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

by Belinda Missen

  I drop my head down onto his shoulder. ‘Why? Because it’s supposed to be a massive exhibition. This was my chance to prove to everyone I could do this, that I was right about leaving London. Everything I have went into it, and I’ve ruined it,’ I say. ‘Also, I could really use the commission.’

  ‘But Kit’s a man,’ he says. ‘You just said you don’t need to be indebted to a man, so toss them both into the sea.’

  ‘I don’t want to toss Kit into the sea,’ I grumble.

  ‘As for your exhibition, I think you’re being way too fatalistic. The pieces you have will sell, you’ll make some money and, when that’s over, you’ll hold another one. On and on it goes in the great big circle of art.’ He stands and drags me to my feet with him. ‘Come on. Chin up. Put your big girl pants on. We’ve got things to do.’

  ‘We do?’

  ‘What are your big problems right now. List them.’

  ‘Kit.’ I count on my finger. ‘John. Exhibition. Money.’

  ‘You know what? I think we can kill all those birds with one stone. Kind of.’

  I give him a quizzical look. ‘How? Have you got the winning lottery ticket?’

  ‘Are you telling John no?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Adam’s eyes widen. ‘You’re telling him yes?’

  ‘What? No. I’m going to tell him no.’

  ‘All right. So, what we’re going to do now is we’re going to go shopping. You need food.’

  My words come out in fits and spurts and, for the next few minutes at least, we revert back to what feels like childhood arguments.

  ‘Kate … Kate … stop … no … listen to me,’ he says forcefully, all the while I’m shaking my head and talking over the top of him. ‘This is not a negotiation, this is a necessity. You need to eat. Let me help you with that. There’s no shame in this. None.’

  I’m silent.

  ‘And, anyway, I’m sure I owe you for more than a few tanks of fuel,’ he says. ‘So, let’s do this and call it square, hey?’

  ‘I feel like an idiot.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s something I’m well versed in lately,’ he says. ‘Let me do this. Then, when we’re done there, we’re going to show Kit you’re serious about him by doing a drive-by at the hotel and you can lob that stupid ring at John’s head. Maybe you’ll hit the other side of his face.’

  Whenever I’ve walked around town with a wad of cash in my pocket, I’ve been wildly nervous about being mugged. Not because anyone had watched me take that extra rent money from the cash machine, but what if they had? Maybe there’s something written on my face that says: mug me, I have money. And, if money made me feel like that, you can guarantee that bloody ring made me feel worse.

  It was a neon sign above my head daring people to look into my bag. What if I lost it? What if it just slipped right out in the middle of the fruit bins at the supermarket? Maybe a sticky-fingered thief would decide against my purse and go for the small blue box instead.

  ‘Want me to come with you?’ Adam calls to my back as the front doors glide open.

  ‘Is that wise?’ I ask, disappearing inside.

  Reception is bright and airy, sofas in one corner, armchairs and coffee tables in the other, I’m not entirely surprised to feel myself trembling, as if I’ve just been set to high alert. I walk towards a handful of sleek reception desks against the back wall.

  ‘Can I help you?’ The concierge grins as they hang up the phone.

  ‘I’m here for a meeting with John Harrison. Could you let him know Katharine is here for him, please and thank you?’

  Minutes later, I hear the ding of the lift and the squeak of overly polished shoes on linoleum. I flash a quick look to Adam, who’s waiting outside, coffees in hand to save him trying to mount the counter and strangle him. I turn back as John approaches. He leans in for a kiss, but I take a strategic step away from him.

  ‘Kate.’ He flinches in pain as he attempts a smile. The corner or his mouth is red and raw. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  I swing my handbag around and riffle through for the ring box, my heart flopping when I think I can’t find it. But it’s there, buried beneath a grocery receipt and box of tampons. I place it on the reception counter between us and push it towards him.

  ‘It’s a no from me.’

  His brow creases like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.

  ‘What you did this morning was grossly unfair. We had broken up. Last we spoke, I asked you to leave me alone. Yet, here you are thinking this is going to solve all our problems. You’re right, we would need to work on them, but they run too deep for a ring to fix.’

  ‘Oh, Katharine.’ His shoulders slide down towards his pockets.

  ‘This isn’t a court case; I’ve told you that. Repeatedly. You can’t argue your way out of this. You can’t remind me of a handful of good times and think that makes a good marriage. It doesn’t. You need to listen more and talk less. And there’s every chance your stunt might have ruined something very precious this morning. So, thanks for that.’

  I don’t wait for a reply I don’t want. Instead, I turn and walk away. This time, I don’t look back. Adam’s where I left him, standing by the doors, coffees stacked and frowning into his phone screen.

  ‘Yeah, so.’ He turns his phone screen to me. ‘I’ve definitely been sacked. Rad.’

  ‘Can I talk to your boss? Would that be okay?’ I ask.

  ‘Nah. Pretty sure decking a colleague is against company policy, no matter the circumstances.’ He wrinkles his nose. ‘Total L’Oréal moment though.’

  ‘Hey?’

  He puckers his lips. ‘Because you’re worth it.’

  Chapter 31

  After clearing out his hotel room, Adam comes back to my flat. He stays long enough for me to cook a slap-up pasta dinner, one of those foolproof fresh-from-the-pack ravioli and sauce meals. He could go to Dad and Fiona’s, but he can’t stomach the idea of telling them he’s lost his job. I can definitely sympathise so, instead, we break garlic bread and drown our sorrows with a bottle of red. It hits the spot.

  I’m starting to feel a touch less apocalyptic and more like myself as we natter about the week’s litany of events. I even fire off a message to Christopher. I don’t want to bombard him, I really don’t, but some things need to be said. The message rambles a bit, but I tell him again how sorry I am, that I’ve told John no, and that I would love the opportunity to speak to him when he feels ready.

  Even though it feels like John has won on a technicality, with a fractured opening night and an unemployed lawyer, I’m not sure I’m ready to back down quite yet. I’ve got a lot riding on the opening night next weekend and a lot of people I need to prove wrong. I’ve come this far, why stop now?

  Sitting around the dining table, Radio 1 playing in the background, Adam watches as I write a list of everything that needs to happen between now and the crack of the front door on opening night. The further I dig into my brains, the more detailed the list becomes. With the exhibition still running and everything now resting on my shoulders, I want this to be so good that people can’t ignore me or the real stars of the show: my artists.

  First thing Monday morning, I start making phone calls. I check and double-check that people are still taking part in the exhibition, that those who haven’t already are still planning on dropping their art at the gallery in preparation. Even though everyone is still wildly enthusiastic about participating, I won’t feel calm until my walls are full.

  The first work appears on Monday night, when someone named Teddy arrives, and I’m sure I fall over myself with gratitude at the sight of him.

  More art is delivered over the next few days, culminating in the appearance of Fiona late Wednesday afternoon. I’m beyond excited to see what she’s come up with for her contribution and, as she begins to unpack her car, I find myself laughing in pure delight.

  She’s produced a group of colourful paintings that at first glance look to be reproductions
of classic canvases, but with mocking details of the present. Books are replaced with e-readers, fans with phones, and earrings with earbuds. They’re glorious and I love them.

  ‘I call them the plight of the modern woman, trying to get peace from the man for thirty-four seconds a day,’ she jokes as she waddles in through the back door with a canvas that’s taller than her. ‘Sometimes, I think they can’t even breathe on their own.’

  ‘Oh, I think some of them are perfectly self-sufficient.’ I reach for the canvas. ‘Here, let me grab that.’

  She gives me a look. ‘You mean like Christopher?’

  ‘Right, so, Adam’s told you then, has he?’

  ‘We have ways of making him talk.’ She flutters a lead pencil by her mouth. ‘Also, because Kit rang this morning to say I had better be turning in my piece soon.’

  ‘He said that?’

  Even when he’s not around, the surprises don’t stop. The fact he knows she hadn’t yet delivered tells me he’s still keeping a wary eye on our shared spreadsheet.

  For a moment, I stand there in stunned silence. Christopher is possibly the only person I can think of who’s kept their word when the chips are down. Not many people would be so gracious as to continue supporting something they were no longer involved in. How is it that, in the depths of this, he makes me want to do better?

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Fiona leans into my line of sight, though she’s a little fuzzy around the edges.

  ‘I don’t know.’ My voice breaks. ‘Do I?’

  ‘It’s up to you,’ she says. ‘I’m here if you need an ear.’

  I shake my head. I’m not sure I’m ready. Instead, I ask for her help hanging the art. I should have already begun this part of the process but have found myself too preoccupied. Whenever I’ve had a moment to consider it, it’s coming up to evening and the lighting hasn’t been great. Now that I have help, though, we make quick work of it.

  I’ve spent the last few days trying to work out the correct placement for each piece, and my paper bag heart fills out a little more with each artwork we hang. To see the gallery come to life with colour is beyond satisfying. Not quite in the same way it would have, had my week gone to plan, but this is what I’m left with and I’m determined to make the best of it, to love the here and now.

  It had always been such a pipe dream to open my own gallery, something I’d talk about wistfully with Lainey while chowing down on another soggy sandwich on the South Bank. So, I embrace the frustration of trying to get things exactly right, my spirit level dragged up and down the ladder constantly. I’m so glad I’ve got Fiona here, hurling about her jokes and generally being the tonic I need.

  I’m halfway up a ladder when a courier arrives in the early evening, so Fiona signs for the delivery and brings it over. With its carefully packed exterior, it can only be one thing: more art. And it has to be from Christopher because we’re almost done hanging everything else and his display is still one painting short.

  ‘Looks like one final piece.’ She turns it over. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Christopher?’ I step down. She nods.

  I want to tear at it to see what it is, to see how it places with the other pieces he’s offered. When it’s finally free of its protective layer, I feel a quick stab somewhere delicate.

  It’s me.

  I’m staring at a portrait of me, complete with dark hair and bright eyes, with a blue smear above my mouth. I’m bathed in light, and I don’t know what to do with what I’m feeling. Everything begins to bubble up through blurry eyes.

  ‘Oh, Katharine,’ Fiona gasps, taking the canvas from me and walking it into the back room where his work is displayed. ‘It’s like looking in a mirror. He’s even captured that mischievous look that hides behind your eyes. Whenever you wear that look, I know I’m in for a cheeky joke or ten.’

  ‘I think I love him.’ I bury my face in my hands. ‘And it’s so scary because I didn’t think it would feel like this.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I thought it would be all-encompassing, lovely and soft like a Cupid-infested toilet paper ad, but I’m so distracted all the bloody time.’

  ‘That is the utter definition of all-encompassing.’ She takes my hand. ‘You can try and think about something else, but he’ll be front and centre, like a lifetime’s worth of pass-the-parcel, except it’s inside your head, which is on fire, and you never get to the middle of the parcel.’

  As I watch her hang the last piece of the puzzle, I have a sudden, overwhelming urge to tell Fiona everything. She’s been around, she’s seen things, so I’m sure she’s got more than one or two pieces of advice handy for the way I feel. At the risk of sounding like broken record, I invite her upstairs for coffee.

  I lay everything bare, the last few weeks of my life in painstaking chronological order. We chat about men and commitment, what it was I needed from the future and how that sat with how I felt about Christopher.

  ‘Do you want to know when it was for him?’ she asks, her eyes sparkling with all the secrets she’s bursting to share.

  ‘When what was?’ I plonk a teapot in the middle of the dining table.

  ‘When he fell for you?’

  ‘Oh, no, he does not love me.’ I roar with laughter. ‘He made that abundantly clear when I went out to Loxley the other day.’

  ‘Bulldust.’ She barrels on. ‘It was the moment you walked into our house that afternoon with Adam. I watched him as you stepped outside to greet him. It was all very flowers from the sky and soft vignetted edges.’

  ‘Stop it.’ I snigger.

  ‘I watched it happen!’ she squeaks. ‘He looked at you, his back straightened and, bam, he clutched at his solar plexus because you just went straight in for the kill.’

  ‘Oh, please,’ I say with a groan. ‘He did not clutch his solar plexus. He looked for his nearest exit.’

  ‘You know, he wants to think he’s this ultra-broody, mardy arse painter, but he’s a terrified boy who doesn’t know what he wants half the time.’ She hides behind her teacup. ‘Or, he does know, he’s just being a boy and dawdling to the conclusion.’

  ‘Don’t tell him that,’ I say with scandalised laughter. ‘He’ll argue you out of town with a pouty lip and big old frown.’

  Talking to Fiona is always illuminating. I love how she refuses to bury herself in worries and, instead, takes things at face value. When I ask for her advice on the situation with Lainey, her answer is again simple and to the point.

  ‘There’s no competition in friendship,’ she says. ‘You aren’t going to win a prize by being the last to apologise.’

  ‘I know,’ I murmur. ‘I just don’t know what to say to her.’

  ‘Do you have to say anything?’ she asks. ‘I know when I see my best friend, Dottie, we don’t generally have to say anything. We just know. With best friends, you just know.’

  ‘Her fiancé told his friends I’m easy.’

  ‘Katharine.’ She fixes me with a serious look. ‘You have never been an easy woman.’

  I laugh and blush and hide behind my hands. ‘I don’t think he was talking about my temperament.’

  ‘Then it wasn’t his business to be talking about, and your beef is with him, not her.’ She grabs for the last of the Jaffa Cakes. ‘So, what do you do with that knowledge?’

  I clear my throat and sit up a bit straighter. ‘I’m going to go to the wedding.’

  ‘With?’ she asks.

  ‘The menu cards?’ I try.

  ‘And?’

  ‘A smile on my face.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she’s my best friend and I told her I would do something for her, so I’m going to follow through on it,’ I say. ‘And I’ll deal with Frank on my own.’

  ‘Good girl. So, what we’re going to do now is make sure everything here is one hundred and ten per cent.’ She leans into the conversation. ‘That way, you can give her a call, do what you need to do in London, then come back here to enjoy the par
ty.’

  Chapter 32

  Friday morning finds me jittery with nerves as I board the train to London. It’s not quite 10 a.m., I’m wearing the best dress I own, and I have thirty-seven perfectly presented eggshell blue menu cards tucked safely in my handbag. I know Lainey only asked for thirty, we ordered enough paper, so I just kept going.

  And if I could just stop sweating, that would be great.

  As I gaze around the carriage, playing my old university game of picking out the Monday-to Friday-commuters, tourists and other students who all look plucked from the confines of sleep, I wonder if today isn’t a dumb idea.

  We haven’t spoken yet. Truth be told, I haven’t been able to work out where to begin. What I do know, however, is that it’s not a conversation that needs to happen over the phone. We’ve been friends long enough and had enough minor disagreements for me to know that speaking to her in person is best. And way too much gets lost in the ether of messages and emails, no matter how heartfelt they may be.

  Fiona stayed until the early hours of Thursday morning, insisting we go over everything one final time. We mopped and vacuumed, laughed at the photos we found in the darkroom, the ones I’d developed with Christopher, and I sent one final confirmation email to the caterer. Getting the place as ready as possible on Wednesday night meant I could spend Thursday finishing Lainey’s menus, making London seem like a far less rushed effort.

  Not that I’m expecting a warm welcome when I arrive. I’m not quite that silly. In fact, I wouldn’t at all be surprised if I arrived at the reception centre to find my name has been scrubbed from the seating list. It’s that reason alone that prevents me showing up on Lainey’s doorstep; I couldn’t bear the thought of upsetting her while she’s getting ready for her big day.

  When I step off the train at St Pancras, it hits me how quickly I’ve adapted to life in Sheffield again. London is all a little too loud, too exhaust-y, and I sure as hell haven’t missed the push and the shove of the Piccadilly line. There are so many people.