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

  ‘Visit? I’ll be helping you move, don’t worry about that.’ He pokes his tongue out. ‘Get you out of here.’

  I laugh. ‘You would.’

  When he drops a hint about his own meeting, I gather my things and tuck a copy of the contract in my bag. Before I can say thank you, Adam stops me with a sharp shake of his head. No thanks needed; it’s what we do.

  ‘How are things in here?’ Honestly, I’m scared of the answer, but also oddly curious. ‘Not awkward at all?’

  Adam smirks. ‘Besides being unfairly traumatised by the sight of your boyfriend’s penis?’

  ‘Besides that.’

  ‘It’s like a daily virtual turkey slap,’ he says with a chuckle. ‘Every time he walks past, all I can think of is a backyard hammock.’

  I nearly choke on the final crumbs in my mouth. ‘Stop it.’

  ‘Did you tell him to sod off?’ Lainey slips from the stool by my kitchen counter and follows me to the sofa. We land with a huff and I pull my legs up under me.

  ‘What? No.’ I frown. ‘He said he was busy, so, you know. I should be taking that on face value because, well, he is busy.’

  ‘God, what is it with men right now?’ she blurts. ‘Actually, what is it with men all the bloody time?’

  As I left my brother’s office, I realised how grumpy I was about John’s response. This is important to me. Opening a gallery may be the biggest thing I end up doing but, somehow, his job always comes first, even if I need to talk about something crucial. What if I was pregnant? Chances are he’d have made me wait until Friday to tell him anyway.

  I called Lainey and she showed up on my doorstep with a bottle of wine in one hand, Chinese takeaway in the other, ready to rage through John’s shortcomings, which were becoming more obvious by the day. Oh, and my big news. We both screech with excitement at the rental agreement, and she helps brainstorm as I blather about designs and ideas. We segue into wedding demands which turns into more seething at John before we get back on to the gallery.

  ‘Are you going to?’ Lainey asks, spreading the sweating plastic containers across my coffee table. ‘Tell him to take a hike, that is.’

  ‘As much as I want to say that’s a difficult decision right now, I think he’s going to make it for me.’ I offer her a glass of wine and we toast this new chapter of our lives. ‘I mean, I get it. He’s busy. Adam’s forever busy, but at least he makes time if I tell him it’s important. He always has. I remember I’d barely been in London six months when my car broke down on the motorway. He skipped right out of work, bought a battery, and sorted me out before heading back to an afternoon of court. I can’t even get a coffee out of John.’

  ‘Yes, but that’s because he’s your brother and he loves you.’ Wine sloshes about in Lainey’s glass as she leans forward and gives me a look that says, And John doesn’t.

  ‘You were right, you know.’ I swap my glass out for a bowl full of rice and Szechuan chicken.

  ‘About what?’ she asks. ‘Also, yes, of course I was right but, please, continue.’

  ‘I’m just going to tell him,’ I say. ‘I’m going to tell him he can be part of this if he wants to. But, if it’s all too hard then thanks for the memories.’

  ‘It’s a fair approach,’ she says, one shoulder grazing the bottom of her ear. ‘It’s not, not true.’

  ‘It sucks though because I really did think he might be it.’ I sigh. ‘Only I could tangle myself up in knots like this.’

  ‘The One is out there.’

  ‘If I don’t go to seed first,’ I say with an empty laugh.

  ‘Speaking of knots, did you catch up with your new bestie while you were up north?’ Lainey asks.

  ‘My what now?’ I ask. ‘If you’re referring to the magnificent Mr Dunbar, that’s a big fat no. And he’s definitely not my bestie.’

  She wrinkles her nose. ‘Not even for a brew?’

  ‘He’s so weird.’ I frown, batting some paperwork from the coffee table. ‘I called him because I did actually want to talk to him about the gallery while I was up there.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He hung up on me.’

  Lainey roots around in her bag, phone appearing quickly while muttering about what his problem might be. Google doesn’t reveal much more about him. There are articles about the opening of small shows, photos of his anxious smile staring out from the screen, records of what his work has sold for, but nothing else comes up.

  Dad said he stopped showing two years ago, but that doesn’t explain him touching base with Webster, or his dogged questioning of me. There’s no big bang, no scandal to indicate the end of a career. He simply disappeared. In the end, we toss the phone aside in favour of finishing dinner. I already know that’s going to be much more satisfying than trying to work out the riddle of Christopher Dunbar.

  ‘He’s certainly a bit of a mystery, isn’t he?’ Lainey asks, moving to refill my glass.

  I beat her to the punch and cover it with my hand. No more wine tonight.

  ‘It’s more than that though. I’m just so sick of coming up against people in this business who discount me because I’m female or don’t have the right connections or I’ve never held a show of my own work. It’s like a rite of passage. It feels like: no show, no skill.’ I look up from my meal. ‘Hell, Christopher thinks I’m terrible because I like classic art. You cannot honestly tell me I wasn’t qualified for the job at the gallery.’

  ‘You absolutely were qualified,’ Lainey says, chopsticks paused mid-air. ‘And you do have the connections. All anybody has been able to talk about this week is “Why did Katharine walk out?”, “How did she not get that job?” Sally says hello, by the way, wants to catch up when the dust settles. Frankly, I think Steve is feeling the pinch. Mind you, that little germ has been running around with that shit-eating grin he always wore after corporate meetings.’

  ‘Probably because that’s exactly what he was doing in those meetings,’ I bite. ‘He always did have terrible halitosis.’

  ‘Do you know what he did today?’ She’s already smiling as she leans forward. ‘He came over to ask me how to change his email signature. His bloody signature. And they want him running the place? It’s absurd. And Frank wonders why I want out.’

  ‘Have you heard about your interview yet?’ I ask.

  She shakes her head.

  My shoulders fall. If they gave Steve the job and he’s completely incapable of the basics, what does it say about what they thought of me? Am I worse than that? I won’t lie when I say my confidence has taken a hit. For all my tiny victories this week, doubt seeps in, in the middle of the night and keeps me awake. And, given I haven’t the faintest idea where I’m going to begin when it comes to the gallery, I’m wondering if they weren’t on to something.

  ‘And they picked him over me?’ I ask.

  ‘They’ll work him out soon enough,’ she says gaily. ‘Just kick back, relax and wait for the shit show to begin.’

  ‘That’s the thing though. I can’t relax. I don’t have the time to relax.’ I scratch at my forehead and try to think of all the things I need to get done. ‘On the way home today, I was just thinking that there’s social media, business contracts, marketing, finding artists who’ll answer their phones, and that’s just the stuff visible from space.’

  I feel a little peaky at the idea. It’s the kind of panic that leads to procrastination and watching telly all night but doing that would only stoke the anxiety fire so badly I’d end up with first degree guilt over doing nothing.

  ‘Katie, you have had a whirlwind of a week. Why don’t you stop, just for tonight? Run a bath and mainline some Epsom salts. It’ll do you good.’ She waggles the wine bottle as I walk over to the kitchen. ‘Get drunk.’

  ‘I wish I could.’ I stand staring into an empty refrigerator. ‘But if I sign this contract, I get the keys on Saturday because they’re desperate for rent and, really, how much time do I have to waste? I’m on a six-month lease. Less, if they get a buyer, s
o I need to make this happen. Like, yesterday.’

  ‘When are you planning on opening?’ she asks.

  ‘Ideally, in a fortnight.’

  ‘Is that realistic? You’ve got to do your financials and register a business and all that paperwork, which Frank can help you with, by the way.’ She waves a hello from the sofa. ‘That’s me, your friendly neighbourhood accountant pimp.’

  ‘All right.’ I grab for my diary and flip through to a yearly planner. ‘Let’s say four to six weeks, then. Is that long enough?’

  She nods and shrugs and begrudgingly agrees. ‘Think about it, by the time you get the artists, insurance, and advertising, let alone cleaning the place up. It’s not going to be easy, and it’s all you.’

  ‘It is,’ I answer. ‘All me.’

  ‘So, what do you need to do to make that happen? Let’s put together a list.’

  I glance up at the wall clock. The time is nudging 9 p.m.

  ‘Oh, no, you don’t have to. You’ve probably … won’t Frank be waiting for you to get home? You guys are weeks away from getting married. There must be a million things you’d rather be doing for that. Never mind the fact it’s a weeknight.’

  ‘That’s exactly why I’m here.’ She offers me a sarcastic look. ‘Honestly, I’m sick of dealing with it right now. Plus, you’ve helped me a lot lately, so let me do this for you.’

  ‘Is everything okay there?’ I ask. ‘All the plans are coming along?’

  ‘Oh, hell yeah,’ she says. ‘It’s the little things now. Stationery, order of service, that kind of thing. After they’re done, I just have to turn up on the day.’

  ‘And you probably should turn up.’

  ‘Right, so what do you need?’ she asks. ‘Think back to your Webster days. Hopefully, you haven’t completely dumped us already. What has to happen to get this up and running?’

  ‘A million dollars would be a great start,’ I joke. ‘A few sugar daddies.’

  Lainey cringes. ‘Ideal but can’t quite help you on that one. I could crowdfund you a Happy Meal though.’

  I laugh and rest against the counter. ‘I need artists. I need an opening exhibition. And, for all my moaning, I do want to ask Christopher. He’s local, he’s seemingly well connected, so he’ll draw a crowd, but he’s not answering my calls. Or messages.’

  ‘Forget about him,’ she says. ‘He’s rude. We don’t have time for people like him. Plus, you already know plenty of other artists. You do have connections, despite your sad, sad woe-is-me face. And we have my little red book. You don’t need him.’

  We find the list of names we wrote down the other day and highlight a few of the best with big red asterisks. I know I want new and local artists, but a stable of popular favourites will help get the gallery off to a positive start. They can bring the attention before I swoop in with local artists.

  In the end, my list contains old friends from university, or people I’ve met in my day-to-day life at the museum. This gives me a solid pool of over fifty contacts to begin with. Seeing so many names before me gives a bit of life to the plan. It doesn’t feel quite so monumental for these five minutes.

  ‘Now I need something to email them about, right? Social media, website, that kind of thing,’ I say. ‘We used to have this pro forma at the museum. Mail merge or something similar. Hello, insert name here, thought you’d be keen to know about the new gallery.’

  ‘Now you’re cooking.’ Lainey stuffs her fork in her mouth. ‘Start by getting them interested in the place first. Have you set up your socials at least? Invited everyone to like them yet?’

  ‘No, no.’ I shake my head, heading back to the sink for a glass of water. ‘I didn’t want to do anything until I was certain this was a thing. You know, jumping the gun and all.’

  ‘Well, now that you are.’ She smiles broadly and cracks her knuckles. ‘This is where I use my superpowers.’

  With a laptop nestled on the coffee table between us, we upload photos and think up page names. I keep it simple, deciding to name my gallery the Katharine Patterson Gallery. Simple. While I pace the living room talking about fresh talent, positive space, innovative gallery, Lainey shapes it into something that sounds snappy, sophisticated, and completely bloody brilliant. I don’t have a logo yet, nor do I have any branding, but that’s not something I can solve on a Wednesday evening.

  ‘Actually, it is,’ Lainey says as she swipes at her phone. ‘I know this amazing guy who does a bit of work for Webster. He’s got me out of a pickle at short notice before. His business has really kicked on after getting some big-name brands on board. When he started, he was only doing websites, but now he does socials, branding, everything. Actually, I think Frank’s company might’ve used him as well.’

  I reach for my phone. ‘Let’s call him.’

  Even though it’s late, he answers and is more than happy to accommodate. In fact, he’s chomping at the bit for a quick bit of cash. Ninety minutes later, my bank balance is a touch lighter, but I’m sitting on my sofa looking at a placeholder website with an introduction, location details, a biography and contact form, all in elegant black and white with a classic font that will be easy enough to turn into signage. I’ve got header images for social media, suitable profile pictures, and I’m feeling like I’ve hit the jackpot. Sure, it’s simple, and perhaps I could have done it myself if I had time to waste, but if I’m going to do this on my own, I’m going to have to learn to delegate tasks.

  As we work our way through one final coffee, we invite friends, family, anyone who’s (un)fortunate enough to be a social media contact, to view my new gallery page. Watching the likes, shares, and comments trickle in is a funny thing. I don’t expect a sudden influx of interest, but I know from university that artists have a brilliant whisper network. We can sniff out oil paints and darkroom chemicals at fifty per cent off, local arts trails, and empty galleries that are calling out for talent.

  Still, I’m surprised when half a dozen friends become twenty, then forty and, within the hour, my inbox starts pinging with people keen to get into the gallery. My gallery. There’s no point pretending to be blasé about it; I’m absolutely thrilled. Things are heading in the right direction. Already.

  ‘This is such a great response,’ Lainey says, clapping her hands against her thighs. ‘Now, you know you’ve forgotten the most important thing, right?’

  ‘I have?’ I ask, scrolling through my inbox for the umpteenth time. ‘Everything looks in order. We’ve got everything, right?’

  ‘Hello.’ Lainey smiles. ‘The party on opening night.’

  Chapter 10

  ‘I have a question for you.’ With the phone wedged between my ear and shoulder, I run a towel over my head and cast a glance around my bedroom.

  It looks like a tornado has blown through. There’s a suitcase flung open against the wall like I’m in holiday mode, ticket stubs and receipts dug out of drawers sit by the alarm clock, and a small shelving unit that once lived in my wardrobe is now upturned by the window.

  In less than twenty-four hours, I’m moving halfway across the country and I am not prepared.

  ‘Shoot,’ John says. I can hear him flipping mindlessly through paper.

  ‘What’s the dress code tonight?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh,’ he pips, realising we’ve not yet discussed this. ‘Ah, semi-formal. It’s not tops and tails, thankfully but, you know, nice.’

  ‘Fancy wedding?’ I spy the perfect red cocktail dress in my wardrobe. It shimmers in a way that gives off a whiff of expense, but the only silky part is the lining. I scoop the rest of my clothing out onto my bed. All that’s left hanging are tonight’s dress and tomorrow’s jeans.

  ‘Exactly,’ he says. ‘Great analogy.’

  Silence fills the line as I wait for him to maybe initiate a deeper discussion.

  ‘Katharine?’ he asks. ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Anything else?’ he says.

  ‘It might help i
f you told me a bit more about this dinner. Where is it? What time? Should I meet you there, or would you like me to come straight to your place?’

  ‘Shit,’ he hisses. I can picture him pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘Sorry. My brain is all over the place this week, just trying to get everything done before tonight. I’m leaving straight from here. Can I text you the address?’

  ‘Sure, okay, fine.’ I rub at my temple as I shake my head. ‘I’ll see you there.’

  I was hoping we’d leave from his flat, that we’d share a glass or two of wine while we got ready. It would limber me up enough to tell him my news. Naturally, he’d be devastated that I’m moving home but swear to give his enthusiastic support and we’d dash off into the night ready to take on the world knowing things were moving in a positive direction. Instead, the phone rings off and there’s no invite; it’s just me and my jumble sale flat. Nerves settle in the back of my throat.

  I’ve spent the last two days packing and cleaning, raiding my local café for hot pies and cardboard boxes. My letting agent wasn’t thrilled I was leaving, insisting I pay out the final twelve weeks of rent as per the agreement. More money I can’t afford down the gurgler. And I’ve enlisted Adam’s help to drive the moving truck. He really wasn’t joking when he said he’d see me out of town.

  At first, my packing was an enthused loop of neatly folding clothes, making sure the rest were washed and ready to tuck into a suitcase that’s seen me around the world and back again. Crockery and cutlery were swaddled in newspaper, with only requisite stranglers left on show, and my rubbish bin began overflowing with food packets that appear to have expired eighteen months ago. Clearly cooking is not my forte.

  Sorry, Mum.

  I excavated old items from the back of my wardrobe, becoming distracted by photos and shoes I hadn’t seen in years, and the odd dog-eared paperback that had fallen behind the bed. There were stacks of things for keeping and for throwing away, and carefully balancing items atop of boxes that were too full to close.