I toss the wad of paper in the bin and look at her. ‘Delete my number.’
I’ll bet any money you like that I look like hell right now. A crumpled dress, running mascara, and the stain of a blue moustache above my upper lip. I don’t have enough credit on my travel card to get me home, nor do I have the money in my current account to do a top-up. The bus driver gives me a pitiful look as the door closes with a pneumatic hiss.
‘Just this once,’ she warns. ‘We’ll get you home safely.’
‘Thank you.’ I slink away to the back seat, embarrassed but grateful for the small mercy.
A chronic heaviness sits at the base of my spine. I’m rooted to the spot while at the same time desperate to run. I want to be as far away from tonight as I can possibly get. I want away from the discomfort and unwanted attention. I want to be left alone. I want Christopher.
The realisation is sudden and overwhelming, so much so that I miss my stop and continue staring into the night sky for a whole six stops afterwards. I finally race from the bus on the seventh stop and start walking the last of the trip.
Maybe Christopher was right when he said that this was the perfect storm. With my moving away and the both of us having less time on our hands, he had strangely become my closest confidant. I’m worried I left him upset this afternoon and hope he’s still home when I get there.
Home. See how easy that rolls off the tongue?
As I make my way along dimly lit streets, I watch restaurants winding down for the night. Chairs are being stacked atop of tables, lights are being dimmed, and roller shutters are clattering down. About a block from home, a café is still frothing milk. I consider a late-night coffee but stop short at a couple making out in the front window. It would only serve as a diversion tactic, and I’m sure he will have gone home by now anyway.
Approaching the gallery from the other side of the street, I can see all the lights are out and he’s locked and bolted the front door. He’s made progress with his painting. Whoever his subject is, there’s a chin and a Mona Lisa smile, and it fills me with nervous excitement to see it from this side of the window.
It’s like seeing your favourite movie for the first time. No matter how many times you see it, you know you can never enjoy it quite the way you did the first time. He’s even switched the new neon sign to closed. I imagine him walking around, shutting up for the night, and it sits warmly in my stomach.
I slip down the side street and into the car park where his car is still sitting silently. It hasn’t moved all day. Unless he’s had a few beers and caught an Uber home, but that strikes me as a very un-Christopher thing to do. He’s always seemed so in control of it all, so I can’t imagine him leaving everything behind. I find myself relieved at the idea that he’s somewhere behind the door I’m currently unlocking.
A kick of breeze pushes the door shut behind me. I lock it as quietly as I can and tread carefully upstairs, avoiding steps five, seven and twelve. They all creak. When I reach the top of the stairs, all my answers are waiting there for me.
He’s asleep on the sofa. An upright lamp glows a warm yellow, and a pad of paper rises and falls against his chest. I watch over him a moment while I decide what I’m going to do. Even asleep, he looks like he has the weight of the world on him. His brow is still knitted in argument and his bottom lip juts like a toddler on the verge of a tantrum. The thing is though, I can’t think of any other sight I want to see more right now.
I am utterly done for.
He is why tonight was so awkward and squeamish, why I couldn’t help but compare the rotten orange at the table to the crisp apple he is, if even just because of my cheap shampoo I can smell on his hair as I lean down to kiss his forehead.
I would much rather have been here at home with him, mulling over points of light and shadow, or listening to him natter about a podcast he doesn’t quite agree with, or chatter with excitement over the latest artist he’s discovered in some back-alley gallery I’ve never heard of.
When I’ve double-checked locks, plugged devices in to chargers and switched off all the lights, I settle in carefully beside him. It’s a tight fit, but my back curves into the mould of his front and his arm becomes my pillow. Just as I’m about to slip off for the night, he shifts, pulls his other arm from between us and slips it over my waist. If you listen carefully, you can hear him take a slow contented breath. He stirs as I clutch his hand and decide to pull him over to the bed.
Chapter 28
He’s the first thing I see through barely opened eyes the next morning, standing over a frying pan in yesterday’s clothes with a spatula in his hand and blond hair at Picasso angles. As he moves about, I wonder how Christopher has managed to climb out of bed without waking me. It’s the smelling salts of coffee that have done the trick. That and the buttery vanilla scent of pancakes cooking.
Though I’m certain I have none of the ingredients necessary to make breakfast, I don’t question it. The fact is, he’s still here. There are no notes, text messages or workplace excuses. A featherlight tickle curls my feet as I think about how I dragged him to bed when I got home, but that we barely slept. Hoisting myself up on my elbows, I yawn and stretch, feeling my body ache like the Tin Man after a humid night.
‘Good morning.’ He smiles, looking at me quickly. ‘Finally.’
‘Finally?’ I croak, amused. ‘What time is it?’
‘Just gone nine.’
‘Oooh,’ I perk up. ‘Lie in.’
Throwing the sheets back, I untangle my hair with fingers and shuffle past a dining table set for two. I even claim a glass of orange juice that’s been placed out for me. He is just … sigh.
‘Don’t have you have class to teach this morning?’ I ask.
He shrugs. ‘They know how to let themselves in, I can be a few minutes late.’
Placing an arm around his back, I snuggle into his neck and enjoy his warmth while he lands a kiss on my forehead. If I weren’t so hungry, I’d probably drag him back to bed. I reach over the stove, cracking the window above the sink and letting the world in. Sleepy city sounds waft in, and I consider that I could live this morning over again and be perfectly content with life.
‘I’m glad you stayed.’ I curl myself around him again.
His shoulders slip, only slightly, but enough to be noticeable. I brace myself for what I think might be an annoyed response, but he says, ‘I couldn’t very well leave a note when I’d gone and bought everything to make breakfast. I should at least get my money’s worth.’
‘Please, feel free to capitalise.’ I pick a pancake apart and listen to laughter ripple up through his chest.
‘How did last night go?’ he asks.
Last night. The question jogs my memory in the same way flicking a switch illuminates a dark room, and I kind of wish he hadn’t. Purposely, selfishly, I lost myself in him in the early hours of the morning. I just didn’t want to think about the fact I’d tossed sixteen years of friendship in the bin. It hurt too much. Even now, I can feel my throat closing.
‘Were you angry at me when I left?’ I pull back and look up at him.
‘Me? No.’ He shakes his head. ‘Did it seem like I was angry with you when you got home?’
‘No, I just.’ My voice crackles as it drifts off. ‘Last night was balls.’
‘Want to talk about it?’
I’m not sure people ever expect the avalanche of words that come after a question like that but, to his credit, Christopher listens as I step him through Lainey’s grand plan of setting me up with Hunter. At least I can laugh about the Chapstick, even if I can’t laugh at his assumption that I’d be happy to go home with him.
Christopher bristles when I gloss over his suggestive comments. I don’t want to repeat too much or dig too deep into them; knowing my best friend at least helped those ideas fester was painful enough.
‘Why didn’t you call?’ he asks, so gently that my throat gets all cloggy again. ‘Hey?’
I shake my head. ‘I thoug
ht you were angry at me.’
‘No.’
‘And, so, remember how we were talking about friendships that don’t survive change?’ I ask, my voice shaky. When he gives a slight nod, I continue, ‘Well, this one imploded.’
He steps back from the stove as I walk around him. ‘Katharine, I’m sorry.’
‘Me too.’ I give him a watery smile. ‘I’m just going for a shower. I’ll be back.’
Ten minutes is all I need to have a good cry, scrub last night out of my hair and pull myself back into some semblance of woman. Even if that involves not much more than wrapping myself in a bathrobe and towelling my hair dry.
I push last night into the back of my mind and tell myself I need to step away for a few days before calling Lainey. Space will be good for everyone. Right now, instead of wallowing, I want to concentrate on the man in my kitchen, the amazing breakfast he’s made, and how he got on last night. There’s the beginnings of a painting downstairs and I’m wildly curious as to what it will become. I step out of the bathroom, towel pressed against my crown and freeze.
He’s gone.
In his place: John.
Both our brows twitch in something like confusion as he looks down at the dozen red roses in his hand. He’s dressed down in slacks and a sweater with a T-shirt underneath. It’s probably the most casual I’ve ever seen him since the day we met. My blood runs cold.
Not because I’m scared of him, but because, if I thought last night was bad, then I suspect it’s about to get a whole lot worse.
‘Katie,’ he says.
‘Katharine,’ I correct him.
‘Katharine,’ he repeats. ‘Can we talk?’
‘Where’s Christopher?’ I ask, starting across my flat in a panic. ‘Is he downstairs?’
‘Oh, he’s—’
I hold a hand up as a stop sign. As much as I hope to find Christopher sitting by his easel in the front window, wearing that barely there smile, I know the answer before I make it to the bottom of the stairs. He’s gone, as is every trace of him being here yesterday and last night. I check every room before I throw open the back door and stick my head out into the car park, there’s nothing there but gravel, weeds and rubbish bins.
‘What did you say to him?’ I blaze past John, pick up my phone and try to dial Christopher.
It doesn’t ring out; he rejects the call. When I try again, his phone is switched off.
‘Only what he needed to know,’ he says. ‘I didn’t think it was—’
‘Which was?’
‘That we had unfinished business.’
‘Oh, you are kidding me?’ I shove my hands on my hips. ‘John, we broke up. I get that the gallery is a public space and that it’s the easiest thing in the world to find, but this is one hell of a Sunday drive.’
‘Katharine, I want you back.’
My face crumbles and I let out a tired, stressed sob as I sit at my dining table. Yep, this is bad.
‘I screwed up. I know I did,’ he continues. ‘And I’m sorry.’
I grab aimlessly for the elastic around my wrist, pulling my hair up into a ponytail just for something to do, something to make this moment feel real. ‘You’re sorry?’
‘Letting you get on the train that night was the worst thing I have ever done, and God knows I’ve done some shady shit at work,’ he says, peering at me from under his eyelashes, desperately hoping his joke lands. It doesn’t. Not quite. ‘I behaved like a complete twat. I know I was. I was awful and selfish.’
My brain is television static, too much happening to make sense of anything. ‘I worked around you for months. I tried desperately to be okay with what little you could offer me, but it was abundantly clear you had no interest in changing.’
‘I want to do better, Katharine. I want to do better by you and by us. And I know things aren’t going to change if I keep doing things the same way,’ he says. ‘So maybe we should try things your way.’
He places the bouquet on the kitchen counter and reaches into his pocket, retrieving a … oh shit, shit, shit, bloody hell no. He’s come prepared with a ring. The lid of the Tiffany blue box cracks open quietly, exposing a rock so big it looks like pulling it from the ground would collapse an entire Botswana diamond mine.
I’m speechless.
‘I want you to know that I heard you.’ His voice trembles. ‘Loud and clear. I want a future with you. I want to make you happy. I do. All you have to do is say the word and I’ll pull out all the stops. Pimlico will be on the market and we can find a nice family home to make our own. I don’t know what you would want to do with this place, but we can work something out that suits you.’
‘What I’m hearing is you think that giving me everything I ask for will make everything okay?’ I ask, astounded. ‘What about Christopher? Or are you just going to ignore him?’
‘That’s not what I’m saying.’ He shakes his head slowly. ‘I know this will take work to fix, a lot of work, and I’m prepared to overlook him because I love you. I do, and I want to give you the life you want.’
How very noble. All these promises, these things he’s saying, it’s everything I desperately wanted to hear before I left London, before that disastrous work function. I’m not sure it hits the mark.
‘And what happens in six months when we slide back into old habits?’ I ask. ‘When I wake up and you’re gone? Or you don’t come home from work? Or you get cold feet? Again? It’s happened before.’
‘We had some fun though, didn’t we?’
I sigh. ‘We did, yes, but—’
‘And we can get back to that, I’m sure of it.’ He looks around the room. ‘You’re opening in a week or so, aren’t you?’
‘I am.’
‘What do you say? Get through that and we can maybe go away and start working things out?’
‘Are you in town long?’ I ask.
‘I’m here for the week, with Adam. We’ve been sent to scout for an office location.’
Does that mean he’d be open to moving north? Surely, if he’s volunteered for the mission, then surely that’s a possibility.
‘I’m going to leave this here.’ He taps the ring case against the counter, interrupting my thoughts. ‘I’ve put forward my case. Have a think about what you want. I don’t want to crowd or pressure you. Let’s meet for dinner later this week.’
His words niggle. After everything, he still thinks he’s in a bloody law court and can argue his way to a decision. I want to throw the box back at him, to lock the door behind him and scream at the sky. But something in the back of my mind stops me, and I hate myself for it.
It makes my stomach roil because, as angry as I am with him right now, he’s not too far back in the rear-view mirror that I’ve completely forgotten just how good we could be together. We did have fun, and we lived carefree lives with weekends away and expensive dinners in plush surroundings. I wanted for nothing, at least superficially, while he was part of my life, and he’s just offered me everything I’ve ever wanted from him. And, right now, with a bank account that’s thinner than tracing paper, giving in to temptation doesn’t seem like the worst idea ever.
Chapter 29
I wonder if this is how an orange feels as it’s being juiced, breathless from being squeezed at every possible angle, but still heavy in a way that drags down heads and buckles shoulders. John hasn’t even closed the door behind himself and, already, I know my answer.
There’s no way I could possibly say yes to the dress, not with what I know now, with what I’ve experienced this past month of my life. It would be ludicrous, and it would be nothing short of rescinding everything I stand for, and everything I’ve achieved since I made the decision to leave London.
I don’t want things handed to me. I want to feel the innate satisfaction of knowing that, while things can get hairy at times, I’ve worked for the results. I want to come home to someone who appreciates and understands what and why I’m doing the things I do. What does he even mean when he says I can c
ome back and check up on the gallery occasionally? If his thoughts are in line with his words, then he likely still perceives art as a bit of a ‘finger painting’ hobby.
And I can’t gel with that.
Look, I know people can change. Hell, my moving across-country involved a whole lot of bitter humble pie and changing my perspective on people and things, so I can’t discount that he’s genuine when he says that things need to change.
But he is a lawyer, and don’t they just love a good bit of precedent? By that token, he’s told me he’s going to change before and done nothing about it. There’s all the proof I need that this is never going to get any better. All he’s doing is giving me what he thinks I want in the hope it’ll calm me down and the carousel of life will continue. But it can’t. My life has changed, and I don’t think he has a place in it anymore.
I need to go to Loxley. I need to see Christopher, to explain all of this to him. I consider heading up there immediately, only he’ll be in the middle of class and the last thing I want on top of this morning is to look like an unprofessional harpy in front of his class. So, I hole up in my flat for the morning and scramble to tidy the darkroom, anything to keep my mind off what’s happening although, as it turns out, that’s a fail, too.
Because the first thing I see as I walk through the door are our photos, still strung up where we left them the morning of that fateful lesson. They’re full of playful smiles and knowing looks that spoke volumes at the time, but sound like the gaping hole of silence right now. God, I really have screwed this up, haven’t I?
Lainey may have called me upwards of twenty times since I walked out of the bowling alley last night but, judging by the text messages that have accompanied them, she’s calling to give me a backlog of my errors, and not because she wants to be friends again. It feels like a complete undoing of the last sixteen years of my life, and I’m bereft at the loss.
The only way to counter my confusion is to step outside and get some fresh air. I can’t run, but I can get away from the moment and spend some time thinking about my next steps and what I want to say to Christopher when I see him.
Accidentally in Love: An utterly uplifting laugh out loud romantic comedy Page 28
