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

by Belinda Missen

  ‘Go on then, Neil Buchanan, what’s wrong with it?’ I fold my arms over in challenge. I’m ready.

  ‘It’s just so clichéd.’ He points to the offending parts of the small photo. ‘I mean, the framing is all wrong. There’s part of a tree in the foreground and the small fence keeps guiding my eye towards the bloody foliage. At least I think it’s foliage. It’s hard to tell because it’s so out of focus, and I’m sure the selective black and white disappeared with the early Noughties. It’s just such a postcard, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, shit, I’d really love to read your master’s thesis on the use of focal points and acceptability to modern art.’ I look at him. ‘Have you brought it with you? It’s a long drive home, so reading it would give me something to do.’

  The house is silent. Around his shoulder and down the hall, I can see my dad give me a thumbs-up. I turn my attention back to Kit, who’s still staring at my photograph, the briefest hint of pink crosses the tips of his ears.

  ‘Anyway, what if that’s all it’s meant to be?’ I ask. ‘Personally, I love receiving postcards. It means someone’s thinking enough about me to want to share something with me. Above that, it says they’re willing to put those words out in public by sending them through a postal service where everyone gets to read them on their journey. They’re intensely personal.’

  He turns his gaze to me, and something in his eyes trips my tongue over itself.

  ‘Some would even say they’re romantic,’ I continue, trying to keep the lightness in my voice.

  ‘If that’s all it’s meant to be, then it’s wasting space on what is otherwise an incredible wall of art.’ He cranes his neck to look at something closer to the ceiling.

  I snort.

  ‘Who’s the artist?’ he asks.

  He’s standing so close I can feel his breath tickling the tip of my nose and see the tint of paint he hasn’t been able to scrub from around his cuticles. I pull the frame from the wall and turn it over, making a show of looking for the name.

  ‘Oh!’ I clap a hand to my cheek and feign surprise. ‘Would you look at that? “Katharine Patterson, Scarborough Beach, April 1999”. I think that means me. Yes. Definitely me.’

  It’s a photo I submitted for a school assessment. Dad decided it needed to go on his wall because it scored top marks, and he was proud enough of that.

  ‘Maybe,’ I say, turning to find his face slightly ashen, ‘I can start selling postcards of it. Great business idea, thanks.’

  He stumbles around for the right words but comes up blank. The look on his face is a little gawping fish, a little ‘man put in place’. For the record, it’s already a firm favourite in my limited experience of his facial expressions.

  ‘I’m aware that it’s not the most artistic piece.’ I’m only prepared to give him a minor concession, God knows why. He doesn’t deserve it. ‘But it seemed to resonate with my parents which, forgive me if I’m wrong, might be what art is all about.’

  ‘Ah.’ The corner of his mouth rises just so as he looks away with something like a nod. ‘That explains that.’

  There’s no logical reason for wanting to impress him, it’s nothing more than my competitive streak. After yesterday, I feel a desperate need to prove people wrong, so I offer up the camera roll on my phone. Among the selfies, food photos and the inappropriate photos of John I hide the screen for, are other photos I’d taken, ones I’d wanted to show Dad or Adam without having to lug prints around.

  ‘I’ve taken plenty more photos since.’ I shove my phone under his nose.

  Though his eyes move around the screen as I swish left and right, pinching the pictures in and out, he stays resolutely, frustratingly silent. He’s Shania Twain and I’m Brad Pitt, because nothing I show him impresses him much. Would it be right to say I’d love to strangle him right now? Instead, I bite my lip to stop me swearing and count backwards from ten in the echo chamber of my mind.

  ‘What about you?’ I try. ‘Where’s your artwork? Are any of your masterpieces hanging on the wall today? Oh, that’s right, I don’t recall seeing any.’

  ‘I dabble.’ He offers a bashful smile, and his entire face changes. It softens as light spills forth and changes the tension of the room almost immediately. I can only imagine what laughter would do to him. He’d likely combust. He returns to where he was only moments ago looking at a life drawing.

  ‘Oh, you run an art school and you dabble, do you?’ I ask. ‘Well, I’m going to look you up, Mr Kit.’

  ‘Why? You’re going to exhibit my work in your museum?’ he says. ‘Sorry, gallery.’

  ‘Now, that’s a very clever way of asking. Five points for that.’ I waggle a finger at him as I retreat to the kitchen and pick up the whisk. ‘But isn’t the old saying “Those who can’t do, teach”?’

  He follows close behind. ‘Oh, I didn’t say I was asking.’

  ‘Aren’t you?’ I crack another egg into the mixing bowl and toss the shell into the sink. I wonder if Fiona would mind so much if I threw one at him? ‘Certainly sounds like you are.’

  ‘And what if I was?’ He leans against the counter and folds his arm over. If I want to leave the kitchen right now, I’d have to crash tackle him on my way through. For what it’s worth, that’s not beneath me.

  I grin at him. ‘I would tell you no.’

  ‘Without even listening to a proposal? Or seeing my portfolio?’ he asks with a disbelieving laugh.

  I check him over my shoulder. ‘Correct.’

  ‘You know, that’s hardly fair.’

  ‘Is it?’ I ask. ‘Because I don’t decide the exhibits we run. I simply curate them.’

  ‘You make it sound so fancy, Miss Patterson.’

  I smile and shake my head and hope he can’t see my face in a reflection.

  ‘Is that seriously what you want?’ I turn to him. ‘Gallery space?’

  ‘Is that what you’re offering?’

  Against everything running through my mind right now, the shock and irritation and, hell, the sheer audacity of him, I smile. ‘I’m not offering anything.’

  ‘No?’ he asks, head tipped. ‘Why are we talking about it, then?’

  ‘You’re very tenacious, aren’t you?’ I ask. Frustration sifts through me and I take it out on the mixing bowl.

  ‘Hardly.’ He shifts and presses his palms against the bench. ‘It’s a no, then?’

  ‘It’s a no,’ I say as sweetly as I can. ‘I can’t authorise anything, especially in my father’s kitchen on a Saturday afternoon. Mr Webster would have a coronary, which wouldn’t be the best look for me, given he already had one last year.’

  ‘I’ll bet if I were hugely popular and mainstream attractive, you’d sign me right up.’ He snaps his fingers.

  ‘That’s not true.’ Annoyance starts to climb my ribs again. It settles on my shoulders and pulls them tight.

  ‘What’s your next exhibition?’ he asks. ‘Huh?’

  The unemployment queue, I think.

  ‘Van Gogh,’ I say, noticing how tired he looks under the skylight.

  ‘Before that?’

  I sigh and tip my head back. ‘DaVinci.’

  ‘Oh.’ He smiles, tongue rolling around in his cheek pocket. ‘So, basically all the famous dead guys.’

  ‘All right.’ I fling my hands up in the air, little particles of cake mixture rising alongside them. ‘Pitch me.’

  ‘Oh, so now you want me to pitch you?’ He laughs as he crosses his arms.

  ‘Yes, pitch to me.’ I wave a hand. ‘Come on, Mr Underground.’

  ‘Mr Underground?’ He bows his head and pinches his bottom lip. When he lifts his eyes to meet mine, I feel something in the room tip. Instinctively, I reach for the edge of the counter and clutch it so hard my knuckles lose colour. ‘Let’s see. Pitch, pitch, pitch.’

  Kit begins pacing across the kitchen, both of us completely ignorant of the world around us, of the conversations happening outside, or that we might be missing out on them. I watch as he h
ugs himself and fills the space between the refrigerator and the kitchen counter.

  ‘A retrospective on the nature of learning in the realm of art?’ he tries. ‘A progressive snapshot of art coming together. The journey from beginner to exhibited artist.’

  I frown. ‘You want to sell that to the board of directors? Half-finished paintings?’

  ‘I want to sell it to someone.’ He nods vehemently.

  ‘Keep in mind, you just insulted my art,’ I said. ‘As a beginner artist. So, you know. You’ve gotta be better than that.’

  ‘It’s a legitimately terrible piece.’ He chuckles, as if to lighten the mood. ‘Amateur.’

  ‘I was fifteen!’ I argue. ‘It’s lovely. And I was amateur. What? Are you seriously going to tell me you have nothing of sentiment on your walls?’

  His smile falters.

  ‘And I’m going to sell prints now because of you. I hope you feel good about that.’ I point at him. ‘Watch out for my Etsy store.’

  ‘Do I get commission?’

  ‘You wish.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind it, honestly.’ He claps his hands together. ‘It’s because you’re only in it for the fame, right? That’s why you don’t want me.’

  ‘What?’ I shriek. ‘No, it’s nothing to do with that. I cannot just walk into my boss’s office on Monday morning, slap my papers down and announce I’ve found the next big thing. I don’t even know who the artist is or what they’re known for and, in fact, half the paintings aren’t even finished, but never mind that. I’m sure it’ll sell. The directors will want to know how many visitors I can attract, who are the big names on show, and whether it’s going to be financially viable. It’s got nothing to do with popular versus underground. It’s really not.’

  ‘But popular brings all the punters to the yard, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Of course it does.’

  ‘Then it does have to something to do with that.’

  ‘For the love of God,’ I mutter into the mixing bowl. ‘Will you give up already?’

  When I finish mixing the cake and turn to look at him, he’s gone, spirited away out of the room without a whisper of a footstep. In his place, my father, who looks highly bemused at best.

  ‘That sounded interesting.’

  ‘Where’d he go?’ I peer around him towards the dining room. ‘He was just here.’

  ‘He’s outside. He just sat down.’

  ‘He is awful,’ I whisper loudly. ‘Walked right in here, insulted my photograph and then asked me for space in the gallery like I should be grateful for his time.’

  ‘He did?’

  ‘Yes.’ I nod so hard I could put my neck out.

  Dad laughs. ‘Make it happen.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do it. Talk to whoever you need to at Webster and make it happen.’

  ‘What?’ I complain. ‘No.’

  ‘Yes, here, let me show you.’ Dad’s madly swiping and unlocking his phone, ready to show me the Gallery de Christopher. ‘His work is so vibrant.’

  I place a hand over the screen without looking and give him a stern look. ‘Dad, no.’

  ‘Katharine, he hasn’t exhibited anything in two years. Please?’

  I clench my jaw, pour the batter into a tin, and take out my mild rage by belting the tin against the counter under the guise of removing air bubbles. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. It’s too good an opportunity to pass up. Do you have any idea the people who’ve tried to get him to show recently? He’s turned away every single one.’

  ‘Dad, I can’t,’ I say, this time a little more forcefully.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I don’t have a gallery to show his work in.’

  He snorts. ‘Don’t be silly. Yes, you do. Carlton Webster would love it.’

  ‘Yes, but he wouldn’t love me very much right now because I quit last night,’ I say quietly, unable to meet his eyes.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I said, I quit my job.’ I groan and rub floury hands across my face. ‘Marched myself right out the door.’

  Dad holds a finger in the air. ‘You wait right there.’

  ‘No, don’t.’ I grab at his arm. ‘Please don’t make a big deal about this. You’ve got a friend here, and I went to the effort of making you cake. At least let everyone eat it.’

  ‘Since when can you make cake?’

  ‘I can bake.’ Surprisingly well with the help of a packet mix, as it turns out.

  Though he looks pained, he agrees, but it doesn’t stop him dragging Adam and Fiona into an impromptu family meeting while I try and clean my mess. The four of us huddle around a tiny butcher trolley, each taking turns to wipe the left-over cake batter from the mixing bowl with our fingers.

  ‘You know, I kind of already knew.’ Adam slurps at his finger.

  ‘You what? How could you possibly know?’

  ‘Well.’ His shoulders make for his ears. ‘When you didn’t answer your email, I called your desk. Whoever answered told me you’d just upped stumps and marched out.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Why would you walk out?’ Dad asks. ‘Did you do something wrong?’

  ‘What? No. I didn’t do something wrong,’ I say angrily. Why has he automatically gone for me as the blame? ‘I got passed over for the senior curator role. Again. It’s the third time I’ve applied and, honestly, I’d had enough.’

  ‘And never mind the box of belongings on your kitchen counter this morning,’ Adam adds.

  ‘You saw that?’

  ‘Focusing on that proved a valuable distraction,’ he teases, making me blush at the thought of a naked John squaring off with my brother.

  ‘There’s nothing to be ashamed about, Katharine.’ Dad plucks a half-eaten packet of biscuits from the top of the cupboard behind the teacups no one ever uses. We figured that was where he hid all his favourite biscuits not long after Mum died, and we walked in to find him mainlining a packet of custard creams.

  Adam’s got his lawyer hat on, trying to weasel his way into any side argument or point of law he can think of. Not that it matters, I tell him. What’s done is done. That’s life. I’ll find another job and move on, and it will be okay. I’ll be okay.

  ‘Find another job?’ Fiona asks. ‘Where?’

  ‘There are plenty of jobs.’ Dad hands me the newspaper. ‘If you’re willing to change things up. You know, I could retire while you run the shop?’

  ‘Oh.’ My shoulders slip. ‘No, don’t do that. I’m sure I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Have you got enough money? Did they pay you out?’ Fiona asks.

  ‘Yes, and yes, probably,’ I say with a sigh. ‘I’ll get paid out what I’m owed. Not much, but it’s something. Honestly, it’s not the end of the world. Let’s just enjoy this afternoon. In case you’ve forgotten, we have a guest waiting. I’m sure he’s absolutely thrilled about not being centre of attention right now. Let’s just entertain. I’ll sort this.’

  And that’s exactly what we do. I keep one eye on the oven timer and the other on the newspaper classifieds. Conversations go on around me, Dad’s busy reading the arts pages and trying not to answer emails that are coming through to the shop. He’s got staff for that, Fiona reminds him. Kit discusses a mutual friend, and Fiona is the floater who brings us all back into singular conversation occasionally.

  One thing that strikes me, huddled in my chair in the back corner of the room, is that the more I browse the newspaper and online sites, it’s abundantly clear my job prospects are limited. I peer over the top of the newspaper at Kit, who seems to have a radar and offers me a cursory glance before resuming his conversation. I flip him the bird behind the paper before continuing my search.

  Sure, I could throw my hat in the ring for anything. I’d happily stack shelves or flip burgers if that’s all that was on offer. Someone has to do those jobs, right? There’s no shame in them, but they’re not long-term plans for me. Also, they won’t my cover rent, which is already in the
upper quadrant of what I could afford to begin with. I need cashflow quickly and, with my limited job prospects, I have to think outside the box.

  Kit leaves, and there are hugs and handshakes and requests to catch up again. I smile and nod and say all the right words, even promising I’ll think about coming up for one of his classes. He’s barely down the hall before I retreat to the living room and throw myself into my favourite recliner, legs tucked up under me and T-shirt pulled tight over my knees.

  I am never going to one of his classes.

  He throws one last look at me. ‘Lovely to have met you, Katharine. You let me know how you go with that gallery space.’

  Both Adam’s and Dad’s heads spin to me so quickly anyone would think Holy Water had been tossed about. I keep quiet, instead choosing to watch through the window as he climbs into a beat-up old enamel-green Defender. When he lurches down the street, Dad reappears in the front room.

  ‘Did you like him? He’s great, isn’t he?’ he asked. ‘Did he show you his art in the end?’

  ‘He’s rude.’ I shake my head slowly. ‘So rude. And, no, I didn’t see his art, and I don’t really want to.’

  ‘No,’ he soothes. ‘He’s just a little blunt, that’s all.’

  ‘Blunt?’ I almost yell. ‘Talking to him is like being hit in the face with a frying pan.’

  ‘One that’s cold, or still on the hob?’ Adam pops a crisp in his mouth.

  ‘On the hob,’ I deadpan. ‘Highest setting. Molten.’

  Though he’s gone and well down the street, his words echo in my ears. Something about his interest in gallery space sticks. Not that he hadn’t already been otherwise swilling about my mind like a heady wine, but it’s possible he’s planted an idea.

  I couldn’t offer exhibitions to just anyone while working at Webster. There were rules and procedures put in place that meant Kit would likely never get past the gatekeepers. But, if I owned my own gallery, I could show whoever I wanted.

  Including him.

  If I wanted to, which I don’t.

  With a fizz in my feet and a tingle in my fingers, I retrieve the newspaper and a coffee from the kitchen. I tear the pages open, pass the ‘Office junior wanted’ ads, taste the bitter blend of ink that jumps from thumb to tongue, and land with a thud in the real estate section, specifically industrial sites that are up for offer.