My brain leapfrogs ahead, playing a holiday slideshow of moments I could only hope to experience. Opening nights, signing new artists, sold-out shows, hosting huge international names. Handshakes, hugs and takeaway dinners eaten by a sales counter as I worked late into the night. They’d be shows I could choose and curate. It’s appealing but, in this moment, it feels like a mirage.
It doesn’t take long for one listing to stand out.
‘Oooh, look. This old place in West Bar up for sale.’ I turn the paper to show everyone. ‘Is it a fire station? It looks like an old bank, maybe.’
‘You getting into the supernatural?’ Adam hauls himself over the arm of the chair to look at the paper. ‘Park the ECTO-1 out the front?’
‘Piss off,’ I say with a laugh.
‘You’d be Egon.’
‘Stop it.’ Dad lashes out and gives him a shove. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘What if I opened my own gallery?’ I look up.
It’s like someone has hit the pause button on the room. Dad’s got his coffee cup to his mouth and Adam stops mid-bite of a biscuit. An excited smile lands on Fiona’s face as she claps her hands together. Only their eyes move as they catch each other for one concerned moment.
‘It’s the perfect space,’ I continue against their silence. ‘Corner position, bright and airy, beautifully classic architecture. Stone building. The colours inside are a bit shite, but that’s nothing a lick of paint can’t fix.’
‘You’d move home?’ Adam asks. ‘That’s a huge decision to make in the space of twenty-four hours.’
‘This is all hypothetical, but I could. Maybe I’d find a place in London. The foot traffic would be great, but it’s bound to be hideously expensive.’ I grab my phone and load up the same ad online and look at the listing complete with technicolour aubergine purple and burnt orange walls, and carpet with more stains than I want to ask about. ‘But it works, right? Or is it silly?’
‘It’s not silly as such,’ Dad says carefully. ‘It’s a great idea. It’s just … finances?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, absent-mindedly. ‘I do have a little cash stashed away. I’ve been wheedling money away for a deposit on a flat of my own, but it might see me through.’
‘But you love your flat,’ Fiona offers. ‘I thought you enjoyed living in London?’
‘Absolutely I do. I love the vibe.’ I glance around the room. ‘But maintaining the status quo hasn’t worked out so well, has it? I’ve been there for, what, ten years now and what have I got to show for it? Bosses who give jobs to their friends, in an already competitive market. By rights, I should have been further along in life than this. I don’t own my own home; I barely even own my car. Something has to change.’
What have I got to lose?
Chapter 7
As I sit on the bus the next day, feeling it bump and roll through streets, I twiddle my phone between my fingers. I’m still studying the estate agent’s advertisement for the old bank in Sheffield. It hasn’t been updated with a sold tag, so a glimmer of hope still dances on the horizon. When a voiceover announces the next stop as Elephant and Castle, I change buses.
A man who boards reminds me of Kit. As he searches for a seat, he makes eye contact with me and my chest loosens with a freshly expelled breath. Not him. I bristle again at the memory of his words and am glad when the stranger finally opts for the top floor of the bus.
With everything else on my mind, I try not to think about his blond hair or insults. Regardless of what he thinks of my photo, art has always been subjective. Just because he doesn’t rate it doesn’t mean it’s terrible. Showing my work has always felt like the artistic equivalent of walking naked down the street and asking people to point out my flaws. If Kit is an artist worth his salt, he already knows this. I pop a mint in my mouth and peer out the window to the inner-city landscape.
The high-rise buildings full of shimmering glass are a world away from the suburban landscape of yesterday, the rows of semi-detached houses, charming front yards, and supermarket superstores. Today, after so many years, the city feels foreign to me, as if I know my time here is winding down, whether I’ve made a final decision or not.
On our way out the door this morning (because Fiona insisted we stay the night), Dad handed me bundles of newspapers he’d rooted out of the recycling. They were full of job ads and opportunities, he reminded me, if I wanted to look at something else before throwing myself into the world of owning a business. He knows from experience it’s not easy. Tacked on the end was that it was fine if I wanted to move home, too. My old bedroom was always there for me. I promised I’d at least think about his offer.
As much as I love my dad, I’m thirty-five. I don’t want to be sneaking men down the hallway in the middle of the night, especially considering that squeaky floorboard everybody manages to find in the dark has never been fixed.
The early morning drive home with Adam was a complete contrast to the questioning I received on the journey up yesterday. Unlike his usual bull in a china shop approach, he prodded with gentle questions as he tried to measure my direction, to help me piece together all my alternatives. No matter what I wanted to say, or the ideas I spitballed, I couldn’t find the words to sum up exactly where my brain was at.
Opening my own art gallery is such a tantalising idea. It would mean skipping all those years of hard slog and diving straight into a role I’ve created for myself. I would truly be the captain of my own ship, displaying the art I wanted to, when I wanted to, and without worrying about losing out on work to someone who’s both less experienced and happy to compromise their principles and play games. My work would finally stand for something.
On the downside, it would be a massive leap of faith. I can’t pretend it would be anything less than the biggest gamble of my life, and the idea of risking all the money I’ve saved sets my brain to spin cycle. Anyone undertaking a venture of this scale would feel the same.
It would also mean shuttering the life I’ve known in London and leaving it all behind. Friends, acquaintances, gallery contacts and, most importantly, my brother. It’s dialling back the years even further and starting completely from scratch. Fair to say, I feel like a bit of a failure right now.
Heading back into employment and proving myself through promotions is appealing if I decide I’m keen on coasting through life with the nine to five crowd. It’s the accepted norm, isn’t it? Lose one job, sidestep immediately into another one. That, and no one would be able to say I’d skived on the hard yards later on, could they? But even as I searched job advertisements at two o’clock this morning, moonlight illuminating my childhood bedroom, there was a niggling voice in the back of my head that shouted, ‘Well, you did walk out for a reason, and it had better be good.’ That was before realising the number of roles for thirty-somethings with a master’s degree are, not surprisingly, few and far between.
I decide the best course of action is to investigate both options equally: make plans as well as continuing to apply for jobs. A foot in both camps makes sense. At least if I spread my net wide and score a job, it’ll bring some money in if the gallery plan goes pear-shaped. I hope it doesn’t; I already have my heart set on it.
I glance up from my phone in time to see my stop. I shuffle along with pedestrian traffic and head towards Lainey’s new flat.
She lives with Frank in a two-bedroom Bermondsey duplex. After scouring the internet for months and dragging me along to more open days than I care to remember, they collected the keys less than a month ago. It’s rundown, needing a serious coat of paint and the front yard is muddy rubble, but they wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s affordable on their wages while still being close enough to the city. For me, I love that it’s a nice change of scenery from my fifth-floor flat with views of a laneway coffee shop and what I’m certain have been more than a few drug deals.
Lainey’s brow creases as she opens her front door. She’s wearing a crown of sawdust. ‘Did you sleep last night?’
My brain trips. If only that were the height of my problems. Surprisingly, he’s been firmly planted at the back of my mind in all this; barely rated a mention, which tells me more than I’d care to admit.
‘No, nothing like that.’ I step past Lainey into their cramped but comfortable lounge room. It’s the first room they renovated upon moving in. This morning’s coffee cups are still sitting on a perfectly reflective glass table, and a chunky aqua throw that would look right at home in a John Lewis catalogue is a new addition to the grey fabric sofa. I drop my handbag on one of the recliners and follow her through to the kitchen, where Frank makes me one of his perfectly poured coffees. Today, a frothy little cat greets me.
‘You okay?’ he asks, angling himself into my line of sight. ‘You know, considering. Lainey told me. Sounds shit.’
‘Me? Yeah, I’m fine.’ I cradle my mug and focus on its contents in an attempt to avoid conversation. ‘Thank you.’
I watch as my friends go about their carefully crafted morning routine. Coffees are drunk, looks are shared, and words I can’t begin to understand are exchanged. Couples always seem to have their own secret language, don’t they? Only when I see these two am I reminded I don’t share this with anyone.
I suspect it’s what I’m missing, too. That warm ease of comfort. John and I don’t have shared words or codes for anything. We don’t even have a favourite restaurant we can meet at. We simply exist in each other’s orbit for one of Maslow’s extremely basic human needs. At some point, it’s not enough, is it?
When Frank leaves for the day, carting a set of golf clubs behind him and mumbling about the needs of the bank manager outweighing the need to visit the hardware store (arm swinging towards the hallway wall covered in splotches of sanded-down plaster), he takes Lainey in an embrace. Arms wrapped around her, he dips her into a Pepé Le Pew pose and peppers her face with kisses. She laughs so loudly, I’m sure the people in the next street can hear her.
‘Sorry,’ she offers a sheepish apology as she reappears, cheeks flushed. She busies herself with rinsing dishes before setting her sights on a pile of wedding paraphernalia on the dining table.
‘Don’t apologise,’ I scoff. ‘Anyone offended by that needs their head examined.’
‘How was yesterday?’ she asked. ‘Someone snapped you up yet?’
‘Actually, I ended up in Sheff yesterday. Dad harangued Adam about us visiting, so we drove up for lunch. Got home about ten this morning.’
‘That sounds lovely.’ She smiles serenely. If only she knew.
‘Yeah, it was good to get away,’ I say. ‘It made me realise I need to go home more often, actually.’
‘You and me both.’ She looks momentarily reflective. ‘Are you still okay to work on place cards today? You’ve done a bit of travel, so if you’re too tired, we can hold off.’
‘Absolutely,’ I enthuse. ‘Let’s get these done. I’ve been looking forward to this.’
As we unfurl an A3 piece of paper across the table, I push placemats and a vase aside to make room for it. It’s a haphazardly drawn blueprint of their reception venue, including tables, a dance floor and stage where the band will play. Scrawled across each table are the names of everyone lucky enough to be seated together.
‘The singles, the married four hundred years, random relatives we have to invite because parents will be parents, work colleagues, and friends we’ve had forever,’ Lainey explains as she piles a bunch of eggshell blue and white cards on the table. ‘Not all mutually exclusive, funnily enough.’
‘Do you have a list of names?’ I look at the sheet doubtfully. ‘I wouldn’t want to, you know, spill ink and destroy this.’
‘Yes, yes of course.’ Her face lights up and she digs through her things again.
Sitting together at the table while I cut and fold place cards, even writing on them with slow and deliberate strokes of a fountain pen, is a relaxing way to spend the day. With the radio playing in the background and a bowl of peanut M&Ms between us, we spend our time chatting about everything but my last two days.
It’s nice to push it all aside and feel normal again, as if I’m not constantly thinking about the rest of my life hurling itself into the sun. When we stop for a break, I flop onto the sofa as if I’d just got off night shift.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ Lainey ventures, crossing her ankles on the edge of the coffee table.
Already sprawled out on the corner chaise, I roll my head to look at her, pop another chocolate in my mouth and wait for her to continue.
‘Are you okay? I mean, for real okay.’ She winces like she’s waiting for me to blow up. When I remain silent, she continues, ‘It’s just that you haven’t really talked about what’s been going on. You’ve talked about the weather, your flat and a piece of art you want to buy. We’ve compared shopping bargains and the price of milk, but there’s an elephant in the room and I don’t think his name is Dumbo.’
‘But that’s okay.’ I draw my knees up to my chest. ‘Today’s all about your wedding, your cake tasting and your duck breasts.’
‘Yes, but a lot has happened in your life the last few days, I’m just worried you might not be dealing with it properly,’ she says. ‘You’re normally far chattier than this. You’ve not even mentioned John.’
‘It’s certainly been busy.’ I turn to look at the television. ‘And John still has a lovely penis.’
‘You can talk to me, you know,’ she says. ‘It won’t go anywhere.’
For a moment, I contemplate exactly what it is I want to tell her, who I want to tell her about but, in place of words, laughter bursts forth at her solemn declaration. I know she means well, there’s not a moment she doesn’t, but she does look a little like she’s about to tell me I’m terminal.
‘What?’ she asks, confused.
‘So, ah, yesterday was interesting.’
‘Tell me, tell me.’ She bounces in her seat. ‘Was it John?’
‘Sort of.’ I narrow my eyes. ‘But not entirely.’
I start from the top and we roar with laughter at the idea of Adam finding John, naked as the day he was born, asking about golden ratios. We dissect the brotherly interrogation on the drive up, and both wonder if there’s not a little bit of jealousy at play. Not in some weird incestuous way, but in a way that now says Adam has to fight for my attention, and with a work colleague no less. After all, I tend to drop everything whenever he asks for my help. Conceivably, he thinks that won’t happen now.
Lainey makes all the right noises, and nods along as I speak. I follow her back to the kitchen where I watch her put together a grazing plate full of cold cuts, cheeses, and cornichons which absolutely don’t warrant a joke or ten about their size. I quickly brush over Kit and how Dad introduced us. When I get to the part about opening my own gallery, she frowns and her jaw drops. Not in a bad way, more in an I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter! way.
‘I’m just not sure,’ I say with a sigh. ‘I love the idea of working in London, but I’m such a small fish in a very big bowl. Sheffield would give me more of a chance to be a bigger fish, wouldn’t it?’
‘Your own gallery? That is out of this world.’ She holds a finger up. ‘Why are you not there right now hanging pieces on the wall? Churning up that fishbowl? The Katie Patterson Gallery, new and exclusive and next level.’
‘Firstly, because it’s Sunday.’ I stuff an olive in my mouth. ‘Also, because it’s hugely risky. And because Katie makes it sound like I’m five years old.’
‘Isn’t everything risky?’ She spins her finger like a roulette wheel and invites me back over to the sofa. ‘Every single thing we do is a risk. It just depends on how much we want it. First dates, getting engaged, marriage, family, new jobs. Like it or not, this is our life now.’
‘Do you think it’s a good idea though?’ I ask, pressing my phone into her hand. ‘I mean, just look at this place. It’s stunning, classic a
rchitecture, built when things were made to last, and there’s space to live upstairs. I mean, the inside of it looks like a carnival ride, but at least I won’t have to resort to my childhood bedroom.’
‘Oh, Katharine.’ She gasps as she scrolls through the photos of the old building. ‘You know I’ll miss you dearly, but you need to do this. This is exactly what we were talking about the other day. You said yourself you wanted your own gallery. And you always had potential to do so much better than Webster. And I’m sure, if you thought about it, you’d agree with that, too. Also, I know a good accountant who could set you up.’
‘I’m going back up to look at it tomorrow,’ I say, feeling her excitement settle in a flutter. ‘And Frank’s on speed dial, you know that.’
‘He’ll be so thrilled when I tell him.’ She claps her hands together.
‘Wherever I land, I’m still helping you with this wedding stuff though.’ I point to the mess spread about the table. It looks like a primary school art project, scissors and glue, pens and pencils tumbled over.
‘I know you will. Also, rewind for a second,’ she says. ‘I need to know about Kit the artiste. You dodged him quickly, but he sounds cute.’
‘Cute? Hardly. He’s about ten foot tall, dirty blond hair, and he’s got this constant wrinkle of a frown between his eyes like he’s thinking of a million things at once.’
‘So, basically you with a penis.’ She pops a cherry tomato in her mouth.
‘No. Please.’ I laugh. ‘I’m not permanently angry.’
‘Only semi.’ She turns into me. ‘Where is he on the snuggle scale?’
‘Snuggle scale? I’m not snuggling him.’ I pull a face. Gross. He probably smells of thinners and angst.
‘Come on. Where would you fit?’ she asks as she begins miming poses. ‘Are you head on the shoulder or head under the chin?’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Look, I don’t know how I’m going to get an accurate mental image of him if you don’t tell me these things,’ she says with a teasing laugh.
Accidentally in Love: An utterly uplifting laugh out loud romantic comedy Page 7
