I return to Dad’s that first night with my mind brimming with ideas. Scribbled notes become mind maps, directives, exhibition ideas and sketches of an imagined floor layout. An unexpected bonus of all this brainstorming is that it unlocks something I’d long thought buried. I was now desperate to get my old camera out.
Late Tuesday afternoon finds me in Loxley Common with Fiona’s digital camera dangling from my neck. It’s not quite my old film camera – I’d left that one back in London – but it scratched an itch. The urge to create art had been nudging at the base of my mind for months, but I’d ignored it in favour of corporate life and ladder climbing.
Now, I hungrily snap images of the world around me. Because it’s been so long, self-doubt rears her shouty head as I try to get an old gate in focus, but I do my best to ignore the noise in favour of capturing something, anything. It works, and I’m soon zooming and framing trees and playing with dappled light and a spare lens I’d packed.
By the time I arrive home to the smell of what would be an amazing dinner, it’s starting to feel natural again, like those university summers spent with fingers imprinted with the ridges of a shutter button. With shots of trees and textures, benches and neighbourhood fences loaded from the memory card, my laptop begins to resemble a small studio. Photos are loaded and cleaned up as I dabbled with editing software I was sure I’d long forgotten how to use. It makes me miss having the school darkroom to use at a whim. Film cameras are so much more fun than this.
A darkroom. I scrawl that quickly on my notepad, too.
I go to bed satisfied with my lot for the day. I’m okay. Today has helped me remember that I’m good at this. Take that, Kit, Christopher, whatever your bloody name is. As I drift off to sleep, I cross my fingers and hope the building I’m about to inspect is everything I’ve dreamt it to be.
I’m out the front door hours before I need to be on Wednesday, telling myself I can grab breakfast and jot down questions while I wait. Sitting in a café on the high street proves near impossible, my leg trampolining around the place, so I get up and walk off my anxious energy on the way to West Bar. It feels like the slowest thirty minutes on record, and I catch every red pedestrian crossing known to man.
When I turn in from the main street, I skip out onto the kerb and look up to see the building hovering above me. From the outside, it’s just as incredible as the photos. Built during the Victorian era, there’s plenty of beige stone and tall, arched windows. There’s a small car park off the side street, which is overgrown and very green, but cleaning it will be the easiest part of the whole project, I’m sure of it.
One of the appeals of the building is the corner location: twice as visible to the passing traffic. Even though there’s old mail stuffed through the door, lying faded and curled on the ground, and the windows are a bit murky, I can see it will be bright and airy when opened to its potential. I just hope it’s structurally sound.
Though I first saw it in the newspaper on the weekend, I didn’t stop for a look on the way home. With my ideas still in their infancy, it hadn’t even crossed my mind. But, before I’ve even shuffled through the front door, I can tell the building is absolutely breathtaking. I know my decision already, for better or worse.
‘Katharine?’
I pull away from where I’ve got a hand cupped on the window. ‘That’s me, hello.’
‘Ava. We spoke on the phone earlier?’ The bangles on her wrist jingle in time with the building keys and, before we can finish our introductions, I’m breathing in the dusty scent of a room that’s been locked for months.
‘What do you think?’ Ava hands me a glossy brochure to accompany the tour.
‘I think I’m in love.’ I peer up at the original parts of the ceiling, moulded plaster that’s shaped into long rectangles. It’s a Gatsby touch, something that makes the place feel a little more homely and will add weight to the notion that this is a serious business. Because it is, duh.
‘Excellent. I’m glad to hear. Now, as you can see the bottom floor is quite bare, which is great.’ Ava reaches out to the wall and a bank of grey pendant lights flicker to life. ‘It’s a blank canvas for you to do whatever you want, right?’
Even if some of the walls look like they’ve been painted after a game of pin the tail on the colour wheel, I can see what she means. One of the rooms tucked away in the ground floor warren is screaming out for a small gift shop where visitors can purchase prints of all the beautiful art they see and exclusives from local makers, and I’m already inspired by the idea of the flow of traffic around the space and through all the rooms.
‘Polished floorboards for the most part, though they’re a bit scuffed.’ She flashes her hand about her feet. ‘If you come upstairs, I’ll show you the living quarters.’
As I climb the stairs behind her, I spy the carpeted room that formed the ‘most’ clause of her previous sentence. It’s grotty and stained, but I’m blinded by love. The upstairs area isn’t exactly the height of sophistication either. Floorboards are worn back to bare wood in spots, laminate is peeling from the cupboards above the sink, and the oven looks about forty years old and is covered in scratches. But it works. Right now, that’s all I need. I can build up from here. Plus, there’s a certain charm about the old dame that makes up for the lack of aesthetic.
‘The last tenant operated a clothing store from the ground floor,’ Ava explains.
There’s enough storage space, and an en suite bathroom, so living here would be a piece of cake. In fact, it looks like it would be amazing fun. There’s space for an office and maybe even a darkroom. It’s the perfect plan. There aren’t nearly enough film developers anymore and hiring the room out to photographers could bring some extra income. I’m so buoyed by the idea I might float off down the nearest drain and into the River Don.
‘Any thoughts?’ Ava closes the door on a bathroom that has surprisingly modern fixtures. This whole building is an eclectic mix of the last 150 years.
‘I absolutely love it.’ As I say this, a thrill chases itself around the back of my mind. ‘It’s everything I need.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ She smiles. ‘Would you like to make an offer?’
‘This has been on the market for a while, hasn’t it?’ I begin. My stomach begins to roll like foam on an ocean.
‘It has,’ she says. ‘We have had a lot of interest though. In fact, we’ve got another party coming to view it this afternoon.’
‘And, if I’m honest, it’s way out of my price range right now.’
Her face falls. Actually, it doesn’t so much fall as a mid-winter storm passes over it. ‘Right.’
I try and still the air with a hand. ‘Would the vendor be interested in, say, a six-month lease? I can pay equivalent rent with an option to purchase at the end of the agreement. If they find a buyer in the meantime, we can renegotiate.’
She considers me for a moment, the corners of her mouth pinching. I need to work harder to convince her.
‘And these walls really need painting,’ I continue. ‘In fact, you might find a lot of buyers aren’t in love with the array of colours. What I was thinking was a solid single colour. I’m happy to do the painting – and any other work – at my own expense, if that’ll help sweeten the deal?’
‘I’m going to have to talk to the vendor,’ she says slowly, eyes darting about as she starts pointing to the stairs. ‘Let me just make the call.’
She disappears and I’m left on tenterhooks, thinking about how my dreams could vanish in the space of two little letters. I can hear passing traffic outside, the pneumatic hiss of another bus doing the rounds, and it sounds completely different to the echoes of the city. Without anything other than Lainey’s not-quite-sound financial advice, this might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done, even sillier than skydiving in New Zealand or bungee jumping at a festival or that time Lainey and I thought drunk rollerblading through the middle of Sheffield at 3 a.m. downhill and against traffic was a great idea.
Wh
o am I kidding? At least this won’t kill me. Bankruptcy, yes. Death, no.
As a distraction, I check my inbox. Again. In a moment of weakness late last night, after a few too many glasses of cava and some textual prodding from Fiona, I sent a query through to Christopher’s website. She said he’d called her on Monday and asked after me, wanting to know more about my role at Webster. Maybe it was a sign he wanted to show his work after all. Who knows? As Lainey said, I wouldn’t know if I didn’t ask.
I did my best to play it cool and casual and give off more of an ‘it was great to meet you’ vibe than anything else. Slipped into the end matter, I mentioned I was thinking about opening my own gallery and would like to talk to him about the possibility of a collaboration. If he was still interested.
It’s been crickets ever since. Some business he’s trying to run if he’s not prepared to answer enquiries. I scroll his website again. There are new photos – a piece by him with a hefty sale price attached. He must have seen my email. He can’t not have, when you think of all the steps we take when we get online, all the little procrastinating tools we use before getting to the big stuff of doing actual work. I keep flicking through until I find his phone number and hit the dial button.
Then, I wait.
My heart thuds in time with the whop, whop, whop of a helicopter flying closely overhead. I have no idea why he evokes this feeling in me; I’ve made these types of calls dozens, possibly even hundreds of times before. He’s an artist, I’m an—
‘Christopher Dunbar.’
My breath catches in a pinch at my side as he cuts off my thoughts. ‘Christopher, hello. It’s Katharine Patterson, how are—’
The dial tone sounds in my ear. I don’t want to think he’s hung up on me deliberately but, when I try his number again, it’s otherwise engaged. I blow him a raspberry, if only to make myself feel better, and stare at my phone in disbelief.
‘Are you okay?’ Ava’s managed to sneak upstairs and is standing in the kitchenette with me now.
‘Me? Yeah, just—’ I pull my tongue back in my mouth and drop my phone into my handbag ‘—just a client.’
‘It’s like that, isn’t it?’ she says in a show of solidarity. ‘And I’ve just spoken to my client, who is happy to run with a short-term lease.’
‘They are?’ I squeak.
She smiles like this is a relief for her, too. ‘Better to make some money than have it sit here empty, he tells me. Actually, I told him that but, you know, men. He was also very keen on the idea of someone other than him painting the place, strangely enough. So, if you’d like to come back to the office, I’ll get some paperwork sorted.’
‘Absolutely yes.’
My brain is furry at the sides, a horse with blinkers on as I follow her downstairs and out the door. I don’t even register that she’s locking the place up because all I can think is: I did it. I bloody well did it, and I want to shake and scream and jump up and down, but that might not come off as one hundred per cent professional businesswoman, so I smile demurely and tell her I’ll meet her at her office in twenty minutes.
‘You’ve got a lawyer, haven’t you?’ she asks, holding her car door open. ‘Just to get them to look through the paperwork?’
‘I might know one or two,’ I say.
‘Excellent. See you soon.’ She slips into her Vauxhall, and I wait for her car melt into the traffic before I scream with delight and dance around on the spot.
An elderly lady gives me a look and scuttles across the street to avoid me.
Chapter 9
I race back to London, calling Dad from the motorway, my brain already a New Year’s Eve of firing synapses and bursts of ideas. There’s so much to do I can scarcely sit still, and my bladder has me stopping at more services than I’d like. I’m strangely appreciative of finding myself in the gridlock of Wednesday afternoon London traffic, relying on tooting horns and emergency sirens to sweep the noise inside my head away.
‘Dad said to keep my eyes peeled.’ Adam smiles. I’ve bypassed home in favour of his office. His and John’s secretary, Natalie, lets me straight through without the charade of checking if he has time. ‘So, what’s the deal?’
‘Are you alone?’ I take a cautious step into the office, craning my neck towards John’s desk. I’d rather talk to him about this in private, not through some third-wheel discussion I might be having with my brother.
‘For now.’ Adam waves me in. ‘Come in, come in. Tell me what’s going on.’
Their office is starkly neutral and modern and not at all what I think of when I imagine a lawyer’s office. My mind automatically goes to rich green leather and mahogany furniture, Don Draper and aged whisky, but this is all bright beech and monochrome that looks like it belongs in an IKEA catalogue.
Even the building looks like a Lloyd’s of London afterbirth. Adam’s on the third floor, civil law. It’s vastly quieter than criminal on the ground floor or family on the second floor.
‘Well?’
I bounce on the spot. ‘I’m going to do it. I’m doing it. It’s mine. They agreed I can rent; I can paint the walls. I can open my gallery.’
Adam rests back in his oversized leather chair, forearms hoisted up on the armrests. He looks relieved at my news. ‘That’s so great! You sounded set on it even at the weekend. Congratulations.’
Managing to trip over my step, I take a seat on the other side of his desk and toss my contract down in front of him. My leg jiggles again. ‘Can you check this?’
He leans forward and presses his glasses up his nose. ‘You know I won’t represent you, right? If anything goes wrong, I don’t want to get caught in the middle. I can read it, give you my opinion and then get someone else to read through it. Might take a day or two.’
‘That’s fine.’ I flail out into the seat. ‘Oh, but I want to do it now!’
‘And not your boyfriend, either.’ Adam looks at me, brows raised. ‘But, do me a favour?’
‘Sure.’
He nods his head in the direction of the other side of the room. ‘Tell him before you sign anything.’
I scowl. ‘My career isn’t dependent on him.’
‘I know that,’ he says, exasperated. ‘And I know I’m not his biggest fan, but I think you should at least tell him what you’re doing before you pack up and move away.’
‘It’s not that far,’ I say. Now I’ve stopped moving, I can feel exhaustion seeping into my limbs. I need a nap. ‘But I was definitely planning on telling him.’
‘It will be too far for a relationship,’ Adam says. ‘Especially where he’s concerned. You know the hours he keeps. I know we used to fly up the motorway on weekends, but do you think he’s going to do that on the regular while you’re busy getting established, or vice versa?’
As much as I hate to admit it, he has a point. Still not changing my mind about the gallery though. I pull my phone out and dial John’s number. Adam pokes his tongue out at me.
‘Hello, you,’ John answers. ‘Just letting you know I have to be quick. I’m about to walk into a meeting.’
‘Where are you?’ I ask.
‘Heading into a coffee shop,’ he says. ‘I’m talking a client through a contract.’
I hear the cry of a door hinge in the background. ‘Right. Listen, are you still free tonight? Remember we talked about catching up? I need to talk to you about something.’
‘Tonight?’ he asks. ‘How important is it?’
‘It’s fairly important,’ I drawl. Adam shakes his head. ‘I have news. Big news.’
Silence stretches out long enough for me to make out the chatter of a queue and the shout of a coffee order. My heart freezes and, immediately, I wish I hadn’t rung.
‘John?’ I ask. ‘Are you there?’
‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’ he asks.
‘What? No.’ I draw back and pull at face at the receiver.
‘What is it, then? Is it something we can talk about over the phone?’ he tries. ‘I can give you a
ring when I get in tonight.’
‘I’d rather not,’ I say, watching my brother leave the office. ‘Can we meet for supper?’
‘Not really, no,’ he says. ‘I’ll probably be here for another hour, then back to the office until about nine or ten.’
My shoulders slip. ‘Okay. All right.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m flat out this week,’ he scrambles. ‘I know I said midweek would be good, but it’s just not.’
‘We’re all busy,’ I grumble.
‘Listen, we’ve got a work dinner Friday night. Why don’t you come to that?’
‘You mean those things I’ve not otherwise been invited to?’ I ask, surprised at the sudden turn of conversation. ‘This is a new one.’
‘Yeah, well, everyone knows now. So, may as well.’
‘My, don’t dial up the romance too much,’ I say.
‘I’ll text you through the details,’ he says, greeting people in the background. ‘Maybe we can skip out early and grab supper then.’
‘Sure.’ I huff.
‘You okay?’ he asks, already focused on something other than me.
‘Perfectly good,’ I lie.
My balloon bursts. Not that it was unexpected, but his dismissal and distance feel like a rollercoaster that has slid to a halt at the top of an incline. I finish the call quickly and let him get back to his meeting.
Adam returns with two mugs and a packet of biscuits dangling from his mouth, which results in a crinkly, muffled, ‘You o’right?’
Leaning on the armrest, I place my chin in the palm of my hand. ‘He is who he is.’
We split some Jammie Dodgers, dunking them into coffee that’s far too fancy for an office as we chat about the weekend. Though I sense Adam is avoiding the heavy topics, especially with his carefully chosen words, I let him ramble about how he wishes we’d stayed in Sheffield the whole weekend and not done the Sunday dawn flee.
We both admit we’ve been far too caught up in our own bubbles lately. He’s missing the simple things, beers with friends, relaxing with a football match and not being in the office maybe a little more than I was, and I make him promise he’ll visit once I move.
Accidentally in Love: An utterly uplifting laugh out loud romantic comedy Page 9
