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

by Belinda Missen

  ‘By all means, call them,’ he says. ‘Pick someone who’s already firmly entrenched in the set instead of looking for someone new and undiscovered locally. Yes, let’s praise the same banal, black and white world where you look at the same art all the time.’

  ‘What the hell is your problem with me?’ I say, raising my voice.

  ‘What the hell is your problem with local artists?’ he counters. ‘I don’t understand this reluctance, Katharine. Just pick someone already. Or are we not good enough? The old north–south divide dies on its sword.’

  ‘Are you not a local artist?’

  He stares at me.

  ‘You know, I don’t understand you,’ I continue, hands slapping against my thighs. ‘You want to sell your art, but you don’t want to show it. Instead, you’re happy to offer up your students. People no one has ever heard of, by the way. And then you tell me I don’t support local art even though, last time I checked, you are local. I don’t get it.’

  ‘So you keep saying,’ he snaps.

  ‘What have I done wrong? Have I come in and upset your balance of power?’ I continue. ‘Have I eaten into the attention sprinkled on you by the adoring public? What is it? Because, right now, I can’t work you out.’

  ‘Katharine, I—’

  ‘Katharine, I nothing.’ I’m so enraged I’m scared of what’s about to come out of my mouth. ‘I have tried and tried and tried with you. I want to work with you. You. Not your class, but you. And every single time I come near you, you belittle and criticise, and you slice that wound open further. Well, I’ll tell you what, I’ll crack open the thinners, shall I? You can just splash it on like Hendo’s.’

  He dips his head in something I hope might be contrition. His mouth moves and eyes glisten as they dart about in a silent call for help, but nothing comes out. Everything is perfectly, terrifyingly silent.

  ‘You think you’re special because you’ve got your school for the gifted and all I did is, what, quit my day job? Like that makes me less worthy of anything than you? Give me a break. You’ve got so many walls up around you it’s like running a fucking gauntlet just to get you to hold conversation.’ My voice scratches and breaks. ‘You don’t want to work with me? Fine. I don’t care anymore, go find someone else to insult and leave me alone.’

  I turn to find both Lainey and the girl behind the counter staring in shock. The way we’re positioned in the shop, it’s like the unholy trinity of ridiculousness. Lainey does the Ramsay Bolton sausage wave with the cardstock she’s collected. I’d laugh if I weren’t so furious.

  ‘Are you done?’ she ventures carefully.

  Chapter 16

  ‘He is bloody awful.’ Lainey makes a face like she’s caught the tail end of a foul smell as she scurries along beside me. ‘Even the girl behind the counter was gobsmacked. She called him a twonk. Her name is Lolly, by the way. She’s lovely. She says the paper will be in this week.’

  I stop still and look at her, narrowly avoiding a collision with a bicycle courier who skirts around me, bell ringing in frustration. At least their passing gives me a tickle of breeze. Between my frustration at both Christopher and her today, my mind goes blank.

  ‘And you’ve been chasing him?’ Lainey continues.

  I give her a curt look. ‘Not anymore. Obviously.’

  Somewhere in this adventure, the lines have blurred between my competitive streak (getting him to agree with me) and the desperate desire to open with a bang (having him show his art again would attract attention, I was sure of it). Then again, I’m not so sure they were all that mutually exclusive to begin with. The result? I am livid, and not through some sense of loss, but because there’s a niggling feeling poking me in the chest that’s telling me Christopher was right in his initial assessment of me.

  I am a snobbish, spotlight-chasing idiot.

  ‘But what about the list we made?’ Lainey says as we start walking again.

  That, and I already have an inbox full of desperate artists looking for a show.

  We’re barely at the end of the street when my phone rings. Finally, it’s Adam returning my calls. I find that, instead of being relieved to hear from him, my annoyance only heightens. None of this would have happened, I wouldn’t be feeling like this, had I been at home, breathing through a dust mask and swimming about in floor varnish. And I certainly wouldn’t be tearing back down West Street, plucking at my blouse to try and fan myself while entertaining an epiphany about just how shallow I truly am.

  ‘Where are you?’ Adam asks before I’ve had a chance to say hello.

  ‘Where am I?’ I hiss into the phone as I round the corner. ‘Where are you? We’re supposed to be doing the floors today. You promised me, Adam, and you’ve David Copperfield-ed into the ether.’

  ‘We are doing the floors!’ he cries. ‘You were still asleep, so I left you a note. Even I know better than to wake you.’

  ‘Yes, but you didn’t tell me where you were going, did you?’

  ‘I went down to B&Q with Dad. We’re back here now, you slacker.’ He laughs. ‘Also, if I’m David Copperfield, does that mean—?’

  ‘For the love of God, give me twenty minutes.’

  When I do arrive home, I find Dad’s old work van, which is more mystery than machine, sprawled out in the car park. In a previous life, it moonlighted as a campervan, back when he could still convince Adam and I that a weekend in the Peak District would be more fun than we’d know what to do with. The rear hatch is wide open, and the side door has been slid right back, a proper automotive centrefold.

  From inside the gallery, I can hear metallic screeching, heaving and the type of laughter that tells me something more serious is happening than running a polishing mop over the floor or sanding down splinters. We kick off our shoes by the back door and step inside, Lainey close behind, talking about all the renovations Frank finished in the last week. It sounds so much easier than all of this.

  The smell of sawn wood fills my nose. It’s strangely calming in a way I hadn’t expected. As I reach for the stairwell bannister, I spy a toolbag by the entrance to the back room, that small space behind the main gallery area. It’s big enough for half a dozen pieces at a pinch, but the intimate vibe is part of its charm.

  I’ve put a lot of thought into that room, and I want to offer it to Fiona as a permanent exhibition space. While one of her favourite things to do is to head to markets and sell her work, I’d love to see her recognised as she should be, and certainly only if she agrees to it. After today, I feel like that needs to be a caveat for everything: only if they agree.

  The one drawback to the room was always the carpet. Red and stained, it looks like it’s been rolled up and used to dispose of bodies. But, as the room comes into proper view, the first thing I notice is that that carpet is now curled and sagged over itself in the corner like a discarded stuffed animal. Tack strips that once kept it attached to the floor are broken at angles like metal in a wreck. In the middle of it all, Adam and Dad are hunched over with crowbars in hands.

  ‘Please, please tell me I’m imagining this,’ I say with a groan. The calm feeling I had only seconds ago vaporises like deodorant on a summer day.

  They both stand slowly, hands clutching at hips and eyes crinkling in identical spots. The father and his mini-me. Dad looks at Adam, Adam looks at Dad, and they both turn to me.

  ‘It had to go,’ Dad says, gesturing to the space by his feet. ‘Anonymous decision.’

  Adam clears his throat. ‘Unanimous.’

  ‘Anyway, it matches the rest of the place now.’ Dad skirts past me. ‘Have you inspected this morning’s handiwork? You’re going to love it.’

  ‘No.’ I swallow down my argument. ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘Right, well, this is what we did while you were being ladies who lunch.’ Adam follows at the rear. ‘Hello, Lainey.’

  She smiles coquettishly. ‘Hi, Adam.’

  Here’s one thing you need to know about Lainey and Adam: they’re both ridiculous
flirts. She knows it, he knows it, and though they’ve had some raging arguments in the years we’ve all been friends, they skirt around and play with each other like it’s a game. It’s always, always been harmless fun to see who can outdo the other.

  Dad steps out the morning’s work. Loose nails have been hammered down, they’ve hired a sander and run it over the floorboards, vacuumed their mess and still had enough time to rip up carpet and start on that room. Guilt isn’t the word for it. While I’ve been out sucking down iced coffee, drooling over pastry, and complaining about men, my two favourites have been here toiling away. They make me all kinds of squishy.

  Adam hands Lainey a mop. ‘Here you go, you two can get to work with the varnish.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her cheeks redden. ‘No, no, I have to go. Frank’s waiting at my parents’.’

  ‘Not even one room?’ he asks.

  ‘You don’t want me doing this.’ She bumbles about and hands the mop back to him. ‘I’ll ruin it. I dropped a sample pot of paint all over the kitchen floor this week. Wasn’t sure it’d clean up for a while there. Frank’s still salty about it.’

  Adam gives her a gentle, disbelieving look. ‘Come on, Lainey, don’t be so hard on yourself.’

  Even with his attempted wheedling, Lainey slips out quickly and sheepishly, and before any of us can persuade her otherwise. That leaves the three of us to finish the job while I have an imagined conversation about fessing up to the landlord that resembles something close to question-time in the Commons.

  Dad thrusts the mop, varnish and thick brush at me. ‘It’s all yours.’

  ‘Hang on! What am I supposed to do?’ I hold the mop out before me. ‘Just back and forth like I’m cleaning a floor? And what about the brush?’

  ‘Do the edges with the brush, fill in with the mop. Like a colouring book. There’s not much more to it than that,’ he says. ‘Keep a light hand, otherwise you’ll be waiting all week for it to dry.’

  ‘What’s a light hand in the context of this? ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘Because here in the north, we have to do these things ourselves,’ Dad says.

  I guess that’s settled then; even my father thinks I’m a big city wanker. My shoulders sag as he walks away.

  Starting in the far corner of the front room, I brush varnish into corners, careful not to coat the fresh gloss white of the skirting boards. Being this close to the ground, it feels like a mammoth task, and I slip, trip, and slide more than once. And, when I knock the varnish over and swear loudly, Dad comes out to find me on my hands and knees, in the middle of a salt circle of varnish on the verge of tears.

  ‘No need to cry over it,’ he says quietly as he helps me up. ‘We’ll just smooth it out. If it takes a while to dry, at least you aren’t opening tomorrow.’

  I’m a mess. My palms and fingernails are crusting over with varnish and I’m sure I’ve managed to get some in my hair. I stand on the spot as I watch him move about the room like a natural. It’s in this moment I realise I feel completely inadequate about this whole adult who owns a business, business. More front than Liberty, as Mum would say. All style, no substance.

  In the back room, it sounds like Adam’s on the phone.

  ‘Was that you in the shop today with Kit?’ Dad dips the mop slowly into the polish.

  I say nothing but wipe my eyes. Don’t remind me.

  ‘Lainey made that order in your name, by the way,’ he says. ‘You might want to ask her to pay for it next time you see her.’

  ‘Oh.’ No chance of lying about being in the shop, then. ‘Sorry, I hadn’t realised.’

  ‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’ he asks.

  Any chance of me getting out of this conversation all but evaporates when I remember I’ve mopped myself into a corner. It’s going to take jungle gym manoeuvres to get out, and I don’t feel like pulling a hamstring over it.

  ‘He doesn’t like me.’

  ‘That’s not true.’ Dad’s not looking at me, but I know he’s serious.

  ‘I took your advice and asked him to show his work at the gallery.’

  He looks up. ‘And?’

  ‘It was a very adamant no, absolutely not, don’t even look at me like that because it’s not going to happen,’ I say. ‘I even offered him zero commission.’

  ‘Katharine, you know you can’t operate a business like that.’ He stops what he’s doing and looks at me. ‘You need to make money.’

  ‘I know that,’ I say, hands bouncing at my sides. ‘It’s just … why does he have to be so rude about it all? First, he complains I won’t show anyone local, so I offer him a show and he says no, then he tells me I’m some wannabe art snob when I suggest calling in an old friend in London.’

  ‘And there we have it,’ Dad says gently.

  ‘Am I a snob?’

  He winces as he pinches his thumb and forefinger together.

  ‘Really?’ I plead. ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘Sweetheart, you’re not a bad person, you just need to understand. You can’t come here and set up shop and then bring all your big-name friends up from London when there are plenty of artists right here. You’re going to rub people up the wrong way. London has plenty of places. We need more spaces to nurture local art, and I think you’d be great at that.’

  ‘Big names attract people though,’ I argue.

  ‘Maybe at Webster, but you aren’t there anymore, are you?’ he says. I step aside, into a tacky spot and up onto the bottom stair as he sweeps the mop across the final patch of floor. ‘And I know people have been coming to you with their portfolios because I hear about it when they come into the shop.’

  ‘It’s just for the opening. After that, I was going to run locals.’ I scratch at the back of my head. ‘I need to kick off with a bang. Which is why I wanted Kit. I thought he might be it, but he’s just so stubborn, isn’t he?’

  ‘He can be,’ he says. ‘But the big lump has been through a bit, so, you know. Maybe you’re approaching him the wrong way? You can be a little pig-headed yourself.’

  Everyone has things happen in life that don’t go to plan, but it doesn’t excuse bad manners, does it? People can still be polite and hold regular conversation without being in such a hurry to bait others into an argument. I don’t remember Dad being awful after Mum died. But I bite my tongue, because I haven’t done enough of that lately and I also don’t want to get too involved in someone else’s business if they’re not the person telling me. His story is his own; the rest is just gossip.

  Still, you can always count on family to tell you the hard truths, and while I don’t agree with Dad’s dismissal of Christopher’s attitude, I keep quiet. Instead, I ponder how I’m going to work my way through this mess. Realistically, I don’t have to look too far for an answer. I have an entire inbox full of talent, so maybe I just need to look at things from a different perspective.

  Adam interrupts, tearing past at a rate of knots, heading out the door to catch up with some friends and asking if it’s okay to stay at Dad’s tonight. We follow, cleaning up after the afternoon’s work. As we chat, Dad is keen to offer advice on who to look for in my inbox and who he’s seen pass through the shop.

  ‘What are you doing tonight?’ he asks, shaking water out of the brush.

  ‘I don’t know.’ I muck in and rinse a mop head. ‘Are you offering dinner?’

  ‘Unfortunately for you, Fi and I already have plans, so you’re out of luck.’ He winks. ‘You might have to learn to cook.’

  After he leaves, I fire up my laptop and decide it’s finally time to tackle the inbox. Among the back and forth ping-pong of previously answered emails, I wonder how I’m going to start sifting through all these prospective exhibitions.

  There are so many people here, too. The influx has slowed to a trickle, but it’s still artists who are keen to work and be seen, and I’m responsible for that. Many of the emails contain hi-res scans of their work and links to websites, but sometimes photos just don’t do art ju
stice. I want to see the pieces in real life and meet these people.

  I call Lainey and wonder aloud how difficult it would be to set up a booking system on my website. It’s not hard at all, she explains, but with wedding stuff, work, and renovations, she can’t help me with it for the next week at least.

  After dropping everything for her paper today, and the fallout from all that, I can’t help but feel a bit put out. She’s got what she wanted and that’s what matters.

  My web design skills are only as developed as mashing the ‘Buy Now’ button after too many drinks, which leaves me to do things the old-fashioned way; I get on the phone, calling every single person from the bottom of my inbox to the top.

  I slip back into a routine that’s so well worn it’s like riding a pushbike. With my diary sprawled out in front of me, I take notes, upload some pictures from today’s work to social media, and fill in appointment slots. I don’t get through everyone, but I do work until the odour of varnish in my flat becomes headachy, which is when I snatch up my car keys and head for the supermarket.

  This evening, I head to one of the superstores instead of my usual shop in the middle of town. I figure, with the need for fresh air, it’ll keep me out of the house longer and walking the aisles might be a good way to clear my mind.

  The shopping list on my phone competes with the occasional call back from an artist. It’s not a mad rush, but it’s enough to distract me as I walk through the fruit and veg aisles. When my phone sounds for the third time, I hoist my shopping basket up on the edge of a fruit bin and yank my diary out of my handbag.

  One slip, and a pyramid of oranges scatters across the linoleum floor like balls down a bowling lane. I’m on my knees, the human equivalent of a Hungry Hungry Hippo, collecting as much fruit as I can when a mud-encrusted boot appears. It stops one last orange being juiced by passing shopping trolleys.

  ‘Thank you.’ I reach for the wayward citrus and look up to see who’s helped me. ‘For the love of … you know, you’re exactly like Beetlejuice.’