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

  When I do get a chance to look at the television, something doesn’t feel right. It’s the angle of the screen playing with the reflection from the windows, and I shift it just a smidgen, knowing the best part about living here is that there are no neighbours to complain about noise from the pesky new neighbour upstairs.

  The thought alone is enough to spark something, a reminder, a gentle nudge from the universe. This is why you’re here, it’s saying and, while I want to sit on the sofa all evening and bliss out in peace and quiet with that packet of biscuits I’m sure is hidden somewhere, I know I’ve got hundreds of things I should be doing.

  As exhausted as I am, I fire up my laptop and park myself at the dining table. A game of cat and mouse plays itself out on the television in the background, and I pour out the dregs of a pinot noir and settle in for the night. This may have been the norm for me in London but, now that I’m doing this for me, it feels fresh and exciting. I can’t wait to get to the other end of the process.

  I’m in the heart of the city, but it’s not nearly as loud as London, at least not in the same white noise echo that seemed to follow me everywhere. Sure, there are car horns and rattling buses, but it’s nowhere near the volume I’m used to. A feeling of peace settles somewhere in the back of my mind and, oh, how I’ve missed this.

  When my screen blinkers to life and my inbox finally loads, I double-check that I’m in the right account because, unless there’s an error, I have no fewer than 120 emails waiting for me. It’s not been quite a week since the website went live and here I am with an influx of artists keen to show their work.

  Some are from friends who’ve caught the news I’ve moved north. Colleagues from Webster have sent their numbers, offering whatever help they can. Considering the circumstances under which I left my job, I’m exceedingly grateful, and I tell them so. I add them to my phone and promise I’ll call if I need help. Then I knuckle down and get to the artists.

  Each email is a variant on the next, not that it bothers me in the slightest. There are only so many ways you can say please and ask for help, but there’s one question that sticks its neck out over and over: when are you opening?

  It’s the most important question of all, really, and one that I’m not even one hundred per cent sure of. For, as much as I talked through my business ideas with Lainey and scribbled others on napkins and in the back of notebooks, I never had a firm opening date. Securing this building was the big hurdle that all the rest balanced on so, tonight, I’m finally going to make that decision.

  With my diary spread across the dining table, it soon becomes obvious that setting a date won’t be a matter of simply throwing a dart at a board. Before any of this happened, I promised Lainey I’d help her with her wedding, so I mark out nights for the hen do and the big event itself. Let’s face it, I’m not rolling back from London first thing on a Sunday morning with a hangover to launch a gallery. No chance.

  Lainey’s wedding is five weeks away, which negates the weekend before it as well. That leads me to ask: Do I want to rush through opening a gallery in four weeks’ time? I have no idea exactly how much work is going to be involved in getting the ground floor up to scratch.

  There may be hidden problems as yet uncovered, and I want to make sure my idea isn’t slapped together and thrown out into the world like a cheap and cheerful pizza. I want to do things properly, take my time, get the walls painted, the floors cleaned and, importantly, secure that elusive opening exhibition. So, it’s a solid no on opening in four weeks’ time.

  Still, six weeks feels too long. By that point, I’ll just be wasting time waiting to open the doors. However, the wedding is a midday affair on a Friday in the middle of London with a reception to follow immediately after. If I can get everything ready before I leave for London and return home later that night, there’s no reason why I can’t open the day after the wedding.

  I circle the last Saturday in August, not quite five weeks from today, and send an updated message across social media. We have a date, and I’ve committed by telling everyone about it. Now, I just need to make it happen.

  So, where do I begin?

  Chapter 13

  Urgh. Bills.

  They’ve begun already. I snatch up the envelopes from where they’ve just been stuffed through the brass slot in the enormous green front door. There’s one from Adam’s firm, a bon voyage card from Lainey and Frank, and something from the letting agent. Money, money, money. Let me tell you, it’s less funny on the way out of your pocket than on the way in.

  Though I grit my teeth and keep one eye on my account balance the entire time, I pay the invoices immediately and file them away with the rest of my paperwork upstairs. The last thing I need is a collection agency knocking on the door before I’ve even opened for trade.

  I pop Lainey’s card next to the television, with the cheap and cheerful pink peonies I picked up on this morning’s grocery run. They add a spray of colour to the room, as has the bargain basement melamine vase they’re sitting in. I don’t care that it cost me less than a pound on the clearance trolley. I care that, with a few cute touches, my flat is beginning to feel like home.

  With last night’s hastily scrawled business plan in hand and a fresh cup of coffee, I wander downstairs ready to put things into action. I’m excited for the start of the journey, though I feel like all the cleaning and painting is going to be the least engaging thing to post about on social media. That is, until I scroll through my phone and spot an American gallery documenting their renovations through side-by-side comparisons, videos and live action shots.

  I check in with Lainey, who almost reaches through the phone to shake me by my shirt collar. Yes! Good idea, she confirms. It’ll give me something to talk about while building brand and buzz.

  ‘Hurry up and post a picture!’ she cries as I Facetime her around the ground floor. ‘It’s totally relatable, too. We’ve all been there with a paint roller. Who’d have thought we’d both be renovating at the same time? So exciting!’

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ I say, scratching at a dint in the wall. ‘I feel like I’ve bitten off way more than I can chew.’

  ‘Yeah, it feels like that, but small steps. Just think of it as one wall panel at a time. We’re just about ready to paint the entry. I’m so pumped. Oh! And I’ll have to come up and see this place now you’ve settled in. How are you placed for Saturday?’

  ‘Saturday—’

  ‘Oh! And wedding stuff. I need to show you some things.’

  After reassuring her I’ll likely be stuck with a roller in hand, but that she’s welcome to help, we ring off and I’m left to my thoughts again, though there is the optimism of Lainey’s words carrying me around. This won’t be so hard. I hope.

  There are nicks and divots in walls and paint chipped from corners. The lighting sits at an odd height, something I’m not sure I noticed in the milk-drunk baby love I had for the building. I’m not sure I can do a lot about it without growing about four feet taller, and the higher I look, the more it looks like Charlotte has escaped the farm and moved in with all her offspring. Some gallery. Oh, and I know why one room is aubergine purple, because with ten-foot ceilings, it’s going to be an absolute dick to paint over.

  Not that I have a deep well of experience when it comes to painting walls, and don’t get me started on polishing floorboards. Even my attempts at canvas look like the local zoo threw a brush at Emily the Elephant and told her to go wild. My role at Webster had me cataloguing and studying art, liaising with artists and keeping records. Exhibition design and decorating was left to a separate team, where my involvement lasted only long enough to know they were hitting targets.

  I’m certain I never even painted my London flat when I moved in. It’s not that I don’t know how to, it’s just that I’m wildly out of my depth, let alone the fact I have absolutely none of the tools I need to do it. But I know who does.

  I snatch up my car keys and exponentially growing to-do list and head to Dad’s.
Thankfully, my car starts first go. I was not looking forward to forking out for a new battery.

  ‘Hello, gorgeous girl.’ Fiona floats down the hall towards the front door. ‘Was wondering when I might see you again.’

  ‘You were?’ I pull the door open and step inside.

  ‘Sure.’ She spins on her heel and beckons me to the sunroom. ‘You know, after Sunday and all.’

  “Urgh.’ I groan. ‘Don’t even go there.’

  ‘It’s just not gelling for you two, is it?’ she asks.

  ‘Nope,’ I pip quickly. ‘Can’t win ’em all though, can you?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ she says.

  Silence filters in long enough for me to hope she doesn’t mention Christopher any further. I’m not sure I could stand someone else defending him, telling me he’d be so lovely if only I’d just give him five more minutes of my time. He really is very talented, a wonderful painter and generous friend. But she stays silent, her eyes twinkling like a naughty child. From experience, that means she’s bursting at the seams to say something, but she won’t.

  ‘Go on.’ I heave a sigh, giving her a look that says please make this as painless as possible.

  ‘Your father just wants you to see you settled and happy.’ The words explode into the room like a burst balloon. ‘And he thought you two would really hit it off. He is lovely, but I’m going to stop right now.’

  ‘But I am happy,’ I say with a small bewildered smile. ‘Slightly stressed, but otherwise decent. My career is at Cape Canaveral awaiting launch. Sure, my love life is a little bit London canal boat, but you know.’

  ‘Don’t knock those canal boats.’ Fiona waves a paintbrush. ‘Tried living on one of them for a while. Could never quite get the mechanics of painting, shagging and living in the same ten square foot of area.’

  I laugh. ‘And all three at once would be a stretch.’

  ‘Ain’t that the truth.’ She turns her attention back to a piece of flatpack on the dining room floor. ‘Did try. Unsuccessfully, I might add. The shagging is quite okay if you get them under you, but the rest? Forget it.’

  It’s not as if I’ve had the best luck with men to begin with. John notwithstanding, there was Jamie in my second year of university. Everything was jogging along nicely until I learned he’d found himself a new girlfriend at life drawing class – the model. Then there was Bret. If the odd spelling wasn’t enough to give him away, perhaps the recycled catchphrases and manbun should have been. He disappeared in a haze of beer and Ping-Pong balls while attending someone else’s Freshers’ week. That someone was Janett. She read classics and over-pronounced every syllable. They’re married now, with a minibus full of strawberry blonde cherubs.

  I also wasn’t keen on adding to my small list of one-night stands. They were never as fulfilling as you imagine they’ll be in the downlights of a sweaty club with a gut full of gin. I’m getting older. If I went in for anything now, it would be something I knew was going to be solid and long lasting, and I was entirely sure Christopher didn’t fit that bill. Despite the built-in cheer squad.

  ‘All right. I’ll drop it,’ she says. ‘Anyway, what brings you out here today? I’m about to have lunch if you’d like to join me?’

  ‘No, thank you though.’ I wave a hand. ‘I’ve just finished breakfast. What I’d really love to do is raid the garden shed if that’s okay.’

  ‘Always.’ She unhooks the key from near the kitchen door. ‘Do you need a weed trimmer?’

  ‘No, actually. Well, not yet. I’m going to start painting, I think.’

  ‘Ah, the exciting parts.’ Her face crinkles into a serene smile. ‘Let’s go see what we’ve got.’

  As we dig through dusty boxes looking for cobweb brushes, paint rollers and extension poles, I talk through my plans. It’s nice to have a sounding board who isn’t Lainey, my father or my brother because, while they’re 187 per cent supportive, I know Fiona is also practical.

  ‘I mean logic tells us to start at the top and work down,’ she says as she reaches into an old cupboard and thrusts a paint tray at me. ‘Fix up the ceiling and lights, then the walls. God knows you don’t want to do the floors and then get paint all over them.’

  ‘You know, even though I know that, I still feel like someone’s going to tap me on the shoulder and say, “Not like that, you fool.”’

  ‘It’s not inadequacy you’re feeling,’ she says. ‘I think it’s more an issue of expectation. You’ve got all these ideas of what you want to achieve and now all the movement has stopped, it’s going to feel like a bit of a crawl waiting for the end result.’

  In the corner of my eye, a spider moves, sending my nerves through the roof and my body darting for the door. Fiona howls with laughter, even if she does follow me outside just as quickly.

  ‘You may be right.’ I brush myself down and check myself over for any rogue passengers. ‘I’ve got this idea in my head of how I want it to look. I can see it. If I concentrate hard enough, I’m sure I can touch it. Hell, I dreamt it last night. It just seems so out of reach.’

  ‘Have you written down what you see in your mind’s eye?’ she asks, pulling a cobweb from my hair.

  ‘I have a business plan,’ I try.

  ‘No, no. Like a mood board. Pinterest the shit out of it, girl.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘You know what?’ she begins. ‘Give me a few minutes. I’m coming shopping with you. Let’s see if we can’t do this on the fly.’

  There’s nothing like the paint counter at B&Q to bring it home that you’re finally a card-carrying adult. Cards as in paint chips, as in I have a Dover cliff wall of options in front of me. It’s big and tall and my ideas all feel a little chalky.

  The thing is, selecting the right shade of paint is important. Can you imagine what Mona Lisa would look like with purple hair? If she had anything other than that rich brown hue, it just wouldn’t work. It’s the same with the gallery; I choose the wrong wall colour and I know it won’t sit right. I toggle between frosted white, orchid white, almond white, cornflour white, and a dozen other shades of white that just don’t match the image I have in my head.

  ‘I want something warm.’ I turn to Fiona, who’s got a royal flush of yellow chips. ‘You know that kind of colour that makes people feel like they’ve stepped into a friend’s kitchen with a bottle of red and the promise of a warm meal.’

  ‘For the record, I like the sound of your kitchen.’ Fiona titters. ‘Shame you can’t cook.’

  ‘Oh, stop it.’ I cluck my tongue. ‘I do a wicked Uber Eats.’

  I traverse the aisle again, trying to make sure I’ve not missed anything. The clunking indecision of my brain is soundtracked by the tap, tap, tap of a rubber mallet at the mixing station. I fiddle with a packet of drop sheets that hang from an end shelf. My trolley is already full, but I will need to make sure I don’t destroy the floorboards.

  ‘What do you think about this?’ Fiona has her phone angled at me. A carousel of highly curated Instagram DIY images swipes across the screen.

  ‘Hmmm, that beige is nice.’ I move back to the previous picture. ‘Webster was beige though.’

  ‘Beige is boring, darling girl. You’re individual, amazing, inspiring! You certainly don’t need to be copying them.’ She winks as she pulls up a picture of a lemony wall offset with daffodils and a vintage bicycle. ‘How about something like this?’

  I make a face. ‘I never really envisaged yellow. I was more leaning towards a blue or grey. Rich. Warmth. Opulent. Fancy.’

  ‘In that case, pick something like a British Racing Green or a Dark Grey. Think Mr Darcy, Chatsworth House, brandy and smoking jackets.’ She hands me the most magnificent dark grey chip and I am instantly sold. ‘What do you think? Shall we try some sample pots in a few colours?’

  We pick the dark grey and the orchid white.

  An hour later, I’m staring in disbelief at the pile of things by the back door while Fiona tries shuffling a six-foot palm and its brand-ne
w glazed pot towards my staircase. As it turns out, painting is a grand idea until you have to pay for twenty litres of ceiling white, ladders, rollers, extension poles, trays, drop sheets, edging tools and everything else we tossed in the trolley on our way around the aisles. It’s like anything, isn’t it? You get the product cheap, but it’s the accessories that send you broke. I put the receipt away before I can think too much about how much this is going to cost me by the time the place opens.

  ‘Your flat looks super comfortable. You’ve done a great job.’ Fiona treads carefully down the stairs, handing me a coffee as she approaches. ‘Right. Where do you want to start?’

  ‘Amazing, thank you.’ I wrap my hands around the mug and take a sip of coffee. My brain un-ratchets just a smidgen. ‘I was thinking the back room might be the best place. Something small.’

  ‘I like your thinking.’ Fiona turns on her heel and walks away.

  The first room we tackle is, as my father would say, the first child. It’s easy, carefree and it sucks you into a false sense of security. Taking it in turns, we sugar soap walls and climb ladders to clear away spiderwebs and dust. By the time we start painting the ceiling, we’ve got ourselves into a workable routine.

  The room is small enough that, by late afternoon, we’ve slapped two coats of paint on the ceiling and have peeled back the lids of the sample pots.

  It occurs to me that I’ve never done anything like this with Fiona. When she started seeing Dad, Adam and I were both already firmly entrenched in London life so, while we’ve interacted in the regular scope of family dinners and birthday outings, weddings and funerals, neither of us have ever really spent huge swathes of time with her. That only makes this moment more special.

  I’m not her child and she doesn’t have to help me, yet here she is guiding and explaining with all the patience of a saint. Realising this makes me want to leap from the top of the ladder and squish her in a hug.