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

by Belinda Missen

  I bite my lip and smile. ‘What about technique then?’

  ‘Technique? Believe it not, I’m a sucker for Turner.’

  ‘Turner?’ My mouth pops. ‘Christopher, you are not secretly a fan of romanticism, are you?’

  ‘I don’t mind a bit of romance.’

  ‘Why Turner?’ I ask. ‘Why the technique?’

  ‘You know there’s some Turner at Weston Park, don’t you?’ He pushes himself off the park bench. ‘Come on, time for a field trip.’

  I get up and follow him and, as we make our way towards the museum, we lose the rest of the world in a discussion about Turner and the romantics. Finally, as we step into the museum, he admits that he’d been to London to look at the modern classics exhibition I’d worked on almost twelve months ago.

  And I’m left slack-jawed and surprised by him all over again.

  Chapter 24

  ‘Please tell me you haven’t started the menu cards?’ Lainey asks.

  They’re prophetic words. I mouth a silent ‘thank you’ to the postman and walk back to the flat. Tearing at the first envelope, I realise all my paperwork has finally come through. I’ve got a registered business and permits to sell and trade art, and now I’m rolling down the other side of the hill towards opening night. Ten days may feel like a long time, but it will no doubt disappear in the blink of an eye.

  ‘I’ve done five of them,’ I say. After the bluster of setting up a business these last few weeks, meeting artists and painting walls, sanding floorboards, and filling out rainforests of paperwork, writing out menu cards was one of the few things I’d had energy left for this week. It’s slow work, but I’ve managed to finish one per night. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we might need to make a slight change.’

  I sigh and look up to the ceiling. I would channel my inner John McEnroe and tell her she can’t possibly be serious, but she’s Lainey; she is serious. I’m only glad I’ve not had a chance to do more.

  ‘An entrée,’ she explains. I can picture her ‘treading carefully face’, the pinched fingers at the sides of her face, followed quickly by her—

  ‘Are you pouting?’ I ask.

  ‘What? No,’ she says with a dismissive laugh. ‘I might be?’

  ‘These things happen,’ I say, though I’m rubbing my forehead like a genie might appear and make this all okay. ‘Who’s allergic?’

  ‘Urgh, so my mum was talking to my aunty, who has just rung me to say us she’ll go into full shock if she’s in the same room as oysters,’ she says. ‘Her words, not mine, “washed up puffer fish”.’

  ‘Probably don’t want to do that, then,’ I say, trying to keep my tone bright and airy. ‘Can you email me through the new menu, make sure it’s spell-checked and perfect and I’ll get them done. But, listen, if we could just talk—’

  ‘You are the best, thank you.’ She hangs up without another word, leaving me staring at my phone and wondering where my friend has gone, both from my life and from my phone.

  There’s so much I want to share with her. I want to tell her about Christopher and how things have changed, how I had read him completely wrong, and about having a proper on-the-doorstep snog for the first time since I was a teenager. She’d likely revolt and tell me why he’s such a bad idea, but I’m sure I could talk her around.

  But she’s too busy for me. I haven’t had time to catch up with old school friends since being in town, and I’ve never kept a huge social circle because work has sucked all my time, so she’s kind of it for my friendship group. Except she’s not anymore, is she? Because she’s zipping in and out of my life like a mosquito, and only when and if it suits her.

  My phone has barely hit the charger when her email pings. With her wedding approaching faster than the Eurostar, I sit down at the dining table and pull out a fresh sheet of card.

  The sooner I’m done and this wedding is over, the better.

  And I don’t stop working on invites until I’m summoned to my parents’ for dinner later that afternoon.

  The weather is decent, so I take the opportunity to walk, slipping past the old high school and turning into the driveway to find Adam’s car already parked up. I laugh to myself at the idea that he’s finally been forced to buy his own fuel. Joke’s on me though, because he’s sprawled out on the sofa, Jabba the Hutt-like, with an entire packet of Penguins and a pint of milk.

  I wish I had that kind of time to myself. I poke my head through the door and say a brief hello, and he offers me the last biscuit, the white flag of the defeated. Down the hall and in the kitchen, Fiona’s madly chopping what looks like a mint and watermelon salad while making up lyrics to classical music.

  ‘Hello, you.’ She leans in for a kiss as I slip my arm around her waist. ‘Your father won’t be too far away; he’s just closing up. Can you help?’

  She steps aside and I take over meal prep while she busies herself with Jenga stacking the dishwasher. With my skills, the dishes would’ve been the better option for me, but it’s nice to help either way.

  We hear Dad before we see him, the swing of the screen door and his animated nattering about something I can’t quite grasp. I take the salad bowl and make for the dining table. I turn and walk—‘Oh, shit!’

  My first instinct is to cover the salad with a protective arm. I’ve done a good job, the last thing I want is to spill it all over the floor, even if mint’s true calling is in a mojito and not a salad. I look up and oh, my knees, my poor weak knees. My cheeks flood with warmth and my breath catches because … his face. Why does he look so lovely today?

  ‘Katharine.’

  ‘Christopher, hello.’

  Even with my mind buried in menu cards, I haven’t stopped thinking about him and how we spent yesterday afternoon talking.

  Walking and talking and debating the finer points of art in Weston Park. I can hardly believe it myself. The same Katharine who flew straight into bed with her last boyfriend spent the afternoon just chatting. And it was perfect.

  It wasn’t that barely breaking surface tension stuff of first dates (wait, did yesterday count as a date?), but the real in-depth stuff that gets into the crevices, burrows into hearts and fills tissues with snotty tears. That’s the difference between someone who looks at art and says ‘finger paintings’ and someone who can dissect layers, shadows and symbolism.

  I like to think I’m switched on, that I can see things coming a mile off. But if that were true, it wouldn’t explain me hanging on to John by my fingernails for months, and it certainly didn’t explain how it was that Christopher had managed to sneak up and get through the keeper.

  He’s done a serious number on me and, right now, all I can think is that I desperately want to feel his mouth on mine and his fingers curled through my hair again.

  ‘How are you?’ He reaches for the bowl in my arms. ‘May I?’

  ‘If you touch that bowl, Kit, you’re staying for dinner,’ Fiona teases as she skirts past and winks at me. Urgh. Was it that obvious?

  Immediately, he yanks the bowl from my hand and almost drops it on the dining table. ‘I’ve been trying to call you.’

  ‘You have?’ I scramble for my phone. Yes, he has. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, of course, I’m fine.’ He says, angling his screen towards me. The question: Do they know? typed out in a message. ‘I just wanted to show you some of the pieces that had arrived for the exhibition.’

  I shake my head. No. Nobody knows. I haven’t seen anyone to be able to tell them, though I’m hardly about to go and advertise my personal business when I’m not even sure what it is myself. Yet, I’m acutely aware we’re being watched like we’re behind plate glass and someone’s charged an admission fee to the show.

  I’m relieved when Adam appears from the living room. Not only does it take the spotlight from us but, with the handshakes and hellos, it gives me a little breathing space while everyone settles themselves into seats.

  ‘We have some news.’ Fiona places a plate of nibbles
on the dinner table.

  “We have some news”. I reflect on those words for the brief second I’m allowed. It’s one of those rare sentences that immediately captures a room’s attention. Not surprisingly, it was Adam I was expecting this from, not our parents.

  And it’s the type of statement reserved for announcing births, deaths, marriages, or any otherwise serious business. I can’t see Christopher’s reaction, as he’s seated beside me, but Adam and I exchange a concerned look because, unless one of them is dying (please, no), they’re either getting married or procreating. I’m not sure which of those two options is scarier.

  I wouldn’t put it past them to have a baby. Not that the idea is offensive, it’s beautiful, but that would make me thirty-five years older than whoever my sibling may be. I’d always thought I’d like a sister, but maybe not one who’d be young enough to push me around in a wheelchair before she hit forty.

  ‘Look at your faces.’ Dad laughs. ‘Don’t worry, we aren’t toppling the empire.’

  Adam scoffs as if this is not a big deal. Not at all. ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘What have you done?’ I ask. ‘Don’t keep us in suspense.’

  But they do, and when the oven timer buzzes to announce dinner is almost ready, we almost jump out of skins.

  ‘Okay, so, Fi and I have bought a summer house in Scotland,’ Dad says, still laughing as he reaches for her hand. ‘Well, it’s more a yurt but, you know.’

  ‘A what?’ Adam blinks rapidly. ‘What? A yurt? Katharine, do you know what a yurt is?’

  Sometimes, just sometimes, my brother can be a little lost when dealing with things that don’t come between the covers of an act of law.

  ‘It’s a bit of a …’ Fiona waves her free hand ‘… a tent type of building, just near Loch Lomond. We’re going to transition into off-grid living.’

  ‘Basically, weed-smoking hippies growing vegetables?’ Adam mumbles, a bit louder than I think he’d hoped. ‘Eating roadkill.’

  ‘All things being equal, yes.’ Fiona grins. ‘Maybe not the roadkill part, but a more sustainable life, sure.’

  My insides unknot themselves and scurry back into position. Gosh, this is such a them thing to do. Adam and I have lived through the embarrassment of walking in on the experimental sex-on-paint-covered-canvas period, the Andy Warhol masquerade ball, and the Machu Picchu holiday that filled our phones with llama selfies and landed Dad with a concussion when Fiona got overexcited with the selfie stick. At this point, it’s fair to admit that a baby would have been the most surprising option here.

  ‘That’s quite the move,’ Adam continues. ‘Who’s going to run the shop?’

  ‘Is there a problem with the shop?’ I ask. ‘Because if there is, and it’s a foot traffic issues, I was planning on heavily promoting through the gallery.’

  ‘There’s no problem. It’s performing well. In fact, the last twelve months have been brilliant. But I’m almost seventy now, so it’s retirement time.’ Dad looks directly at me. ‘Time for someone else to run the show.’

  ‘Oh, no, come on. I’m barely getting the gallery together,’ I say with a laugh. ‘What? You want me to buy it?’

  ‘Nonsense, you’re more than capable,’ he says. ‘Unless you’d be interested, Kit?’

  Christopher’s stops chewing. ‘I hardly think it’s appropriate to be asking me. Adam?’

  ‘Shit, I can’t even draw a potato. I’d be stuffed trying to sell crayons.’

  ‘I mean, this is not an immediate thing, so we don’t need to decide tonight.’ Dad looks at us each individually. I sense that, as much as he wants to retire, he’s going to have the worst time letting go of the shop.

  ‘I think that’s a better idea.’ Fiona stands. ‘Anyone for a drink?’

  ‘Before you get drinks.’ Adam holds up a stop sign hand and shifts nervously in his seat. ‘While you lot are off playing yurts and entrepreneurs I’ve been hanging on to a bit of news of my own.’

  Brothers. I sigh. Like that, my mood switches and tears prickle the back of my eyes as I wait for Adam to gather himself. Here comes the avalanche.

  ‘Should I, would you like me to leave the room?’ Christopher reaches around and clutches the back of his chair, poised for a getaway. Adam shakes his head.

  ‘Should probably just come out and say it.’ He takes a deep, steadying breath and clenches his fists against his thighs. ‘I’m sure you’ve probably all guessed by now, but Sophie and I have separated.’

  And that’s it. Months of secrecy and excuses for a single sentence. Stunned silence replaces the hum of a cooling oven. A bird chirps by the back door. I hate that he’s refusing to look anyone in the eye when he’s got nothing to be ashamed of.

  I reach across the table and give his hand a tight squeeze. Dad seems the most shocked of the lot, whereas Fiona’s wearing the look of someone who’s been there, done that. Somewhere deep down, I’m sure Dad had an inkling, but his big fault (if I were forced to pick one) is that he does like to see the best in people. Sometimes, that clouds his judgement a little.

  ‘You okay?’ I ask.

  Adam gives his head a tight nod. His lips are so tightly pursed I worry he’s about to bite them both off. ‘You know what? I really am. I’ve been in a kind of limbo for months, so to have an answer now is good. Well, you know, not good, but better than not knowing.’

  We sit in contemplative silence for what feels like forever. What exactly are you supposed to say to someone who’s hurting like that? Chin up, it’ll get better? Sure, it probably will, but that’s not quite what he needs right now.

  ‘Oh, Sophs.’ Fiona claps her hands to her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart.’

  To say that we love Sophie is an understatement. Because we’ve known her so long, she became a pseudo sibling in the family. Her family often joined ours at Christmases and New Years. To think that all that shared history isn’t enough makes me incredibly sad.

  Everything has been relatively amicable, he assures us, at least for now. It’s just a part of life. Except, it’s not just life, is it? It’s painful and awful and, if it’s hard to watch as an outsider, I hate to imagine what it’s like in the eye of the storm. They’ve split the furniture; they’ll sell the apartment and move on. He doesn’t go into further detail and I’m not sure anyone’s game enough to ask the question.

  ‘So there you have it. My news. Not nearly as fun as a yurt.’ Adam says teasingly. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t apologise,’ I say.

  ‘Actually, I should be thanking you.’ He looks at me, eyes wet. ‘You’ve been incredible through all this. With everything you’ve been dealing with, with moving and setting up your own business and everything that’s been a part of that, you’re still dropping everything to make sure I’m okay.’

  Beneath the table, I feel a warm hand squeeze my leg.

  Chapter 25

  ‘A yurt,’ Christopher blurts, breaking the silence as we wait at the traffic lights.

  With my elbow nestled against the window and my hand over my mouth, a snigger becomes rolling laughter. As much as he tries not to, he does the same.

  After dinner, conversation turned back to Scotland, the yurt, and how the idea even came about. For the record, it was a recent glamping weekend that stole my parents’ hearts, and their minds. Wallets, too, evidently. As lively as the conversation was, when Christopher offered to drive me home, I leaped at the chance to spend time with him.

  ‘What the hell does he want a yurt for?’ He looks at me. ‘I mean, I get it, he’s eccentric, but this is taking it to a Howard Hughes level of extreme, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I wipe away tears. ‘I can’t answer that.’

  The rattling old car lurches forward as the light turns green. ‘There’s no reason why he can’t grow vegetables in suburban Sheffield.’

  ‘And I’m certain Fiona has been to t’ai chi classes here before, so going back there for them doesn’t make sense,’ I add.

  ‘Mayb
e they just need a tree change,’ Christopher says, hand held out in question. ‘Right? You had a city change, maybe they need a tree change.’

  ‘Anything is possible with the two of them.’ I take his hand in both of mine. ‘Though, I’m not sure I want to shoulder the blame for this.’

  ‘What about the shop?’ He shoots me a quick glance. ‘I feel like you don’t want it, which is strange, for me, when you consider family history. I suspect you’re far more sentimental than you let on.’

  ‘Moi? Sentimental?’ I bat my eyelids. ‘Absolutely.’

  He pulls my hand up to his mouth and kisses it.

  ‘I don’t not want it,’ I say. ‘I just don’t know that I’ll have the time. What about you? You enjoy working there.’

  He curls his lip. ‘Look, I don’t know. The thing I love about that shop is not that I’m earning money. I make enough with the art, so that’s not the problem. It’s getting out of the house that’s good for me. If it weren’t for the shop, I probably wouldn’t venture anywhere other than to skulk around galleries or buy toilet paper. I just don’t know that customer service is entirely my thing.’

  ‘That’s probably the one thing I’m still a bit worried about with the gallery, dealing with the public.’ I shudder as we pull into the car park behind the gallery. ‘Aside from that, what did you think of his suggestion?’

  It probably couldn’t have been clearer that things had changed between the two of us as the first thing we did after dinner was sit next to each other on the sofa. And, while Dad nattered away about plans and the shop, we scrolled through photos of Christopher’s students’ exhibition work like proud parents at a graduation ceremony. If it wasn’t that, it was the slideshow of his own works in progress that had me gasping, cooing and pinch-zooming at the expense of the room around me.

  It was around that time Dad suggested Christopher and I buy into the shop together. There was an awkward silence when, I suspect, we both realised that SnogFest in the park yesterday did not a marriage make. Also, it’s apparent my father thinks I don’t have enough on my plate right now.