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

by Belinda Missen

  ‘Just be quiet,’ I caution, as if bouncing my hands will tamper the noise. ‘Adam’s—’

  Not here.

  What?

  In his place, a note on the dining table telling me he’ll be back soon. He’s good, I’ll give him that much. I hadn’t heard him slip out, but I also hadn’t noticed he was missing when I woke up. There’s every chance he’s been gone for hours already. Not bad, considering we’re supposed to be polishing floorboards today.

  I dial his number, but he doesn’t answer. I can’t help but feel a prickle of irritation start to rise.

  ‘So, what has it been? One week? Two? It all happened so fast.’ Lainey pokes around the room like a cat getting used to a new home. She peers out the window above the kitchen sink. ‘It’s only been one, hasn’t it?’

  ‘It has been one exceptionally long week,’ I say, firing off an exasperated text to my brother.

  She takes one look at the empty wine bottles on the side and the dirty mugs in the sink and claps her hands. ‘How do you feel about heading out for breakfast while you fill me in?’

  We take a quick stroll to Kelham Island. Once an industrial mecca, it’s now full of fashionable apartment blocks and gastro pubs that have risen from disused factories in streets that are now lined with expensive bicycles and polished cars.

  ‘I forgot how lovely this area is.’ Lainey peers up at a residential complex that fits perfectly with the red-brick grimy windowed aesthetic of the area. ‘Could you imagine opening a gallery around here?’

  ‘I can.’ I step into a café with squeaky-clean windows, chalkboard signs and dangling Edison globes. ‘Prices aren’t too bad either, but I couldn’t find anything suitable. There was one place that came close, but it would have meant moving in with Dad and Fiona, and I’m sure they’d quite like to keep their privacy.’

  ‘Imagine sneaking boys back down that hallway now.’ She grimaces despite the giggles. ‘Remember that party at the end of first year, where we both brought boys back to your Dad’s? I think I slept in the sunroom, didn’t I?’

  I clutch my face at a memory I’d almost forgotten. ‘That squeaky floorboard right by the kitchen entry.’

  ‘Do you know, I don’t think I ever told you this, I was in the kitchen the next morning. I’d bailed my guy out the front door, I can’t even remember his name now, and your dad comes walking into the kitchen in his pyjamas—’

  ‘Gah, him and his pyjamas.’ I cringe. ‘At least he wasn’t naked, I suppose.’

  ‘And he just stops on the spot and bounces on that squeaky floorboard.’

  We collapse with laughter. Slipping back into our old routine is chicken soup for an overworked soul. While I’m anxious to get things done, I remind myself to stop worrying about where my brother has disappeared to and remind myself that I have more than a weekend to deal with the floors. He’ll call me when he’s free.

  ‘All right.’ Lainey splays her hands out on the table as she returns from ordering breakfast. ‘Talk to me. Where were we last? You were going to John’s work do the night before you moved. How’d that go?’

  I shake my head. ‘We broke up.’

  ‘Wait, what? You did?’ she shrieks. ‘When?’

  Previously, on … I rewind back to the afternoon on Lainey’s sofa, the same day we’d searched out Christopher online. So much happened in the week following that I rattled items off like dot points: estate agents, contracts, cancelled plans with John, who’d panicked at the idea of me being pregnant, and the high-end embarrassment of not being the most important person in his room.

  We turn over conversations and dissect looks, words and catchphrases in the hope that something, somewhere makes sense. But, like all broken records, replaying it constantly won’t fix the problem. And it doesn’t help.

  ‘Oh, sweetheart,’ Lainey coos as breakfast is placed before us. ‘I’m so sorry. You should have called; I would have come to collect you.’

  ‘Honestly, it’s fine.’ I still her with a hand to the wrist. ‘I was right near Blackfriars anyway, and it wasn’t as if I didn’t know it was coming. It was simply a matter of semantics by the time the alarm sounded.’

  ‘Have you spoken to him since?’ She frowns as she leans into the table. ‘Or has it been clean cut? It’s been that long I can’t remember what protocol is with this stuff anymore.’

  ‘The funny thing is.’ I swallow hard. ‘He’s been calling incessantly all week and I’ve just kind of been hoping he’d go away. According to Adam, he’s had a change of heart. Anyway, we spoke last night, and he was desperately trying to talk me around. I’m talking Mufasa clinging to the rock kind of urgency, pulling out every trick in the book, throwing out every option he could, which is just—’

  ‘It’s absolute tosh is what it is.’ Lainey holds her hands up by the side of her head. ‘Katharine, I am so sorry you’re in pain, but please tell me you aren’t considering going back to him.’

  ‘Oh, no. God, no,’ I say with a bemused smirk. ‘No, that’s done. And I’m not in pain, not at all. If anything, this past week has been great for reflection. I mean, what else are you going to do when you spend twelve hours a day with the up and down of a paint roller?’

  ‘Better than twelve hours of in and out.’ She snorts and sips her orange juice. ‘And what did your painting wisdom tell you? Did Bob Ross appear and tell you he was just a happy accident?’

  I snigger. ‘Hardly.’

  It was Wednesday afternoon, right after Fiona and I had sat on the back doorstep with dainty china cups and cucumber sandwiches to have in the sun, when things started falling into place. My brain was a bingo hall and, one by one, the revelations dropped from the basket. The thing with John is, our entire relationship was never ever about what was mutually beneficial – even though the beginning pretext was certainly that. It was always about him.

  Here I was, thinking I was a sharp, sophisticated woman, and yet I’d found myself being emotionally swindled by, as Adam phrased it, a trained liar. I’d been drawn into the self-deprecating jokes about art, the suave sophistication of everything that came with sharp suits, a shimmering Pimlico pad, and the sweet words that usually signalled that he was about to ask for a night together.

  The more I turned this over in my head, the more I realised my needs were often casually brushed aside under the rug of working late, being terribly busy, or wanting an early night, though I accommodated him freely. While the realisation left me with a hollow feeling, I suspect it had more to do with the shame and embarrassment of being taken for a fool and not out of some romantic notion that my true love and happily ever after had been scotched.

  ‘Yeah, but penis,’ Lainey whispers behind her hand. ‘We all go a little cuckoo for cock-o from time to time.’

  Even though I feel my face burn as I bury it in my hands, I laugh. I laugh at the silliness and the accuracy and the fact that I can see the lighter side of it all. Because of that, I don’t feel like I need to spend the rest of the day analysing. What’s done is done, and there are so many other things happening in my world that I should be concentrating on.

  ‘Anyway, that’s that.’ I pour out the last of a pot of Earl Grey. ‘Talk to me about wedding prep. How’s Frank? What’s he doing today? How’s Webster? Sally popped up online for a chat the other night. She needed some help with stuff and didn’t want to ask Roland or Steve.’

  ‘Well, Frank is at my parents’. Mum wanted help with something, so I dropped him early this morning. Webster’s a mess, but you already know that because it’s never been any different. But you’ll love this, because I’m living for it at the moment.’

  ‘Go on,’ I say with a barely concealed laugh.

  ‘So, Steve stuffed up and promised an artist an exhibition and then forgot all about it, so we had a high noon duel in the foyer. There were a lot of closed-door meetings on Friday about how we’re going to handle it.’

  I cover my mouth and laugh. She’s right, there’s a teensy bit of smug satisfaction that
comes from knowing he’s stuffed up so badly. Who am I kidding? The schadenfreude is a strawberry milkshake, and I’m so very thirsty.

  ‘As for wedding prep,’ Lainey says, wiping the tears of laughter away, ‘the groomsman and bridesmaid are sorted, our parents are still completely insane, and I’m just about finished with everything except for …’

  I watch on as she pulls some coloured card from her handbag, pressed carefully inside a hardback book. It’s the same shades of blue and white we used for her place cards. She passes it carefully across the table to me. I know what it means before she even opens her mouth and I hope I don’t break out into a cold sweat.

  ‘Menu cards,’ she says with a smile.

  ‘Oh,’ I blurt.

  ‘Now, I know it took ages to do the place cards, but do you think you’d have time to make these?’ she asks, producing a printed mock-up of a menu. ‘I know you’re busy right now, and I know it wasn’t something we originally planned, so I completely understand if you say no.’

  ‘No, absolutely. I have time.’ Honestly, I have no idea if I do have the time, but I promised I’d help, so I’ll make the time. Anyway, what kind of friend would I be if I sent her down the aisle with mismatched stationery? ‘How many do you need?’

  ‘There’s ten tables, so maybe thirty?’ She wrinkles her nose, a sure sign she knows this isn’t going to be the quickest job on earth. ‘All written out in the same style as the invites and place cards.’

  Thirty copies of the same wording, each of them needing to be perfectly presented. It suddenly makes painting walls seem like a walk in the park. I suppose at least it will be a nice change from holding a roller above my head.

  ‘Do you have thirty sheets?’ I ask. ‘Maybe a few extras if I screw some up? Forty is a good number.’

  ‘That’s the thing.’ She points. ‘I tried the paper shop on my way home last night, but they were out. I thought maybe your dad would have some in stock.’

  ‘Okay, sure.’ I sit back. ‘Actually, you know what? Let’s go to there now.’

  We settle the bill and skirt back through the city centre, along West Street and towards Patterson Arts. It’s the well-worn route borne of school afternoons and carefree weekends, setting up in the office at the rear of the shop while waiting for Dad to close for the day.

  A tram rattles along as we scuttle past shoppers and across the road, nattering about a student bookstore and games parlour that are now things of the past. As I dodge a lorry and step up onto the kerb, I stop still at the sight of someone approaching from the opposite direction.

  ‘Christopher.’ I still, my hand on the door, sure that I can feel my pulse throb in my fingertips.

  ‘Katharine.’

  Of all the things I needed today, this wasn’t it. I have to introduce them. I can’t not do it; Lainey already knows who he is from our afternoon of internet sleuthing and, well, if I don’t, he’s going to throw my failure back at me under some pretext of my own rudeness.

  ‘Lainey, this is Christopher.’ I flourish a hand towards him. ‘Christopher, my best friend Lainey.’

  Lainey holds her hand out, peering up at him with something akin to reverence. Here he is, I want to say, that guy we were virtually stalking, which sounds creepy, but it’s the only way she knows him so far. As he was when he met me, he’s standoffish and quiet, a sharp nod and a hello just about all he can muster for her. He doesn’t take her proffered hand, and I watch as it falls back to her side and she hitches her handbag up onto her shoulder.

  ‘Are you coming in?’ I ask, leaning into the shop door.

  ‘Thank you. Just stocking up on supplies for class tomorrow.’ He steps past me after Lainey, who zings off towards the paper section. ‘You?’

  ‘Looking for cardstock.’ I tuck dark wisps of hair behind my ear and turn my attention back to my friend. ‘I volunteered to make wedding stationery.’

  ‘Right, well,’ his voice drifts off as he moves away. ‘Have fun with that.’

  I’m unsure of what that’s supposed to mean, but I don’t have room in my head to decipher him right now. Picking up another gallery’s flier from the front counter, I turn and head towards the back of the store.

  As I bound through the aisles, my world suddenly smells of mothballs, dusty canvas, and the summer of 1993, the first time I worked school holidays in the shop. A framed newspaper article by the door tells everyone who passes that my parents opened the shop in the Eighties, both smiling out from the photo.

  Whenever I’ve visited Sheffield, it’s been to home and back again. There’s a gnawing realisation that, now that I’m back and settled in, now that my life has changed so drastically, I regret ever leaving. There’s a warmth and familiarity to the shop that can only come from happy memories.

  Today, Dad’s not working. There’s someone I’ve never met behind the counter. With her red hair up in Princess Leia buns and a pencil behind her ear, she’s got a sketch pad and a stick of charcoal for company. All I remember from behind that counter was the thrill of serving my first customer, thinking I’d changed the world somehow, while Mum sat in the office out back. She was always busy working on accounts while Dad ran about with a hot pink feather duster and outlandish apron. I let that memory push me further into the store.

  The shelves are overflowing with every conceivable product an artist might need, from pencils, paints, charcoals, canvas, thinners and brushes, darkroom chemicals, and everything in between. Oh – the darkroom! I take a quick photo to remind me to make a shopping list for developers, lights and supplies.

  ‘You okay?’ Lainey peers at me from the end of the aisle, concern etched on her features.

  ‘Me?’ I straighten my back and wave her towards the cardstock. ‘Yeah, I’m good.’

  She leans in conspiratorially, checking for life behind me. ‘He looks like he has a stick up his bum.’

  ‘Stop,’ I whisper. ‘Don’t be horrible.’

  After every run-in I’ve had with him, I don’t know why I’m defending him other than I’d hate to hear someone talk about me like that. Lainey gives me a questioning look as she returns to her mission. I turn my gaze across the store and there he is, chin tucked into his chest, brow furrowed as he scratches at the back of his head. Whatever he’s looking at has his utmost attention. I hope he’s so focused that he didn’t hear her.

  We keep digging through the pigeonholes of colour, comparing and contrasting exactly the right shade of blue – and would it matter considerably if there was the tiniest bit of difference between the menu cards and the invites? The understandable answer is yes, absolutely.

  ‘Bingo.’ I pull a handful of eggshell blue card from the back of the pile. ‘This looks like it.’

  ‘That’s exactly it.’ Lainey grapples for it like an overexcited child and makes a noise like a startled bird.

  She counts through the pile and, the further she gets, the more her face falls. I continue searching to see whether, if by some miracle, there’s not more sheets hiding behind one of the other colours. There aren’t, and there’s not enough in her pile for what we need. She says nothing, but I can see her nostrils flare as her breathing quickens.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ she asks. ‘We’re fifteen short.’

  ‘That’s okay. We can order more.’ I turn to look at the girl behind the counter. She looks up and smiles.

  ‘What if the paper doesn’t come in time?’ she almost cries ‘I need my menu cards!’

  ‘You’ll have them in plenty of time,’ I stress. ‘You don’t need them done immediately, and I’m not going to be able to do all of these this afternoon. Place an order. I can pick it up during the week and voila: menu cards.’

  ‘Can’t we try other stores?’ she asks. ‘Isn’t there another shop in Devonshire Street?’

  ‘You want me to buy from a shop that’s not my father’s?’

  ‘What are you? On commission?’ she snaps.

  I’d like to think I understand the pressure she’s under, b
ut I don’t appreciate the attitude. Hairs rise across my arms and up the back of my neck. ‘What?’

  Despite my irritation at her fresh case of Bridal Brain, her words give me a lightbulb moment. I’m not sure if it’s a fizzling bulb swinging in a dank dripping room, or the beginnings of a golden goose idea, but I turn and weave my way back through the store, slipping through the aisles until I find Christopher.

  ‘Back for more?’ he asks as I approach.

  ‘You know me,’ I quip, picking up a masking fluid and pretending to read the label. ‘Can’t keep away.’

  ‘Cheap shit brand,’ he says quietly.

  ‘No commission,’ I blurt.

  Slowly, he places a paintbrush back on the shelf and turns to me. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Also, you’re better off with this brand of paintbrush. The fibre is finer, and it glides through paint better.’ I grab for another brush and wave it in his face. Wait. Where did that come from? It feels like an old script trying to upsell products to students on rainy afternoons. ‘What if I did a show with no commission? Would you agree to that?’

  My stomach clenches as I wait for his answer. He’s considering my proposal, I’m sure he is by the way he meets my eyes and looks away just as quickly a number of times. Then again, he always seems as if he’s thinking about everything all at once. Hugging myself, I shuffle about on my feet and wait for an answer. Behind me, Lainey has thought better of hunting down every shop in town, and slinks over to the counter to place an order.

  ‘You want to open your business on a no commission show?’ Christopher breaks the silence.

  ‘That’s correct.’ Even I can hear the tremor in my voice. ‘None at all.’

  ‘Are you seriously that desperate?’ he says through a rueful laugh.

  ‘I am not desperate.’

  He sniffs. ‘It’s either that, or Daddy’s topping up the current account.’

  ‘Are you shitting me?’ I say firmly. ‘Nobody is financing this but me. I can walk out this door right now and call any number of artists in London. I have a Rolodex full of them. They’d be right there in your place, but I’m asking you because I like your work and want to show it.’