiwork. ‘You might find his attitude is a coping mechanism. If he’s acerbic enough that people aren’t sure where they stand, then he doesn’t have to get too close.’

  ‘Really?’ I ask. ‘Dad was never like that.’

  ‘Katie.’ He glances down at me. ‘He was. You were just too young to realise at the time. All those times I shepherded him off to the pub? They were because he was getting unbearable. He was fucking awful for the first year.’

  Just when you think you have your teenage years sorted, along comes someone to tell you what you knew was wrong. It’s amazing to think that, in our family, there are three histories that all tell the same events. It’s another one of those adult realisations that stops you silent for a while.

  Adam steps down from the ladder while I pull the door closed. We’re in almost total darkness, just a few sneaky shards of light slipping through the top of the window and underneath the door. We add another layer of board to the window, overlapping what’s already there and I push a draught stopper against the door. There, now we’re in almost midnight darkness. It’s as perfect as I’m going to get it without cutting off ventilation completely.

  While Adam cleans, I set the room up as best I can with the supplies I picked up at Dad’s shop yesterday. I set out designated wet and dry areas, mark spots for chemical baths and mixing jugs, and set aside a corner for retrieving film from cannisters. When he returns, we close the door and switch on the safelight, brothel red and just bright enough that we can see each other.

  ‘Looks really good, Katie.’ He turns slowly, taking it all in.

  ‘Not so bad, hey?’ I nudge him. ‘Pretty clever.’

  ‘You are brilliantly smart and horrendously tenacious. You simply need to trust yourself a bit more.’ He gives my shoulder a squeeze. Before he can get away, I slip my arms around his middle and drag him in for a hug.

  ‘You know, you’re not the first person to say that recently,’ I say.

  ‘Whoever said that is obviously a smart person.’

  As is his style, Adam tries to duck out with the minimum fuss, making excuses about heading out for dinner with old friends and wanting to check in on emails beforehand. The least I can do is persuade him to join me for afternoon tea. He won’t accept so much as £10 for his help today, which I’ve negotiated down from a higher sum, but he’s always found it impossible to pass up afternoon tea.

  I pluck a new roll of film from the bottom of my handbag and stuff it into my camera as we walk out the door. We wander about looking for a bakery we both remember from childhood but settle for a booth in the café at the Millennium Gallery when neither of us can find it.

  ‘Before you run off today,’ I begin as I slide a tray of tea and scones onto the table.

  Adam stops texting furiously and puts his phone in his coat. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you talk to me about you?’ I ask. ‘Your silence is bothering me.’

  He frowns. ‘Doesn’t normally.’

  ‘This is different.’

  We play a quick game of rock, paper, scissors to determine who gets the blueberry jam and who gets the bramble. I gratefully take the blueberry.

  ‘Please talk,’ I say.

  ‘About what?’

  My brother hasn’t said much about himself since he arrived this morning with a bagful of groceries. ‘Just in case you need them’, he reasoned. All I know is that he’s taking some personal days from work. Oh, and the throwaway comment about 2 a.m. text messages. I’m beyond grateful for his help, I just don’t want it to be at the expense of him getting his own help if he needs it.

  I flash him a sarcastic look. ‘Sophie.’

  ‘Do you want me to be honest?’ he asks, sucking jam and clotted cream from his finger. ‘Or do you want the easily palatable option?’

  ‘You know we always do honesty.’

  And we’ve done it to the point where sometimes we’ve been a little too honest. I remember one discussion we had when I was living with him and Sophie. It was my first year in London and word had filtered back to Adam that I was both lazy and leaving the house a mess. It was terse and at times his accusations seemed unfairly founded, but things needed to be said either way. I sulked for a few days before everything went back to normal.

  ‘In that case, I feel like I’ve had the rug pulled out from under me,’ he says. ‘I know I said at the pub the other week that things weren’t looking great, but it still doesn’t prepare you for it. I’m furiously angry, but I’ve got nowhere to expend it. You spend so much time being lulled into a false sense of security by routines and alarm clocks, five-year plans and financial planners, and then it’s just upended when she comes home and says she’s decided over lunch with a girlfriend that it’s over. I mean, how is it fair that they know my marital status before I do?’

  I don’t have a wealth of experience when it comes to relationships – at least if I’m talking long-term. The few boyfriends I’ve had lasted between six and twelve months, and my latest experience amounted to nine months of bad decisions and an empty bed, so I can’t really give the ‘If it were me, I would’ speech. What I can do though is listen, and sometimes that’s all that’s needed.

  And I suspect I’m right, because he talks all the way through afternoon tea, a walk up The Moor and back home again, where we sit on the back doorstep and natter about life some more. When he eventually leaves, I squeeze him so tight he might pop and wave as he steps up into the first bus that arrives outside the gallery. I work through a few quick emails about the gallery, then I have nothing but a full roll of film and a few hours until sunset to while away the afternoon.

  I take the opportunity to wander around and think about nothing other than apertures and focus, framing and angles as I photograph trees and park benches, flowers and crumbling buildings, rogue cats and my beautiful gallery and its intricate details. I stop a few clicks short of the end of the roll; Christopher wants to learn how to develop film, so he can use the final shots when he’s ready.


  Except, I’m desperate to try the room myself. Standing by the back door, key in lock, I dial his number. I look up and see a hanging basket that’s been left to turn to dust. A nice little flowing something would add more homeliness to the place. Just as I think my call is going to ring out, he picks up.

  ‘Kit Dunbar.’ He sounds distracted.

  ‘Hey, it’s me,’ I say.

  ‘Hello, you,’ he answers. Something inside me quivers at the familiarity in his voice. ‘How are you? I still haven’t scared you off, have I?’

  I lean against the back door and peer out into the empty gravel car park. ‘No. You’re going to have to try harder than that.’

  I’m not sure, but I think I hear him mumble something that sounds like, ‘Good.’ Nerves xylophone across my ribs as I take a deep breath.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

  ‘Right now?’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Tonight, it’s jam sandwiches for an early dinner,’ he says. ‘Rock ’n’ roll, I know.’

  ‘Now, see, I think you’re looking at this entirely the wrong way.’ I close the door behind me. ‘Jam sandwiches are completely underrated.’

  ‘Does it count that I made the bread?’ he asks.

  ‘Look at you, Earl of Sandwich.’ I bite down on a knuckle to stop myself from laughing. ‘Also, for future reference, I believe fresh bread is one of life’s delicacies. When it’s home-made, it’s even better.’

  ‘In that case, I’m hanging up on you so I can eat in peace.’

  ‘After that?’ I say. ‘Do you have any plans tonight?’

  ‘Why? I’d ask if you were planning on taking pity and cooking me a meal, but you can’t boil eggs,’ he says. ‘But I must warn you, I don’t do pity well. I’ll hang up if you start rolling down that hill.’

  ‘Definitely not. You’ll get no such thing from me.’ I pull the refrigerator door open. ‘As for dinner, I can’t offer you anything unless you have a thing for two-minute noodles or a microwave meal of chicken and cashew.’

  ‘Gourmet,’ he says with a laugh. ‘Fiona would be appalled.’

  ‘She’d be bloody terrified is what she’d be,’ I say with a laugh. ‘Anyway. Tonight. Plans?’

  ‘Are you about to ask me on a date?’

  ‘What?’ My breath catches and something pops inside me. ‘No. Absolutely not.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ he grumbles. ‘I’ve actually just sat down to draw something. Thought I’d use ink and watercolour. I envisage I’ll add it to the collection of those paintings you can’t have.’

  ‘You’re a horrible man.’

  ‘Terrible,’ he echoes. ‘Though that word has two meanings.’

  ‘That’s terrific, actually. Terrible is simply that.’ I smile, drawing my bottom lip through my teeth. When did talking to him become so much fun?

  ‘Aren’t you clever?’

  ‘So. the darkroom is ready.’

  ‘It is?’ he asks. I can picture him on the other end of the line, his back a little straighter than thirty seconds ago.

  ‘Want me to teach you something for a change?’

  ‘I do seem to recall there being some line in there about those who can’t do, teach.’

  ‘Oh, stop it.’ Now I’m unabashedly laughing. ‘You know, you really are something.’

  ‘You’re just making life difficult now.’ He groans. ‘I’d really quite like to get this project finished. It’s rather important. Can we pick another time? When else is good for you?’

  ‘I’m quite free this week, actually.’

  ‘How does tomorrow sound?’ he asks.

  Chapter 21

  I check and double-check and make sure I’ve got everything set up properly. I am absolutely sweating that I’ll stuff something up and look more of a fool than I’m convinced I already do. When I hear a knock on the door, I snatch my camera up from the bench and race down the stairs with a spring in my step and a beat in my chest.

  Without so much as a single thought to what or who might be on the other side, I wrench the door open, thrust my camera out into the open, and take an unposed, unguarded photo of the first thing I see.

  The result? Christopher standing there with a face full of doughnut and paper bag in hand while another parcel remains wedged under his other arm. I fall about laughing at the look of innocent surprise on his face. It’s going to make an epically candid photo. I wonder if he’ll put that on his website instead of the solemn looking one that’s currently there. I giggle as I wind the film onto the next shot.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ he says through his final mouthful, powdered sugar floating into the air.

  I offer him the camera. ‘Last few shots. Want to take some before I lock you away in a dark space?’

  ‘Please.’ He hands me both bags. ‘Hold these.’

  ‘Just so you know, I’m going to hold these doughnuts in my mouth.’ I dig about in the bag, drawing some of the sugar and cinnamon up with a damp finger. ‘What else did you bring? Do you know how to use a manual SLR camera?’

  ‘I made you a loaf of bread.’ He fiddles with the lens. ‘And yes, I do.’

  ‘You made me bread?’ Though it’s a struggle, I manage to pull apart the end of the second parcel. It’s yeasty and warm and makes me think of cosy cafés on rainy days where you can snuggle into another person with freshly roasted coffee and a yellowing dog-eared book. Paradise. ‘You do realise, if you keep bringing me carbohydrates, I might keep you.’

  Keep you? Where the hell did that come from?

  ‘Fun fact: I got up at five o’clock this morning to make sure it was baked in time. So don’t say I don’t ever put you first.’ He’s terrible at hiding the pride that sparks in his eyes.

  ‘Christopher.’ I gasp. ‘A proper gentleman knows the woman should always come first.’

  He stands there in complete and utter silence, camera dangling from his hand. For a second, I wonder if I’ve overstepped the line, said too much too soon, again, and I watch him with wide eyes, doughnut poised at my mouth.

  ‘Katharine,’ he says, with all the seriousness of a funeral director.

  ‘Christopher.’

  ‘Do you honestly think I’m some sort of Neanderthal?’ he says as he lifts the camera and clicks a shot of me hiding sheepishly behind a doughnut.

  I’m laughing again when I wave him through the front door. ‘I was aiming more for Homo erectus, myself.’

  ‘Get inside.’ He gives my shoulder a nudge. ‘Before I lock you away in a dark space and throw away the key. Honestly.’

  ‘I’m so excited,’ I say as I follow him upstairs. ‘You have no idea how disappointed I was that you were busy last night.’

  ‘Really?’ He sounds surprised.

  I bury my nose in the loaf. ‘I can’t believe you made me bread. Thank you.’

  ‘Do you have jam?’ he asks, wandering around and making himself completely at home.

  ‘Thick cut marmalade.’

  ‘Bloody heretic.’ His top lip curls as he reaches for his bag and retrieves a jar of strawberry jam. It lands on the bench with a solid thunk. Is it too early in the day to admit that he’s making an amazing impression this morning?

  I adore these types of moments, the ease of interaction, comments tinged with sarcasm and the laughter that follows. Not only can he give and take it in equal measure, but it rounds and softens him as a man, sloughing away my earlier image of him as a grumpy loner. He’s not that at all, he’s simply guarded. Like Adam said: at arm’s length.

  Even after spending last Friday evening with him as I sifted through artists, even with the laughter and kind words, I’m surprised at this morning’s interaction. I’m also hesitant because this, whatever it’s becoming, is still crystalline fragile and morning fresh, and I’d hate to overstep the mark and shatter everything. As I place the bread on the side and fill the kettle, I keep an eye on him as he peers into the darkroom.

  ‘This is impressive,’ he calls back to me. ‘W
ell done.’

  ‘And you’ve never used one before?’ I ask.

  He shakes his head. ‘Never.’

  I wedge myself in beside him and switch the light on. ‘Do you want to learn it all, or do you just want to watch?’

  ‘As much as I like to watch, I’d love to learn, please,’ he says. ‘I use a digital camera to photograph my work for archiving and online sales, but I’ve never had this opportunity. It’s brilliant, thank you.’

  After all the criticism and uncertainty, his turn of enthusiasm is lovely to see. That he believes I could teach someone of his skill level is thrilling and fills me with a cup of courage. I’m chomping at the bit while also feeling strangely nervous.

  I leave him to finish the last few shots left in the camera, racing downstairs to lock the door before checking again that I have everything I need laid out on the bench of the darkroom. As I measure and pour out chemicals, I can’t help but feel I’ve forgotten something.

  ‘Shall we begin?’ I ask when I notice him in the doorway.

  ‘Do I need to take notes?’

  ‘No.’ I smile. ‘I’ll put something together after if you’d like.’

  ‘I can work with that.’

  After a brief introduction to the tools on the bench, I pull Christopher further into the room, close the door and switch off the light. I’m pleased to see it’s just as dark as it was yesterday.

  ‘How are your eyes?’ I ask. ‘Are they adjusting?’

  ‘Normally, my eyes are brown.’

  I snort. ‘Stop it.’

  ‘They’re fine. Can’t see a bloody thing, but that’s fine.’

  ‘Good.’ I reach out for his hand and pull him closer to the bench. ‘You look better in the dark anyway.’

  ‘I’ve always said it’s my best angle,’ he says, stifling a laugh.

  As I guide his hand through the blind process of uncapping the film cannister and finding the leader, I’m painfully aware of how his hand is sitting around mine, how his fingers brush gently as they slip between mine and find their way in the dark. More than once, my mind stumbles, and I’m left standing there utterly lost for words.