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

by Belinda Missen

  ‘Hey? Kit? No, I was just talking to him at the craft market this morning. We caught up for breakfast before looking at art stalls.’ Dad reaches across the table for the bottle of wine. ‘Do you want me to call him for you?’

  I shake my head. ‘It’s fine. I was hoping to talk to him about holding an exhibition here, but he’s not answering emails or his phone.’

  ‘That’s easy fixed.’ He grips the edge of the table and leans into the conversation. ‘Come to class tomorrow morning.’

  I snort. ‘No. Thanks, but no.’

  ‘Why not? He’ll be there. You want to talk to him, it’s the best place to find him.’

  ‘I’m sure he’d much rather I didn’t.’ I look away nervously. ‘Plus, I’m sure his class is already full.’

  Whatever comes out of my mouth in the next five minutes doesn’t register. My father has it in his head that I’m going tomorrow morning, no matter what. It’ll be good to polish my skills, he reminds me. I can be as flash and business-y as I like during the week, but I need to take the time to relax and meet new people, he says with a wink and a smile.

  Urgh. Clearly the love boat is still docked and awaiting passengers.

  Chapter 12

  That’s exactly how I find myself outside Christopher’s home just before nine o’clock on a Sunday morning. After cursing and muttering and trying to explain to Dad that I didn’t want to go and that Christopher certainly wouldn’t want me there, I relent and find myself taking the short drive out of town towards Loxley, along the river and up into the small gravel car park.

  All with the sound turned down so I can see where I’m going.

  As my car rolls to a stop, I catch sight of the property in front of me. Like his website says, it’s a sizeable lot set against rolling acreage. The old-world charm of the stone homestead is offset by lush hedges and the more draconian concept of security cameras on high.

  I remember this place from my childhood. Not because I’ve ever been here, but because it was always the grand old home seen on drives out of town, to picnic by the reservoir, or to the cemetery to visit Mum. I’d always wondered who lived behind the crotchety wooden farm gate.

  Now I know and, sometimes, I think not knowing is more fun.

  Considering class is due to begin in twenty minutes, I’m surprised to find I’m the sole occupant of the car park. The only other sign of life is an A-frame, complete with hand-drawn chalk lettering, pointing us towards an old barn-cum-classroom. Even birds are sitting prone on the hedge like they’re checking names and numbers.

  Not for the first time today, I wonder aloud why the hell I’ve decided to come all the way out here. While my father was adamant I join the class this morning all I really want is an answer. Christopher was the one who so desperately broached the topic of gallery space, who’d emailed my old workplace, so why was he being so evasive now? Why couldn’t he simply answer an email, or hold a phone conversation?

  That idea alone makes me laugh and, yes, I’m aware I probably look a little insane sitting here on my own.

  Did I really need an answer from him this badly? By his own admission, and my own knowledge, Sheffield is a creative community. There are plenty of other local artists I could work with, let alone the sheer volume of contacts I already have. They would probably also do it without insulting me.

  It’s this thought that convinces me I should start my car and leave, forget the exhibition and Christopher, and get on out of there with my dignity still intact. That is, until I look up from my phone and see him walking up an incline towards the classroom with a wheelbarrow bouncing under the weight of its load.

  He looks up, directly at me, and my breath catches. His expression is blank, though I’m sure I look like a deer in the headlights. I can’t duck and leaving would only make me look a bigger fool than I already am, so I do the only thing I logically can and get out of my car and start walking towards him.

  ‘Good morning.’ Nerves vault through me as I try concentrating on the crunch of gravel underfoot.

  ‘Let me guess, you’re the extra person your father was talking about bringing today?’ Christopher keeps walking. ‘Christ, I’ve won the lottery.’

  ‘Can I speak to you?’ I pick up the pace, scuttling alongside him, grabbing and pulling windswept hair out of my face. ‘Please?’

  ‘Aren’t you doing that already?’

  I take a deep breath and resist the urge to trip him. ‘I want you.’

  He lowers the wheelbarrow and takes a slow deep breath.

  ‘Well, I must say, that’s the most forward a woman has been with me in years.’ He glances at his wrist. ‘We don’t have long, but I’m sure I could—’

  ‘I didn’t mean like that.’ My face is on fire. His response is gifting me wildly inappropriate mental images and I’m having trouble separating them from the here and now. Unfortunate. ‘I saw your art.’

  ‘So, you’ve got an internet connection.’ He gives me a healthy dose of side-eye as he picks up the wheelbarrow again. ‘Good for you.’

  ‘I like it,’ I try, hoping I sound upbeat. I race after him. ‘In fact, it’s amazing.’

  ‘Great,’ he grumbles.

  ‘I’m not lying.’

  I don’t know how he’s still pushing such a heavy load uphill. I’m barely keeping up with the walking part. My nerves have now settled into a jelly mould wobble in my legs. This is not the hill I want to die on today, but I’m not sure Christopher is going to give me a lot of choice in that matter.

  ‘The thing is, I moved back to the area this week to open my own gallery.’ I huff and puff as I try to keep up. ‘And I want to hold an exhibition of your work.’

  ‘Now.’ He stands taller, pigeon proud and hands on his hips. ‘This is certainly a turn of events, isn’t it?’

  ‘A little, yes.’ I nod. How is it, of all the men I’ve ever come up against in my job, he makes me feel the smallest? I’m suddenly unsure of everything I’ve ever felt confident in.

  ‘However, by your estimation, you shouldn’t want my art,’ he says. There are secrets hiding behind his smirk, I’m one hundred per cent certain of it.

  ‘Why not?’ I counter.

  Silence. God, this is just like a fencing match. En garde, pret, allez, bout, without the corps-à-corps. Stab, stab, stabby. Unless you’re counting my terribly uncomfortable mental images from moments ago, that is. Well, that’s a different type of stabby at least. I try and gather moisture in my mouth.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I?’ I press. ‘You’re an incredible artist.’

  ‘Go on, then,’ he starts. ‘Pitch me.’

  ‘Pitch you?’

  ‘Yes, you pitch your idea to me.’ He gestures back and forth in the space between us. ‘Think of it as a role reversal of the other weekend.’

  I take a steadying breath and waft a hand above my head. Hopefully an idea catches on the tips of my fingers. ‘I think it’ll be a brilliant display of local art. You’d get final say on what pieces are shown, of course. I’d like you to be the first artist I showcase at Patterson Gallery.’

  Christopher lets go of the handles and the wheelbarrow crashes to a stop by the sliding door of his studio. ‘No.’

  ‘What?’ I sputter. ‘Why not?’

  His eyes widen. ‘Because I don’t want to?’

  ‘Why couldn’t you have just said so by replying to my email?’ My voice rises. ‘How hard would it have been?’

  ‘Was I supposed to answer that?’ He lets his eyes meet mine, but barely. With a single brow arched and the tiniest hint of dimple, I’m convinced he’s enjoying being difficult. ‘It read more like a rambling essay into the abyss. Were you drunk? Please tell me you were because there’s no other explanation that makes earthly sense.’

  ‘I’d like to think a reply would have been the polite thing to do,’ I continue, flustered as my heel sinks into a soft patch. The air is suddenly warmer, the scent of fresh grass carried on its wings. ‘Or, you know, you could have called back whe
n our call dropped out the other night.’

  ‘It didn’t drop out,’ he says as he inspects a spot on the palm of his hand. ‘What’s your vision, Ms Patterson? What’s the concept you’re running with? And make it snappy, class starts in a few minutes.’

  ‘Why are you asking me?’ I shriek. ‘You were the one who came to me looking for space.’

  He’s too busy trying to dig a splinter out to even look at me. ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘You did.’ I fold my arms across my chest.

  ‘I think you’ll find you only assumed that.’ He lifts his head enough to greet the handful of students who are now filing into the studio. ‘Now, are we done here?’

  ‘No, no we aren’t done here.’ I follow him up the step and into the studio while somehow managing to toss my dirty boots aside.

  Everything feels very primary school, from the rows of coat hooks to the samples of classwork tacked up against the side wall. The only difference is, there’s a room full of adults drifting in and finding their seats.

  ‘Hello … Hi, everyone. Sorry I’m late.’ I race for the last of the musical chairs. I figure if Christopher won’t hold a decent conversation with me, then I’ll sit here and wait until he does. I can play this game.

  Before I have a chance to warm the seat, Christopher approaches.

  ‘Get up.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re not sitting there. Get up.’ He waves a hand, enticing me across the room, through a sliding door and into a storeroom that’s as brightly lit with bulbs as it is filled with art I can only assume he’s collected on his life’s travels.

  It’s all quite cat with a laser pointer for me because I don’t know what to look at first. These pieces are stunning. On further inspection, I recognise his style in some of them. He taps my elbow.

  ‘What do you want?’ He stuffs his hands in his pockets and peers down at me. Once again, I feel very seen and unsure of myself. ‘You’ve traipsed all the way out here this morning. It can’t just be for an exhibition.’

  ‘What do I want?’ I ask. ‘What did you want?’

  ‘I want to be left alone to do my work and concentrate on my school,’ he says. ‘I’m done with shows.’

  ‘So, why all the hubbub about gallery space then?’ I ask.

  His eyes widen. ‘Because I was curious about how one would go about obtaining gallery space.’

  ‘So why not just say that?’ I baulk. ‘Or have you changed your mind and don’t want to deal with me because I’m a woman? Is that it?’

  He sniffs. ‘Don’t be so arbitrary, Katharine. You’re better than that.’

  A compliment? He’s going to try and throw me off the scent with a compliment?

  ‘Let me run an exhibition then.’ I shove my hands on my hips so hard I’m sure I’ll wake up with a displacement tomorrow. ‘Let’s work on this. Together. You and me. You paint, I’ll curate, and together we’ll decide which pieces to show, have a bit of back and forth about notes. I can print brochures, get wall plaques made, even get some advertising in the newspapers, social media. I’ve got plenty of contacts from London who’d be keen to come to the party.’

  With a sharp shake of his head and a roll of his eyes, Christopher lets out an annoyed breath and slides the door open. ‘Miss Patterson here says she’s going to organise an exhibition of everyone’s work in the coming weeks.’

  Ecstatic gasps float through from the next room as the chatter raises a few decibels. I flinch and force the door closed, not before spotting an excited Fiona giving me the thumbs up and ‘Well done.’ A cool breeze whips through from the window at the end of the room. Horror clutches at me. That is not what I said at all.

  ‘Not for them,’ I hiss, hoping like hell I don’t sound rude or ungrateful, though I suspect that’s exactly how I sound.

  ‘Well, you aren’t showing my art.’

  I nod vehemently. ‘That’s exactly what I’m doing.’

  ‘And how do you suppose you’re going to do that once I toss you out?’

  ‘You can’t toss me out,’ I sputter.

  ‘I assure you, I can.’

  ‘You invited me in.’

  ‘What are you, a vampire?’ he asks.

  I wince and shake my head. ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind.’ He waves a hand. ‘That’s the deal. They get a show. I was never asking for me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why not?’ he asks. ‘What’s the matter? They aren’t popular enough for you?’

  I snort ruefully. ‘It’s not that.’

  ‘That’s exactly what it is.’ Christopher points at me. ‘You are one of those highfalutin wannabe art snobs who pisses on anything that’s either not within a five-mile radius of big magical London or not going to get their name in lights.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ I retort. ‘I just … I can’t show those pieces to the public.’

  ‘Why not? They’ve put pencil or paint or charcoal or any other medium to canvas. It’s art, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘Weren’t you the one who said to me art was in the eye of the beholder?’

  Oh, he is good. If I wasn’t so riled up, I might just tell him how much I admire his game face right now.

  ‘That’s stretching the definition of art very thin,’ I say in a frustrated whisper. ‘I can’t be showing half-finished drawings and expect people to buy them.’

  ‘I’ll bet if it was a half-finished Degas, you’d be all over it.’ He tinkles his fingers in my face. ‘Ants at a picnic.’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head and purse my lips. ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘“Specialising in photography, Katharine Patterson graduated first in her class and went on to write her thesis on the cultural influence of Annie Leibovitz. She cites her inspirations as Dorothea Lange and Leibovitz.” You’re exceedingly original.’ He levels me with a knowing look that cuts right through me and leaves me feeling like a windsock at Heathrow on a stagnant day. ‘“Though her love remains with still images, her favourite painted piece is Self Portrait in Uniform by Richard Carline.” Did I get it right? Am I missing anything?’

  I swallow. ‘No. No, you didn’t.’

  With a slight nod, he pushes the door open again, drawing us back into a room now full of people. Their attention is set firmly on us, on me and, as I follow him towards the door, I realise I am the rice paper roll of photographers: translucent and with my insides exposed. I’m not ready to leave, yet he’s not about to give me another option.

  Stepping outside at his invitation, I turn back to him. ‘How the hell did you even know any of that?’

  ‘It seems your old employer hasn’t completely wiped you from memory yet,’ he says. ‘I want my students to experience what it’s like to be part of a show. They deserve it. That’s why I asked you about gallery space. Not for me. I don’t need your help. I don’t need anybody’s help. These people need a lift into the art world. Those are my terms, take them or leave them.’

  Before I can get another word out, he slides the door shut, leaving me standing in the breeze.

  I glower and lift my middle finger to his retreating back.

  Jerk.

  Click, click, click.

  Oh shit, shit, shit, bugger, no!

  My car groans, heaves and waves its wipers at me, eventually slipping into a silent death. An angry sob escapes my throat. This cannot be happening.

  ‘You cannot be serious,’ I mutter at my Christmas tree dashboard, every warning light seemingly flashing at me.

  All I want to do is scream, shout and stomp right back into his classroom and demand he help me because, if it wasn’t for his rubbish attitude and quick dismissal, I’d probably be sitting in his class as a paying student at least pretending I was interested in painting. But I’m not. Instead, I’m stranded here with little other option but to ask him for help, and I know exactly how that will go.

  After everything I just went through in front of a group of strangers, I cannot bear the thought of him coming out here an
d lording it over me. Just imagine it, the sight of him, head under my hood and that mocking smirk that sits so comfortably on his lips as he announces to the class that I’m out of fuel or the battery terminal is corroded enough to break the circuit. The only way it could get worse is if it were something as simple as that.

  I take one, two, three deep breaths as I loll my head about and listen to the unhappy grinding and clunking of stressed bones. I pull the key from the ignition and wait.

  Drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, I consider my other options. There’s still a quarter of a tank of fuel, so that’s not the problem. And I’m sure the gauge isn’t faulty; Adam would have said something had he noticed recently. I could call him to come and help, but one look at my watch tells me he’s already on the train home.

  It’s got to be the battery, not that I can afford a new one, but what am I supposed to do? Dad isn’t here, but if I call him, I can guarantee Christopher will only end up involved anyway. Fiona is inside, but getting her to help involves me going back inside and brings me back to square one.

  What a colossal mess.

  ‘One last try,’ I whisper. ‘Pretty please.’

  I jam the key in and turn, listening as the whine gets quicker and the engine finally, thankfully, kicks over. Before my car has a chance to so much as think about conking again, I throw it into gear and tear off down the road. I do not pass Tesco and do not collect two hundred things I don’t need.

  Adrenaline carries me all the way home and upstairs to my sofa where I collapse into a heap and curse the utter stupidity that made me think going out to Loxley this morning was a good idea. I close my eyes, rub my face and hope that when I open them, this was all a bad dream.

  I wake near dinnertime. The apartment is stuffy in the summer sun, my head is thick with sleep and I’m sure I’ve drooled on the cushion I’ve curled myself into. On the upside, I feel better. Refreshed, even. After everything that’s happened the last few days, I was bound to crash at some point. I sit up, run my fingers through tangled hair and wonder: what do I do now?

  While I munch on a Marmite toast dinner, I raid what’s left of Fiona’s gift basket for spray cleaner and kitchen towel. All I mean to do is wipe down kitchen counters and windowsills, but it morphs into something bigger. Before I’ve so much as considered switching the television on for the night, I’ve cleaned bellies of cupboards and unpacked all my utensils into the whirring dishwasher.