So, how do I explain what he saw? I’m gone for what feels like hours, chewing over the idea that, yes, this morning looked bad. Really bad. But it wasn’t quite what it seemed. Actually, it really was what it looked like. I can’t wrap this up any other way than to tell him the truth. I step into Sainsbury’s for a chocolate croissant because, if nothing else, I’ll get to enjoy something this morning.
DECLINED.
Huh? I frown at the chip and pin machine. That can’t be right, I was sure there was something left in there. Not enough to get me home on the bus last night, but enough for a snack, at least on my credit card. Surely things aren’t that dire? I scramble out the door and into the street with nothing more than the receipt in my hand and burst into tears. It’s humiliating. When I check my banking app, a direct debit I’d forgotten about came in overnight and whisked away my last chance of buttery goodness.
That’s it. I’m broke, my best friend hates me, the man I thought could be something won’t answer his phone, and the one who could never work out what he wanted suddenly wants it all. For a breath, I consider calling John and saying yes. It’s the simplest solution to every problem I have in this very moment.
It’s an extremely fleeting moment, one that passes in the time it takes to walk past the Novotel, and I’m quick to remind myself why that’s a bad idea. Because: everything. Don’t be stupid, Katharine.
When I get home, I try Christopher’s phone again. It’s still switched off. I hate the idea that this might drag on, so I jump in my car and head out to Loxley. The least he can do is talk to me, even if it’s to tell me I’m the worst person he’s ever met. At least then I’ll have something to work with.
My insides feel like a washing machine the entire trip out there. Thoughts go to battle with gut feelings, and I talk back to the radio, rehearsing everything I want to say to him. It’s not quite relief when I find his car the only one parked outside, but I am glad he’s here.
My hands begin to shake. Sitting here fills me with all kinds of déjà vu. Like the first time I was here, there’s going to be little chance he wants to see me. But, unlike that day, I head straight for his front door and knock loudly. It’s not like I’ve got much more to lose.
No answer. I’m not sure I expected one, but I try again. I can sense the odd electronic static of a television that’s switched on and nearby somewhere. I don’t want to sound like a crazy woman, but wouldn’t it be better to come to the door and sort this out now? Because that’s exactly what I want to do, I follow the veranda that circles the house, down the side passage, past a neat as a pin bedroom and, there he is, sitting in his studio.
For weeks, I’ve wondered what this room would look like, where his art originates. Now that I’m here, I can’t quite concentrate to piece everything together. There’s a worn green velvet chaise piled high with curled papers and books about art. An easel sits in the window facing the hills, but it looks like most of the work happens on an oversized table in the middle of the room. It’s covered in jars of murky liquid, tubes of paint, brushes and spatulas. There he is, hunched over with his chin in his fist and dabbing at the canvas in front of him.
I knock on the glass bifold.
Startled, he topples from his seat, blinking up at me from the floor. As he stands, I get a better look at him, at the filthy paint-covered apron that’s knotted around him, at the smear of dark paint by his temple and the dot on the end of his nose. He crosses the room and cracks the door barely enough to breathe through.
‘What do you want?’ he asks.
‘You’re home.’
‘Where else would I be?’ he grumbles. ‘I do live here.’
‘Can I come in?’ I ask.
‘No.’
‘But I need to talk to you.’ I wring my hands and chew my lip. ‘Please?’
He tries to close the door, so I stuff my foot through the gap. My nervousness is quickly replaced by anger. At least give me a chance to explain, I think.
‘Why do you do this?’ I demand.
‘Do what?’ he asks, annoyed, giving in, letting go of the door.
I take the opportunity to push past him into the room. ‘You reel me in like a fish on a lure. You dance around and dangle your big, beautiful brain in front of me and then you vanish. You don’t answer emails, phone calls, messages, nothing. Why? Why can’t you just talk to me?’
‘Oh, so this is a me problem?’ he says with a laugh. ‘I mean, sure, it’s completely my fault you ditched me for another man.’
‘I haven’t thrown you over,’ I say quietly.
‘I take it you turned down the engagement ring he flashed about before I left then?’ He lifts his eyes to meet mine. ‘Rock of bloody Gibraltar.’
My head snaps back and I stare at him. ‘What did he say to you?’
‘Tell me you told him no, Katharine,’ he says, this time a little louder.
‘I haven’t told him anything,’ I say.
‘That’s not the same thing.’ He runs his brush through a rag that hangs from his apron. ‘What is it? You’re waiting to see how this pans out before you give him an answer?’
‘Listen, I know that you’re angry.’ I hook my hands together. ‘It’s okay to be angry. In fairness, I probably would be, too.’
‘Angry?’ He looks up. ‘Katharine, I’m furious.’
‘And that’s okay, Christopher. It’s okay to feel like that.’
‘Of course it bloody well is!’ he shouts. ‘I wake up after a night with a woman I think might be my girlfriend, though I’m not entirely sure yet because we haven’t talked about it yet, only to find her other boyfriend on the doorstep ready to pop the question and crack open the champers.’
‘But it’s not like that.’
‘How can it possibly be any different?’
‘Because we broke up,’ I plead. ‘This is what I’m trying to tell you. We broke up before you and I ever met. To my knowledge, I was single when I met you and I’ve been single the entire time I’ve known you and been with you.’
‘So he just woke up this morning and thought today was the day he was going to drive three hours to propose marriage?’
I nod and shrug. ‘I can’t explain it either.’
‘When was the last time you spoke to him?’
I shrug. ‘I don’t know, maybe the week I moved here?’
‘You mean you don’t remember?’
‘It was the week I moved here,’ I repeat. ‘I’d been here a week, he hadn’t stopped calling, and I hadn’t answered because I wanted a clean break. I wanted to move on, so I rang him and asked him to leave me alone.’
‘He certainly seems your type.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I snap.
‘Flashy suits, fast cars, Pimlico apartments.’ He looks at me from the corner of his eye. ‘Drama.’
‘Sorry, what?’
‘I’ve known tons of people like you. As long as they’re the centre of attention, that’s what matters. Not happy with the fancy London job? Didn’t get the promotion you wanted? That’s okay, you can quit and walk out because there’s always Dad to pick up the pieces. I mean, even the stuff with Lainey last night, all of this, this trouble and drama comes back to you being the common denominator, doesn’t it?’
‘How dare you use that against me.’
He stops on the spot, Simon Says, before throwing his hands up in the air. ‘Do you even care about the art, or is it just about the fame and glory behind it? Is it all just status?’
I try cutting in over the top of him. ‘I know you’re upset, but you don’t have to be cruel.’
‘Sometimes the truth hurts, Katharine,’ he utters, his eyes wet. ‘It certainly did when I found him on the other side of your front door down on one knee.’
‘I didn’t know that. I’m so sorry.’
‘Do you remember the day we met? You had no interest in me whatsoever. None at all. You knocked me back at every turn. Didn’t even know my name.’
‘Excu
se me?’ I say with a laugh. ‘Are you actually serious? You openly mocked and insulted me in front of my own family. If all you’re worried about from that day was the middle-aged equivalent of “Don’t you know who I am?”, then maybe you need to check your priorities. You want to rail on me about my name in the spotlight? It’s exactly what you did that day. It is exactly you. You’re just as bad.’
‘You wanted nothing to do with me until you found me online. Not a damn thing,’ he says. ‘When you found out who I was, I couldn’t get rid of you.’
‘Couldn’t get rid of me?’ I scoff. ‘That’s rich, considering you seemed to be everywhere I went.’
‘Prove me wrong,’ he says.
‘But it wasn’t like that,’ I plead. ‘Okay, so maybe I did turn you down that first afternoon, but I’d just left Webster so I couldn’t do anything with your art if I wanted to. I couldn’t. You know that. Then, when I decided to open my own place then, yes, I chased you. I thought you’d be good for the gallery. You are a phenomenal artist and a wonderful person.’
‘I’ve made a decision about what’s happening this week.’
‘Please don’t do this.’ I can feel myself turning to water. He’s going to cancel; I can feel it. Every single thing I’ve built up will vanish in less than a heartbeat and I don’t know what I’ll do if that happens. ‘Please, no.’
‘When I agree to do something for someone, I follow through. No matter the cost, so you can have your artwork, but I won’t be there on the night. I refuse to be wheeled out like some draw four card for you to show off to your friends.’
‘But I want you there, you have to be there,’ I plead. ‘This is just as much your show as it is mine.’
‘No. This is about the students. I told you that from the start. Clearly, again, you weren’t listening.’ He purses his lips and looks away. ‘If my work doesn’t sell, then your father can drop what’s left back here, but I don’t want to see you, talk to you, or hear from you again. I’m done. Go and marry your uptown boy and leave me be. I was happy as I was.’
Chapter 30
Without another word, I leave his studio feeling like everyone on earth knows just how awful I am. From our very first meeting, he’s always had this way of making me feel completely exposed. It’s not always the worst thing, especially when I felt it pushed me to do better, but this is beyond even the worst of that.
My legs have been blown hollow and I’ve been shown for the fraud he’s always known I am. I slip on gravel as I approach the car park, a fence post and new splinter the only thing saving me from a muddy backside.
Looking back at his house, I freeze and consider pushing my way back into his studio and pleading with him again to please listen to me. But there’s so much anger hubbling and bubbling inside me that the best I can do is sit in my car and cry. Again. It’s all I’ve got left at this point.
My hand trembles as I shove my car into gear because I realise there’s every chance this could be the end of my dream. Packing up my life, upending everything I’ve known will have been for nought. And why? Because I hedged my bet on him, the big drawcard for the exhibition.
All the online traffic and chatter has been about angling for a spot at the front door just to get a look at the glorious, reclusive Kit Dunbar. Sure, there are other artists, people I believe to be just as important, but I can’t deny that he’s the main attraction. Without him, will anyone show up?
And I don’t mean merely spectators at this point. The closer I get to home, the more panicked I become about the future of the entire exhibition. Regardless of his own beliefs about seeing plans through, I can’t be certain that any of the other artists won’t start pulling their work once they realise Christopher won’t be there. After all, they’re his friends first and people take sides. I’ve seen it happen in every single relationship breakdown I’ve ever witnessed. It’s human nature, for better or worse.
At some point though, I’m going to have to tell people he won’t be attending the opening night. It’s the right thing to do, even if it risks losing both visitors and artists alike. Not telling them will only make me look like a liar because, while they might be there to see his art, there’s no doubt that people will want to see him, talk to him, share the night with him.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so quick to say no the other night when Dad floated the idea of selling his shop to me. The nine-to-five of customer service would be so much easier than this right now.
When I get home, I shut myself off from the world. I slide down the wall and settle myself on the floor, away from prying eyes, and drag my laptop towards me. Opening up all the social profiles I’ve set up for the gallery, I start writing a lengthy post about scheduling conflicts and deep regret, and all that flouncy corporate jargon that, to the naked eye, is a very fancy way of saying: ‘Oops, I done fucked up.’
‘It’s with great regret …’
‘Due to unforeseen circumstances …’
‘Unfortunately, a scheduling conflict has arisen …’
In the end, I write what I know: from the heart. Though he won’t be there, I assure people his art will still be on display as planned. It’s a hard post to write. It feels like I’m unravelling with each touch of a key, but I don’t have a choice. I hit ‘Post’ and sit back and wait for the fallout.
It’s quick, I’ll give the internet that much. I read the first few comments through a gap in my fingers, barely wanting to see them at all. I’m surprised, and slightly relieved, when many of them are supportive. Then, there’s a knock at the door. It’s Adam, standing there looking dishevelled with a bottle of cola pressed against his hand.
‘What on earth have you done?’
He shakes his hand out, opening and closing his fist. ‘I suspect, dear sister, that I may have just lost my job.’
‘Why?’ I say slowly, watching as he climbs the stairs to my flat.
‘Let me tell you a thing.’
As he begins digging about in my freezer, looking for a something to replace the warming bottle, he explains that John volunteered for the law firm’s Sheffield sojourn at the last minute. So last minute that Adam didn’t know John was going to be here until he arrived this afternoon to find him in the hotel restaurant.
‘Hey, if they’re paying for the fancy room, I’m going to stay,’ he says when I ask why he’s not staying with Dad and Fiona.
‘Fair enough,’ I say.
‘And, look, I knew something was up the second I saw him. He doesn’t just volunteer to come north for the fun of it. He’s so city oriented I’m surprised he knows anything exists outside his own postcode.’
I snort. ‘Evidently, he does.’
Adam continues to explain that, over a drink at the pub, John admitted to having been out here first thing this morning, to having proposed, and to being totally thrilled to see my latest post on social media about how Christopher had stepped aside from the exhibition. Apparently, all of that equated to me coming to my senses. All John had to do now, he boasted, was wait for me to accept his proposal.
‘And, so, I might have punched him, it might have been in his smarmy face, and it might have been in the middle of my favourite pub which I am now, subsequently, banned from.’
‘Oh, Adam,’ I say with an exhausted sigh. ‘Why?’
‘Because a) he deserves it, b) I’d been wanting to for years, and c) he’s been baiting me for weeks.’ He looks around. ‘Is this it?’ He nods at the engagement ring box on the bench.
‘Yup.’
‘Christ, that must be worth a fortune.’ He gawps as he cracks it open. ‘Look at it.’
I scoff. ‘Christopher’s words were “rock of Gibraltar”.’
‘Ahhh,’ Adam says knowingly. ‘I thought there might have been something between you two after dinner the other night. Once upon a time you couldn’t spit his name out quickly enough and, suddenly, he’s offering to drive you home.’
I blush wildly. ‘Well, his finding John grovelling on my doorstep this
morning may have put the kibosh on that.’
‘At least he grovelled.’ He sits next to me on the floor by the sofa and shoves it in my face. ‘You’ll be well on your way to a Chelsea Tractor with that thing.’
‘I wasted so much energy thinking that’s what I wanted,’ I say. ‘Although it would certainly solve all my problems right now.’
‘Please don’t tell me you’re thinking about—’
‘What? No.’ My face cinches in disgust. ‘I meant it would also solve my problems if I sold it, which I’m not about to do because, while I am broke, I’m not a complete jerk.’
He leans back to get a better look at me. ‘You’re what?’
‘I am broke.’ My chin crumples. ‘Couldn’t even enjoy an exotic butter croissant for breakfast this morning. I’ve got nothing left, drained my accounts and credit card completely. I have a loaf of bread, some butter and jam to get me through opening night. But, now, Christopher hates me and has decided he’s not coming to the opening night, and I’m terrified people are going to start pulling their art.’
‘I don’t think he hates you,’ he says quietly. ‘I think his ego may be a little bruised, but hate is a strong word.’
‘He thinks I was leading him on.’
‘Were you?’
‘No! No, of course not.’
‘Have you told John no?’ he asks.
I shake my head. ‘You know what he’s like, just goes on and on until you’re bamboozled and then disappears.’
‘All right.’ Adam crossed his legs and wriggles himself into a more comfortable position. ‘Firstly, the money thing? It’s not a problem. We can fix that. Really, it’s not such a big deal.’
‘But, Adam, it is. I’m a thirty-five-year-old woman, not a teenager looking for an allowance. I don’t want other people turning around and saying “Yeah, but he paid for that” or “She’d be nothing if he didn’t buy it for her”, and I certainly do not want to be indebted to a man. I was supposed to do this on my own.’
‘If that’s the case, why are you losing sleep over either of them?’ He elbows me. ‘Hey?’
Accidentally in Love: An utterly uplifting laugh out loud romantic comedy Page 29