‘We’d be making quite the commitment,’ he says, shutting off the engine.
‘Does that scare you?’ I ask. ‘Making a big commitment with me?’
He looks at me and shakes his head. ‘Weirdly, not at all.’
I pivot so I’m facing him and sandwich my hands between my thighs. ‘Not quite the conversation you expect to have so soon with somebody, is it?’
For a moment, we sit in the darkness and watch each other, faces changing with thoughts.
‘No, I suppose not.’ He rubs a hand over his mouth.
‘Also, it’s my dad. He may yet change his mind,’ I say. ‘I wouldn’t read too much into it all.’
Christopher takes a deep steadying breath. ‘In that case, there’s something in the back seat for you.’
I close my eyes and bite my lip, laughter threatening its way up again. ‘I have to say, that’s the most creative way I’ve ever heard that put.’
‘What?’ he asks. ‘No. For crying out loud, Katharine, you’re a rotter.’
‘I’m not the one who just tried getting me in the back seat.’
He reaches around and pulls a small box from the footwell behind my seat. ‘I’ll have you know this car is the literal worst for shagging in. Been there, done that, got the scar from the craft knife I forgot was uncapped.’
I suck a pained breath between my teeth as he shows me the 5p-sized cross on his elbow. ‘Ouch.’
‘Anyway.’ He hands me the box. ‘I was going to post this today. I thought you might appreciate the irony.’
No bigger than a paperback book, there’s a severe red ‘Do Not Fold’ sticker on the front of the package. I give it a shake but can’t make out the contents. With a confused look, I slide my finger under the corner of the cardboard and peel it open.
A small board slips out with a tissue paper note wrapped around it that reads: Postcard-y enough for you? I flip it over to find the most magnificent ink and watercolour drawing of the gallery. My gallery. The windows reflect the sun, a black A-frame on a grey footpath advertises amazing art and, if you squint past the beige stone with green doors and white-rimmed windows, you can see a dark-haired girl behind a counter.
Underneath it is a small pile of printed, identical, ready for sale postcards.
Slumping over my own lap, I gasp as the image blurs in my eyes and the lump in my throat threatens to choke me. I don’t mean to cry, truly I don’t. I like to think I’m not much of a crier but after everything that’s happened the last few weeks, creating my own whole new world without a prince or a magic carpet has not been easy.
I swallow it down. Hell, who am I kidding? I didn’t need a prince. I am enough as I am, although the man sitting next to me right now is coming close to being just that.
‘Do you like it?’ he asks.
‘Do I?’
‘Yes, do you like it?’
‘Oh, Christopher.’ I scramble across the front seat in one deft movement and kiss him like I’ve been waiting to do all night. With mouths and bodies pressed against each other, caught in the barely there space of a driver’s seat, I cup his face in my hands, while his explore, grappling with the back of my jeans before he reaches beneath my shirt.
I’ve had enough front seat experiences to know that I have never been kissed like this. The immense give and take of his mouth, his breath on my neck, his fingers wound through the crown of my hair. When I reach for the button on his jeans, he claps his hand over mine and pulls back just enough to bring me into focus.
‘Maybe not tonight,’ he says, breathless.
I let go. ‘No?’
He shakes his head. ‘I have to be out early tomorrow, and I know that if I walk through your door tonight, I’m never going to want to leave.’
‘No rush,’ I whisper. If I’m honest, I feel like an empty piñata at a party, but I understand. We did say properly and slowly. I slip back onto the seat of his thighs and catch my breath, the toot of the horn enough to startle me and send my nerves through the roof. ‘When can I see you again?’
‘Are you upset?’ he asks.
I shake my head.
‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ he asks. ‘I’ll likely be free from mid-morning onwards.’
‘I was going to come and see you, to see where you paint, but now I need to redo these wedding menus, so I’m going to be stuck here.’ I tip my chin in the direction of the upper floor.
‘Why don’t I bring the art to you then?’ he says. ‘We’ll spend the day simply being creative with each other.’
‘Creative with each other?’ I smile.
He chuckles and drops his head back on the headrest. ‘Oh, you.’
‘Yes, please do that.’ I nod and kiss him one last time as I slide off him and out the driver’s door. My box of postcards is held securely under my arm. ‘Can I buy you breakfast first?’
‘Make it brunch, and I’m yours.’
Chapter 26
Christopher is an hour late.
We’d decided on a brunch venue through a volley of bleary-eyed messages this morning. I’ve checked and double-checked that I’m in the right spot, Google-mapped and even asked the waiter if there’s maybe another similarly named place in the area I might have missed. There’s not.
He’s not here, and I’m starting to wonder if this isn’t London all over again; the ‘I can’t stop thinking about you’ sweet talk, followed by a disappearing act.
Until thirty minutes ago, he was in constant contact with photos and assurances that it would be ‘completely understandable’ if I wanted to leave. He’d finish up as quickly as he could and meet me at the gallery with a hot breakfast in hand. But I was craving a freshly cooked full English, so I opt to wait it out, enjoying the hour on my own with a bottomless coffee and not having to think about anything other than, well, him.
When Christopher finally walks through the door, ratty, paint-smeared T-shirt stretched over his shoulders and around his arms, phone pressed to his ear and hair fluttering in the warm breeze, my teeth stop grinding and the knot between my shoulder releases. He switches his phone off as he approaches.
‘I am so sorry.’ He smooths a hand over my hair and bends to kiss me. ‘Things just didn’t quite work as intended this morning.’
‘That’s okay,’ I say, even if I’m not convinced of that myself.
‘Brothers, hey?’
‘Older or younger?’ I watch him sit and fold his arms across the table. Ooft. Those arms. God, help me. It’s not yet midday.
‘Younger.’ He watches me carefully for a moment. ‘What is it with younger siblings being a pain in the ass?’
‘How very dare you.’ I chase his hand around the table and clap it between mine. ‘I’m the youngest.’
‘That explains so much,’ he says with a mischievous laugh. ‘How was the rest of your night?’
‘You’ll be pleased to know I spent most of the night gazing in wonder at my postcards.’
‘And you’ll be pleased to know there’s something else for you in the back seat this morning.’
‘You’re such a tease.’ I lift my mug to my mouth. ‘What is it?’
‘You’ll see,’ he says, getting the attention of our waiter. ‘Shall we order? I’m so sorry, again, you’re probably hungry.’
‘Starving.’
He refuses to tell me what’s in his car so, while we wait for our meals to arrive, we fill each other in on our mornings. Mine was writing up a few more of Lainey’s new, improved menus. His, taking measurements to help build a set of bookshelves into his brother’s lounge-room wall.
‘So, what you’re saying is you’re good with your hands.’ I circle a finger in the air.
He smiles. ‘He’s just moved into an old farmhouse in Barnsley with his girlfriend. It’s a bit run down, but it’s cosy.’
‘She nice?’
‘Yeah.’ His head bobs. ‘She’s really lovely. Very quiet girl. Nursery teacher, so they’re set.’
‘What did Claire do?’
>
‘She was an accountant.’ His eyes drop to his food. ‘Always got a bloody good tax return.’
‘Can I ask you something personal?’
‘You can ask me anything you feel like asking.’ He stuffs some breakfast in his mouth.
‘Have you been with anyone since her?’
‘I have. Took a bit to get my head around it but, you know.’
‘The hurdle?’ I say.
‘I just wanted it over and done with. Do you think that makes me terrible?’
‘I think it makes you human.’ I grimace as I watch a waiter trip, sending a stack of cutlery sliding across the floor with a glass-shattering screech.
‘We’re still painting today, aren’t we?’ He drops himself down into my line of sight as I scrape a mushroom from my plate to his. ‘You were keen on christening the gallery.’
‘If that’s your idea of christening a building, we’re going to have some serious discussion.’
He sniggers. ‘Well, I’ve brought my easel all this way so I may as well use it.’
‘I’m sure you don’t get your easel out for just anyone.’ I sink back into my seat.
‘You’re right, I don’t, so make the best of it while you have access to it.’
I clap a hand to my mouth and cough on a mouthful of bacon. ‘Stop it.’
‘You started it.’ He smiles down at his plate. ‘You know, this meal would be perfect if it had tattie scones and black pudding.’
I gag and call for another coffee.
‘And you’re doing what while I’m painting? You mentioned stationery,’ he says. ‘Your friend’s wedding?’
‘Thank you for reminding me! I volunteered you for something.’ I reach across and take his coffee. It’s bitter and black, but it’ll do until mine comes. Funnier still is the fact that he doesn’t flinch at the theft.
‘Here we go,’ he says through a yawn.
‘Sorry, I’d completely forgot until now.’ I cringe. ‘Are you mad at me?’
‘You haven’t told me what it is, but please don’t say you want to commission a wedding gift,’ he says with a groan. ‘They are the absolute worst. You know, I did one once. The bride hated it.’
‘What? No. She’s going to use disposable cameras on the table. I said that I, we, you could take care of developing the film.’
‘I did say I wanted to learn.’ He sounds surprised. ‘Ask and ye shall receive, right?’
‘Is that okay?’ I shrink back a little.
‘Fine by me,’ he says. ‘Though, if I may be blunt?’
‘Are you ever anything but?’ I pop food in my mouth and smile around my fork.
‘That may be so,’ he concedes, brows raised. ‘Still, I’ve noticed you do a lot for Lainey but, from what I’ve seen, you don’t get a lot in return? Even your father said she absconded the minute someone suggest she help the other day.’
‘I’ll give you that,’ I say. ‘I’m hoping it’s only because of the wedding right now. She’s busy, she’s stressed. Fingers crossed life will go back to normal soon.’
He forks his pancakes. ‘You went to London the other day to help her, yes? How’d that go?’
‘Oh, you mean the great north–south divide?’ I grin.
The mention of the dress fitting, knowing it threw us completely off trajectory, rankles me, stirs up an old irritation.
‘Here’s the thing.’ I lean back into the booth.
‘Shoot.’ He puts his cutlery down and gives me his full attention.
It’s so refreshing to be with someone who’s not busily checking his diary, or tapping off a reply to an urgent email, or is looking generally distracted by a random fact of law that leaves a comet trail through his mind. It’s a world away to how I’m used to being treated, and it’s in this moment that I realise this and appreciate him so much more.
‘So, it’s a total thrill to watch your friend getting ready to marry the love of her life. Who doesn’t want to revel in the happiness of others? It’s beautiful. But something’s been bugging me lately,’ I say.
‘What kind of something?’
‘You know how, when you’ve done the same thing for so long and you’re living in your own curated bubble, everything makes sense? There’s a whole lot of confirmation bias and the world works as it always has and you’re happy like that?’
‘Isn’t that most of us?’
‘Then life changes and you step into a new arena. You form new habits and make new friends.’ I gesture to him. ‘Then, when you try and fit back into that old life it just feels wrong? All the problems and issues and things that you never saw before are being delivered in 4K HD with 7.1 Dolby sound?’
‘That sounds like it was a huge success.’ He glances away momentarily to look for a napkin.
‘No, no, no. Look, I’m not saying it was awful. Far from it. I enjoyed seeing her. I’ve always loved spending time with her. I just, I don’t know, maybe I realised things are changing, life is evolving, and some of those friends I thought would be around into old age are being left behind. Things just aren’t quite how they used to be. It’s hard to explain, and I realise it sounds rather apocalyptic. It’s not meant to be.’
‘In my experience, some friendships don’t survive cataclysmic change,’ he says. ‘Or maybe it’s just another evolution. Things will eventually settle into a new normal.’
‘Maybe,’ I say, though I immediately feel bad that I’m concerned about a wedding in the face of everything he’s been through. ‘A wedding isn’t really cataclysmic.’
‘Moving away, opening a new business, change of priorities?’ He motions to the space around us. ‘Could be the perfect storm?’
A fresh cup of milky coffee is placed between us. Christopher looks at it, looks at me, and looks back at it again before snatching it up and taking a sip.
Christopher opens the rear door of his Defender. It may be bruised and battered with questionable rust spots but, inside are six carefully wrapped and transported pieces of art. I bounce on the spot, race to unlock the gallery door and straight back to him as I try my best to see through the layers of bubble wrap.
‘Are you kidding me?’ I throw an arm around his neck and pull him down into a kiss. ‘You. Are. The. Best.’
‘Yes, I am,’ he says proudly, calling to my retreating back, ‘They’re not all quite ready, but tomorrow I should have more.’
I pop my head back out the gallery door. ‘They’ll be worth the wait.’
‘I’m worth the wait,’ he argues, pointing at himself. ‘Me.’
‘I wouldn’t know!’ I shout. ‘You went home last night!’
‘Oh, boohoo.’
I can still hear the echo of his laughter as I slip into the main room. It’s like Christmas all over again. I’m dancing in a snowfield of bubble wrap that’s tossed all over the floor and trying to decide where each piece needs to be hung. Screw today’s plans, this is much more inspiring.
When it comes time to unwrap five of his six pieces – the last one he wants to paint today – I want to burst with excitement. Among them is a still life of the front door of my father’s shop, a tram that’s almost as tall as I am, and a dazzling portrait of Joe Cocker.
‘He’s local,’ he reasons. ‘Someone will buy it.’
‘I love them all.’ I clap my hands. ‘Let’s hang them. I’ll go get the fasteners.’
‘What? Now?’ he asks. ‘You don’t have them all yet. How do you know how they’ll all fit together?’
I gawp about for a moment. ‘Does it matter?’
‘Katharine, you know the answer to that.’
‘Please?’ I clasp my hands in front of me. ‘I thought you said you were good with your hands.’
‘Oh, I’m very good with my hands.’ He points to the portrait in front of him.
I look away and hope like hell he can’t see me blush.
Slowly, he reaches across and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. His finger draws across the tip of my ear with a featherlight touc
h. It’s painfully slow, so much so I’m aware there’s every chance someone will one day make a Netflix documentary about me entitled The Spontaneous Human Combustion of Katharine Patterson. Instinctively, I close my eyes and feel myself lean into the palm of his hand.
‘Are you trying to distract me?’ I ask, looking at his lips just as he licks them.
‘Is it working?’
He tips my chin towards him as he bends to kiss me, tripping my pulse and chasing a thrill up my back. For all our talk, our jokes and innuendo, this is about as real as it gets. I brush my mouth over his, again and again, and, as he eases his tongue inside, it becomes fevered and desperate.
We manage to tumble up the stairs, knocking against the wall and gripping the bannister, listening to the scratch of a photo frame slip against the plaster.
‘I have thought about this all fucking morning,’ he whispers in my ear.
Despite the warmth of his breath, my skin prickles. I have, too.
Through jagged breaths and breathless promises, we grapple with zips and buttons, boots that won’t unlace and fall about in laughter when that one pesky leg of my jeans just will not budge. I feel the mattress dip and wobble between my legs as he snatches it away.
In that moment when it slips off the side of the bed and he’s finally inside me, it’s so easy to pretend like nothing and no one outside this room exists. We aren’t cramped in the front seat of a car, nor are we rushed at the end of a long week. This is completely intentional, and we have all afternoon to prove it to each other.
When the sex is that good, once is never enough. It’s late afternoon by the time we untangle the sheets and ourselves and decide that getting something done today isn’t the worst idea in the world.
‘You know, if you have one more piece to do, you could always paint me.’ I bat my eyelids. ‘Inspiring local icon that I am.’
‘Oh, I could, could I?’ He’s standing about in bare feet, and I’m sure his shirt is buttoned incorrectly. ‘Are you offering to pose for a life drawing class? I’m not sure what I just saw is family-appropriate, but I have been thinking of adding them to my already massive repertoire.’
‘As impressive as your massive repertoire is, it would only be for you.’
Accidentally in Love: An utterly uplifting laugh out loud romantic comedy Page 26
