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

by Belinda Missen

  ‘What? The brightest star in the sky?’ Christopher asks.

  ‘It’s not the brightest, smartarse,’ I deadpan as I stand and brush myself off.

  He smirks. ‘It’s one of them.’

  ‘What I actually meant was, instead of repeating your name, all I have to do is think about you and you appear.’

  Shit. I did not just say that.

  But I did, and his face lights up, brows that touch the sky and a mouth that forms a delighted ‘O’ as he chirps a laugh. ‘My, Katharine, that’s quite the revelatory statement.’

  My cheeks flush watermelon red and I cannot believe I let that slip. After watching each other for a brief, intense moment, I worry my lip and turn away. Lemons, I need lemons. Do I need lemons? I don’t know. I don’t even care, but they’re as good a distraction as I can get right now.

  ‘You’re a long way from home,’ he says as he follows me.

  ‘So?’ I say. ‘I like this Tesco.’

  ‘Why this one?’ he asks. ‘Why not one closer to home?’

  ‘Because this one’s bigger.’

  ‘Oh, so it’s a size thing.’ He nods and purses his lips. ‘Got it.’

  ‘What?’ I squint in disbelief. ‘Where did that come from?’

  I glance across to a man who’s trying desperately to pretend he can’t hear us as he sorts through the Granny Smiths. Shaking my head, I try and scuttle away from the fruit and veg, grabbing for a premix salad on my way.

  ‘What?’ Christopher chortles. ‘All I’m saying is that it’s bigger, so it’s a more satisfying experience for you.’

  Dumbfounded, I stare at him.

  ‘You can get everything you need,’ he continues. ‘What? It’s logic, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s not what you meant.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ he says, with all the seriousness he can muster. ‘Katharine, you aren’t being crass, are you?’

  ‘And why are you here?’ I turn his question back on him. ‘It’s even further from home for you. Don’t you have alternatives?’

  ‘I do, but I like this one.’

  ‘All right.’ I offer a sideways glance and hitch my shopping basket higher on my arm as I move into the next aisle.

  ‘Actually, I’m glad you’re here.’ Christopher says, still hot on my tail.

  ‘Are you though?’ I ask, reaching for a packet of Hobnobs. ‘Really?’

  He reaches for butter shortbread. How vanilla. ‘Absolutely. You see, I came to realise this afternoon that I have not been as professional as I could have been when speaking with you.’

  ‘No, no, don’t. I don’t want to do this here.’ I’m not even sure I’ve heard him right, and I look around nervously. I wonder if everyone here knows what I know, or if our conversation is somehow being broadcast on loudspeaker, because I’m feeling so exposed right now.

  ‘I really think we should,’ he says gently.

  ‘Nope.’ I shake my head and start to move away. ‘Nuh-uh.’

  He grabs at my hand like he’s desperate to stop me leaping from a plane. Again. ‘Katharine, please.’

  Stepping back slowly, I take in the sight of my hand encapsulated in his, warm, smooth and oversized. An involuntary thrill chases up my spine and catches in my throat. ‘Okay.’

  ‘I have been rude,’ he continues. ‘In fact, it would be fair to say I have been more than that.’

  I swallow. Hard. He looks utterly distraught. I feel my bottom lip retreat because, as uncomfortable as he looks, he is giving me the most genuine apology I’ve ever heard in my life. It pains him. And it pains me, too, especially considering the conversations and realisations I’ve had today. While I keep my eyes fixed on him, because maybe this is all an apparition and he’ll vanish like a candle in the breeze, he cannot look at me.

  I open my mouth, words scrambling my mind, but he stills me with a hand. That weird tinkly supermarket music scratches in the background. Though it’s at volume, there’s no chance of it matching the winter squall of blood tearing through my ears.

  ‘No, don’t interrupt me.’ His head dips. ‘I’m on a roll here.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I squeak.

  ‘I was incredibly blunt with you when we first met.’ He stares at a point on the ground as he scratches his forehead. ‘You obviously know I’d been chasing space at Webster and, when your father mentioned you worked there, I may have got a bit excited.’

  ‘Excited?’ I give up a snivelly laugh. ‘That was what you call excited? Christ.’

  ‘Well, no one’s ever shortened my name to Christ before, but if you like.’ He lifts his gaze to meet mine and, as it does, a dimple burrows its way into his cheek.

  ‘Oh, stop it, you.’ Laughter springs forth and crushes the iceberg that’s been sitting between us for weeks. ‘Your work wasn’t the arena I was in anyway, so it would never have been me knocking you back.’

  ‘And this afternoon.’ He draws a deep breath. ‘I was so out of line. I had no right to say the things I did, and I regret them immensely. It’s not my job to tell you how to run your business and I also don’t believe in wrapping apologies in excuses as it only serves to lessen the intent of said apology. So, I’m sorry.’

  Before he’s even finished, I can feel my mouth and chin tighten in defiance of the blur in my eyes. I thumb away some tears and take a deep breath.

  ‘On the back of that, I’ve spent a lot of this afternoon thinking and, for what it’s worth, I would like to work with you,’ he says. ‘If you’ll still have me.’

  I shake my head and laugh. ‘The catch?’

  ‘I’ll give you five or six pieces for a show,’ he says, stilling my obvious excitement with a finger. ‘If you take the rest of the class, too. There are some immensely talented people in that group who just need a leg up.’

  ‘You’re not budging on that, are you?’

  ‘A rising tide lifts all boats, and all that.’ He drops his chin into his neck and peers up at me from under dark eyelashes. ‘You’ll love them. And you will take commission.’

  ‘Look at you,’ I say with an amused scoff. ‘Give you an inch—’

  ‘Oh.’ He barks a laugh. ‘It’s much more than an inch.’

  ‘—and you take a mile.’ I feel my cheeks blossom under the weight of his words.

  ‘You of all people should know how hard it is to get paid in the arts, and I refuse to let you work for free.’

  ‘The gallantry,’ I say with a gasp, stepping further down the aisle. ‘Anyway, it may surprise you to know you weren’t the only one doing a bit of thinking today.’

  ‘No?’ With a small hand gesture, he offers to take my shopping basket. I let him, and the physical load it relieves almost feels like a metaphoric one, too.

  ‘Actually, it was more a chat with Dad.’ I stuff my hands in my pockets and trail along beside him.

  ‘I really like your father, for what it’s worth. Very insightful man.’

  ‘Well, as it turns out, insight was the order of the day.’

  ‘How so?’ Christopher asks.

  ‘I suspect I may also owe you an apology.’

  ‘You do, do you?’ He looks up at the ceiling and smiles brightly. ‘Today is a good day.’

  I swallow my laughter. ‘Stop it.’

  ‘All right, okay, what was his insight?’

  ‘It was basically that I’m as awful as you say I am, and you’re right about me being a snob and, yes, local artists.’

  ‘Now, I never said you were awful.’ He waggles a finger at me. ‘Snob, yes. But definitely not awful.’

  ‘Either way, the first show belongs to you.’

  ‘And my class.’

  ‘And your class,’ I confirm.

  ‘I like this. This is good,’ he says. ‘Do you have much left to buy? Want to workshop this while I grab some groceries?’

  For the next forty minutes, we follow each other around the supermarket and natter about what the exhibition might look like. While I start on the proviso that I need to see th
e type of work his class is churning out, it’s a warm, gentle discussion, better than anything we’ve managed until this point and, while we settle on the theme of Local Icons, we also talk delivery timelines, release forms and using Christopher as the central contact for his class.

  The business owner in me wants to buck that idea. After all, it’s my gallery, but I begrudgingly concede this role to him when he suggests that it might be easier for him to field questions from a dozen other people, instead referring only the difficult stuff to me. With everything else competing for space in my brain, this feels like the better option.

  ‘Does this mean we’ll see you at class tomorrow morning?’ he asks as we stand under the walkway in the car park, ready to go our separate ways.

  ‘Me?’ I scoff. ‘No, you don’t want me to try to paint.’

  ‘Don’t be like that,’ he says. ‘Everyone can paint.’

  ‘Oh, what,’ I say. ‘With my postcard photography?’

  ‘I knew that was going to come back to bite me.’ He scratches the back of his neck.

  ‘I’ll come if you paint me a picture of the gallery.’

  ‘I’m not painting you a picture of that heap,’ he baulks.

  ‘That heap?’ I bite. ‘You love my heap. You’re desperate to get inside my heap.’

  I narrow my eyes at him and he mimics me. I could easily get used to this newer, more playful version of him. Dare I say it, my last hour has even been enjoyable.

  ‘Come on, you’ll love it,’ he says. ‘Plus, it’ll give you a chance to meet everyone, see their work and talk them through our project.’

  ‘“Our”,’ I repeat. ‘Love how you’ve slipped that one in there.’

  ‘Slipped it right in.’ He winks as he starts walking away. ‘See you tomorrow, ten on the dot.’

  ‘Wait!’ I call to his retreating back. ‘Do I need to bring anything?’

  ‘Just your portfolio.’ His tongue rolls about his cheek pocket as he backs away. ‘Need to know if you’re up to scratch.’

  Chapter 17

  ‘Here she is,’ Christopher says with a slight smile as I slide the classroom door shut behind me.

  I breathe a sigh of relief that he appears relaxed. For as much as I was looking forward to being here this morning, to talk to him and his class about our exhibition, I’m still painfully aware that not all our meetings have been as productive as yesterday evening. And I’m late, so I was expecting a grumpy Christopher.

  ‘Sorry.’ I grimace, holding up my portfolio as if that’s my get out of jail free card. ‘Busy morning.’

  It’s the tinniest white lie. The truth is, the first hour of my morning was spent booking more artist interviews, apologising for calling so early, but explaining I wanted to get things rolling quickly. After yesterday, I’ve got coal in the engine and I’m barrelling forward at a million miles an hour. That was how I lost track of time, ending my last call as I bounded down my stairs, marmalade toast between my teeth and blouse buttoned in the wrong holes; something I only noticed five minutes ago in the car park.

  ‘I guess we can finally get started.’ Christopher flashes a knowing smile to his class. ‘For those of you who haven’t met her yet, I’d like to introduce Katharine Patterson, artist, photographer and, now, gallery owner.’

  My skin tingles. It’s the first time anyone has introduced me like that and it sounds bloody amazing.

  A murmur rises like a wave from the back of the room. Unlike last week, I’m allowed to finish greeting everyone, traipsing around handbags and easels to take the only seat left at the front of the room. The art that I pass along the way is out of this world. Had I known I’d be contending with this level of quality, Christopher and I may have spent less time locking horns and more time planning.

  ‘Now that she’s here, I’m sure she’s bursting to tell you about a project that we’ll be working on with her.’

  Five minutes to regroup, that’s all I want. I’m still breathless from scuttling up the hill towards the classroom. But everyone’s looking at me as if I’m about to make all their hopes and dreams come true. And, because they’re all seemingly inexperienced, I feel much more pressure than dealing with the seasoned artists at Webster.

  You’ve done this before, I remind myself. I’ve talked to rooms full of multinationals and millionaires. I can manage a Sunday morning art class. All I have to do is manage expectations.

  ‘Katharine?’ Christopher prompts.

  ‘You’re right. I am bursting to tell you,’ I enthuse, stepping to the front of the room. ‘But before I get onto talking about our exhibition, I should tell you a bit about who I am, how I blew into town, and why you should trust me with your work.’

  I give a brief tour of my history: education through to employment, how I ended up home in Sheffield and the journey of bringing a gallery to life. Anticipation ripples through the room when I start talking about my visions and ideas for the space, and there’s a moment where I get so lost in the joy of talking about what we’re doing that I forget I’ve got someone in the wings watching me like a hawk. Everything flows perfectly. That’s how I know I’m doing something good.

  ‘So, when I first approached Kit about who he thought should be involved in the opening exhibition, he told me he knew the perfect group of people.’ I stop. ‘All of you.’

  I wait for the chatter of excitement to die down before I continue.

  ‘The theme of the exhibition is Local Icons. That could be anything that holds a special place for you. Maybe it’s Brammall Lane, the Steelers, Hendo’s, or a factory your family has connections to. If any of you are like me, you’ve probably had generations go through one of the coalmines or steel mills around here. There are no restrictions on method or medium, size or design, but keep in mind that these pieces will be for sale. All I ask is that you create something that makes you feel.’

  ‘May I climb over the top of you?’ Christopher only steps back in when I nod. ‘As of today, we only have four weeks until opening night, so I’m giving you all the PIN to the door lock here. You’re free to come and go as you please over the next few weeks to complete your piece. If I’m not in this room and you need help, please knock on my front door, or call me.’

  ‘What about you, Kit, are you going to be part of the exhibition?’ someone at the back of the room pipes up. ‘You can’t just hang us all out to dry, figuratively speaking, without showing your own art.’

  When his only response is to smile sheepishly, the goading begins. I pull my blouse up over my mouth as I listen to the entire class pile on him. Cries of, ‘Come on’, ‘Why not?’ and ‘You have to’ echo through the room. When someone throws in an ‘I’ll only do it if you do’, that’s when the room really comes to life. Christopher looks at me and smiles.

  ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’ he asks.

  ‘I am loving it.’ I reach around and rub his back.

  It was worth coming here this morning if for no other reason than to watch him try and dodge this barrage. In moments, he goes from confident and assured to bashful and pink-cheeked, and I’m so here for it.

  When everyone settles, he says, ‘You know this class is not about me. You lot are the talented ones, but Katharine drives a hard bargain, so you will see some of my work at the show, too.’

  The badgering is quickly replaced by cheers and whistles. I love how much this group seem to love and respect him, and how they all bounce off each other, because it’s showing me a completely different side to him this morning.

  ‘I want you all to spend this morning thinking, brainstorming, coming up with an idea for a piece or two?’ He looks at me for clarification.

  ‘We can probably fit two pieces per person,’ I agree, doing a quick head count. ‘That works.’

  ‘Take a walk around the property to clear your head and think about what you consider to be a local icon. Katharine and I will be around if you have any questions. Or, if you like, feel free to begin, all your tools are where they’ve a
lways been.’

  For a moment, we’re drowned out by the scuffle of chairs and chatter. I’m waved back into the storeroom at the back of the classroom. It’s the same room he marched me into last weekend, so it’s a little strange that, this time, he wants me here.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asks.

  I tear my attention away from the art that fills the walls and look at him. ‘Me?’

  ‘Yeah, you said you had stuff going on this morning. Is everything okay?’

  ‘Oh,’ I pip. ‘That. Yeah, just returning phone calls. You’ll be pleased to know I’m meeting with artists this week.’

  ‘Are you meaning to tell me you listened to my advice?’

  ‘Listen to you?’ I mock. ‘Pffft.’

  I’m afforded a better look at my surroundings today. Many of the paintings look like his own hand, full of large brush strokes and colourful squiggles. Oh, and the emotion. Lifelike eyes glisten and appear to be looking directly at me, their expressions a knowing compact between the subject and the artist. I’m a moment away from asking him to paint me, because I’m so, so curious to know what he sees, when I spot a small canvas near the sink.

  It’s a woman with smiling eyes and a messy blonde bob tucked casually behind an ear. Christopher freezes when he notices me staring.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ he asks, though he can’t not know.

  ‘She’s gorgeous.’ I step closer. ‘And so happy.’

  ‘She was, thank you.’ He grabs at paper and pencils. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Who is she?’ I ask. ‘I mean, she must be important. You’ve got her next to the sink, so you look at her often.’

  He stares at me like he’s not quite sure he wants to answer. His chin dimples as he purses his lips and clears his throat. ‘That’s Claire. My wife. Or, at least, she was.’

  ‘Wife?’ I mouth. Something uncomfortable sweeps through the room.

  ‘That’s what I said,’ he says.

  ‘Where has she been while you’ve been whizzing about the supermarket with me?’

  ‘She’s been dead.’

  He’s so po-faced that they weren’t the words I was expecting to hear. My heart clenches. ‘Oh, Christopher.’