Accidentally in Love: An utterly uplifting laugh out loud romantic comedy Page 15

  ‘Should we paint these samples next to each other?’ I ask.

  She nods slowly. ‘If they’re next to each other, you’re looking at the different colours in identical light. It’ll give you a better feel for them.’

  With one pot each, we mark out rough squares on the wall. Of all the stuff we’ve done today, this is my favourite part. Ceiling white is great for freshening the place up, but colour is character. With each stroke of the paintbrush, it feels like the room is coming to life, my project is becoming more real.

  ‘What’s the winner, do you think?’ I ask.

  Fiona places her brush in a jar of water and moves up beside me. ‘You know, in the store I would have said the off-white, but I love the dark grey. It looks so grown up. Sophisticated. Canapés and class.’

  ‘Doesn’t it just?’ I splash another swathe across the wall. It’s so gorgeous that my excitement tempers my tiredness. ‘How lovely.’

  ‘I tell you what, let’s call it a day. Come home for dinner,’ she says. ‘It’s been a long day, the last thing you want to do is cook.’

  ‘Oh, no, I can just microwave something. Don’t go to any trouble.’

  ‘It’s not trouble and you’re not microwaving, either. That’s a terrible idea,’ she says with a laugh and a shake of her head. ‘Let me cook you a meal.’

  Water splashes and races down the sink, drowning out Dad’s tinkling radio as we peel potatoes. While Fiona and I natter about what we need to do to get the place painted this week, Dad makes noises about needing a solid plan and not jumping in headfirst as if that wasn’t exactly what I’ve been doing up to this point.

  ‘It’s just the paint, Dad,’ I say through light laughter. ‘I’ve already done the scary stuff.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re full speed ahead. Even the brightest lights burn out if they’re working too long, you know.’

  It’s true that it’s not essential everything is finished immediately but getting the paintwork out of the way will be one less hurdle to worry about. Knowing it’s done and the building is as physically ready as it can be will free up my brain for other, more pressing matters like setting up the darkroom, meeting artists, working out schedules, advertising, and opening night. Dad chimes in and says he’ll get someone to cover the shop so he can help paint on Wednesday and Thursday.

  ‘And you can come home for dinner each night, too.’ He watches me as I place clean glasses on the table.

  ‘Oh, what?’ I laugh. ‘I can cook.’

  He stops me with a look.

  ‘All right, all right.’ I wave my hands about. ‘I’ll come for dinner. Sheesh.’

  And I do.

  The three of us huddle in the back room on Tuesday morning to take a quick vote on which paint colour looks the best. I’d been so convinced until I woke up with cold feet, but the dark grey wins and I head back to B&Q with my credit card and crossed fingers.

  Soon enough, the gallery becomes a rotating roster of friends and art shop employees that Dad has worded up to come and pull a shift on the paint roller. It’s the last thing I expected and I was more than happy to put in the hard slog myself, but I can’t talk him out of doing anything else.

  All this help turns what felt like an insurmountable job into something a bit more manageable. While I’m in the front room trying to cover the hideous aubergine walls, Fiona takes charge of a small team in other rooms, and Dad provides trays of sandwiches for lunch each day. Every time I wander the rooms to check on progress, there’s something new happening and, at the end of each day, I retire to the sofa at Dad’s and eat whatever’s put in front of me.

  No doubt there’s been a discussion I haven’t been part of that’s rendered Christopher null and void in this week of painting and cleaning. I haven’t heard him mentioned as an option for help, which I’m somewhat relieved about.

  Each time I think about this though, I imagine a discussion springing up at his school this weekend. The idea of people talking about being out here together while he was left out leaves a dull burn in the pit of my heart. I know only too well what it’s like to be excluded and I’m immediately angry at myself for passing that on to someone else, even someone as frustrating as him.

  Of course, the week is not without its incidents. By Wednesday afternoon, I’m standing over a plumber’s crack, while he does his best to unblock the men’s loos. My first thought is this is the last thing I need, but a stiff coffee and a mouthful of biscuits results in a more philosophical me that decides this is the best time for everything to go wrong. The last thing I need is a backed-up toilet on opening night, of all things.

  By Friday morning, I’m almost done, even if I can’t quite believe it myself. Every surface has been gifted two coats of paint and, for the most part, it looks good. Actually, it looks bloody fantastic. When I send her a photo, Lainey quips that it looks so good she wants to have her wedding reception in there. As it turns out, she’s not the only one.

  All the photos I’ve put on social media, the short video and little written pieces are gaining traction, likes and comments coming in from around the globe, each of them cheering me on. I won’t even pretend I haven’t been burning the candle at both ends keeping up with all the interaction and emails.

  As I wander the place just before 8 a.m. in my pyjamas, arms, legs and every other muscle I never knew I owned aching, I’m still answering questions when I stop in the front room. A mild panic sets in because the aubergine room is being difficult and, after two coats of paint and a night’s sleep, I can still see an awful mottling colour beginning to show through. It’s not much, but it’s enough that I know it’s there.

  I grumble, shaking my head and filtering through a handful of receipts. I have no other choice, I have to buy more paint, and I have to do it today.

  If someone had told me that the paint alone was going to cost so much, I might not have made it this far through the process. With no weekly income and a fast dwindling savings account, handing over more cash on something I’d failed to factor in is starting to pinch. I know it’s only a temporary thing, that this will all be over soon, and I’ll once again have an income (hopefully), but it’s hard to ration out money to unknown causes.

  Thankfully, the final coat takes. It’s an all-day, labour-of-love type of job, but it’s incredible to stand back and look at the finished product. No older colour seeping through, the grey matches the rest of the rooms and, after a few more photos for the memory bank, I’m officially done. As I finish washing my paintbrushes and retreat to my flat for the night, there’s a knock on the front door.

  The knocking gets louder, but this time it’s moved to the back door. I turn on the spot, feeling my socks catch on a rough patch of floorboard, and race towards the back of the building, before whoever it is has a chance to disappear.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I ask, realising I need to get a peephole fitted to the door. Or a camera. Something.

  ‘It’s me, your favourite boy from London.’

  Chapter 14

  I pull the door open, breath seized as I prepare for the worst. When I spot my brother, dressed in jeans and a crumpled linen shirt, duffle bag at his side, I let out a bagpipe wheeze and feel the pinch of a heart valve returning to life. Poking my head out the door, I check for a car I didn’t hear arrive. There is none. I turn back to Adam.

  He flings his arms out wide. ‘Surprise!’

  ‘You shit, you had me going there for a second.’ I wave him inside. ‘I didn’t recognise your voice.’

  ‘Please, these dulcet tones?’ He reaches down for his bag, and kisses me on the cheek as he bounces inside. I follow him upstairs, watching on awestruck as he drops his bag by the coffee table and helps himself to the dregs of last night’s bottle of wine. He fluffs a cushion and flops down on my sofa, legs akimbo in a Sharon Stone swish.

  ‘Should I ask what brings you all the way here this afternoon?’ I ask. ‘Again. Hashtag blessed.’

  He smiles in a way that reminds me of his baby photos, c
hin tucked in and giraffe eyelashes on display. This is exactly why all my friends in school were after him. ‘The power of Adam compels you.’

  ‘Oh, please.’

  ‘All right, so the train brings me here.’ He leans forward. ‘Little sister, how do you feel about getting drunk tonight?’

  My eyes widen. ‘I suspect you’ve already started down that path.’

  ‘Warm. I had one or two on the way up.’ He tips my wine glass to his mouth and grimaces. Yeah, it was a cheap bottle. ‘Can I crash here tonight?’

  ‘I’ll make you a deal.’

  He claps and throws himself backwards. ‘Done.’

  ‘You don’t even know what it is,’ I say with a laugh. ‘Come on. Pay attention.’

  ‘Shoot.’ He leans forward, suddenly serious, invisible pencil at the ready. ‘What is your counter-offer on the claim this afternoon?’

  ‘Moot court?’ I say with a chortle. ‘Really?’

  He shrugs.

  ‘I’ll get drunk with you tonight if you tell me what’s going on with you.’

  ‘Bzzzt. Wrong answer.’ His head flops about as he laughs. ‘Try again.’

  ‘Adam,’ I warn.

  ‘Look, can we not?’ he asks, hands out wide. ‘I just don’t want to talk about it. Make me another offer.’

  ‘All right, then Mr High-rise.’ I make a show of scratching at my chin. ‘Do you know anything about floorboards? I was planning on giving the ones downstairs a bit of a scuff and polish this weekend.’

  ‘I’ll have you know I helped Dad with the ones in the kitchen a few years ago.’ He waggles a hand. ‘Wouldn’t call myself an ex-pert as such, but I could probably feel my way around in the dark.’

  ‘Could you help me?’

  ‘Absolutely I can,’ he says with all the conviction of a game show host about to turn the cards on a winner.

  I nod. ‘Good. All right. In that case, just promise me you’ll eat something before you have another drink?’

  ‘Are you saying you’d like to buy me dinner?’ He presses a hand to his chest and discards my wine glass like a child that’s been shown a shiny new toy. ‘Why, you shouldn’t.’

  ‘Come on.’ I grab at his hand and drag him off the sofa.

  On our way out the door, Adam insists on having a quick look around. The scent of paint and cleaners linger, but his face lights up at the change. It looks like an entirely new building compared to the day I moved in. I hop about and tug at a threadbare sock as I follow him, explaining all the issues that sprang up along the way. While I’m concerned about a patch I can see I missed on the ceiling, he gives his opinion on everything from the light fittings to the choice of paint colour and the state of the floorboards.

  ‘Isn’t it amazing how much can change in one little week?’ he asks, thumb and forefinger pinched together.

  ‘It’s getting there,’ I concede. ‘We’ll see how it all looks after the weekend.’

  ‘So, what’s the deal?’ he asks. ‘Are you just polishing them, or are you stripping them right back?’

  My top lip curls. ‘That’s the thing. I don’t want to spend too much money. It’s a rental. Also, my bank account is currently haemorrhaging. If I end up owning the place, then I’ll strip them and start afresh. For now, presentable works.’

  ‘Eh, that’s easy.’ He sniffs. ‘Good thing I’m free all weekend, then, isn’t it? Oh, I’m catching up with the lads for dinner tomorrow night, but otherwise, I’m yours.’

  I reach out and clap a hand on Adam’s forehead. ‘Who are you and what have you done with my brother?’

  ‘Buy me a drink, and you’ll find out.’

  Despite his request, it’s Adam who buys the first drinks while I stalk the bistro of the nearest pub for somewhere to sit. Families, couples, a pool table, work functions and bingo. A booth by the window is free and all ours. It’s sticky and someone’s left the last of their dinner behind, but I push the plate aside and shuffle across the seat before someone else pinches it.

  ‘Do you still drink cosmos?’ Adam pushes a sloshing glass across the table. ‘Or are you on the whisky sours now?’

  I snigger at the reference. ‘While I’m still breathing, a cosmo is fine.’

  ‘Good, good,’ he says, bouncing about as he wrangles himself out of his coat. ‘I was worried about you when you said that. I was like “wait, she’s never drunk that before”.’

  ‘Just me being salty.’ I smile and try to find the straw with my mouth. ‘So, what’s this then? Two weeks in a row. Anyone would think you like me.’

  ‘I wanted to see you, is that okay?’ he says enthusiastically. ‘And you’re my little sister, so I do like you. In fact, I happen to like you a lot.’

  I set my drink aside and lean into the table. ‘You could have called if you wanted a chat.’

  ‘Yes, but I said I wanted to see you.’ He pulls a face. ‘Bit different to picking up the old Bakelite.’

  ‘How was the trip up? You staying all weekend?’

  ‘Sure am.’ He plucks a few menus from behind the condiment box and hands me one. ‘And the train was great. I skipped out of work early and beat the crowd.’

  I study his face for a moment. He’s wearing the disbelieving ‘what’s with all the questions?’ expression that comes with raised brows and averted eyes. Even his shoulders are folded like origami swans. This is just like him though, clowning around pretending like he got on the train and travelled three hours simply because he missed me. As flattering as that notion is, I’m certain it can’t be all.

  ‘You skipped out of work?’ I ask. ‘Adam, this isn’t like you. What’s going on?’

  ‘Well, I switched a few meetings to Monday and didn’t have court this afternoon, so here I am.’ His eyes widen. ‘Am I not allowed to miss you?’

  My lips turn down into a sad pout and something presses my throat closed. ‘You miss me?’

  ‘Don’t sound so shocked, of course I do. You know, we used to spend quite a bit of time together in the big city. Lunch on Wednesdays, daily phone calls and questionable emails. My inbox is verging on starvation this week, by the way, very boring. Crawling across the technological desert in search of water.’

  ‘I promise I’ll start emailing you just as soon as I get this under control.’ I reach for my drink. ‘What have you been filling your week with instead?’

  ‘Let me see.’ He peers up at the ceiling and takes a deep breath. ‘Basically, being an amazing kickass lawyer.’

  I watch him for a moment, the corners of his mouth faltering.

  ‘You know you can talk to me, don’t you?’ I ask. I don’t mean to blurt it out but watching him pretend like there’s nothing going on is breaking my heart. When you go through the things our family has, you become acutely aware of each other’s plays and I can see exactly what he’s doing right now. ‘I promise it goes no further.’

  ‘Oh, you mean like that time you told Dad about my getting nicked for shoplifting?’ He eyes me over the top of his pint, a quick eyebrow lift as if to prove a point.

  ‘I was twelve.’

  ‘And I’ll have the roast of the day.’ He smiles weakly and tucks the menu back in place. ‘Don’t skimp on the Yorkshire pudding, either. We are in Yorkshire after all.’

  ‘You’re a shit.’ I scowl as I get up from the table.

  While I wait my turn at the bar, I watch the crowd as they hand over notes and small change, the pull of beers and glug of wine bottles. A cool breeze catches the nape of my neck and I turn to the offending door to see Christopher step inside. He pulls a flat cap from his head and stuffs it in his back pocket.

  Four more people walk in with him. I’m too exhausted and preoccupied to consider who they might be.

  ‘Hello, Kit.’ The barmaid perks up. I duck my head away and hide, pretending to look at the drinks card in the hope he hasn’t seen me.

  ‘Hello, Caroline,’ he coos back. ‘How are you this evening?’

  ‘All the better for seeing you.’ She fol
ds her arms across her chest and leans into the counter in that way that says: hello, yes, I’m here for you. ‘What’s up today?’

  ‘Just out for a family dinner,’ he says, grappling for a handful of menus. ‘The usual. Have you been working on anything lately?’

  My ears prick up at the mention of his family because that would be one hell of a conversation to hear over a plate of bangers and mash. I try not to make it too obvious that I’m craning for a look. I can see someone I suspect is his brother, the same prominent brow and bright eyes, though his hair is browner than it is blond. There’s a dark-haired girl next to him who’s wearing the pained expression of someone trying to be polite. Oh, and the backs of two greying heads.

  ‘Nah,’ she says. ‘Too busy at this place. Some nights I get home and just want to uncork a bottle and go to sleep. How about you?’

  ‘Creatively constipated today,’ he says with an annoyed sigh. ‘Figured getting out of the house for a bit might be a good idea.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you decided to visit.’

  Hearing him flirt is such an unusual thing to witness. The man I’m looking at, oversized grin on offer, seems such a world away from that one who’s so far been presented to me. While I want to be irritated by him, he’s joyous and carefree and it feels infectious.

  And what on earth is that feeling chasing around my ribcage and crawling up the back of my throat? Surely, it’s acid reflux and not something like jealousy? It cannot possibly be that, not after the way every possible interaction I’ve had with him has gone. Though, I can’t deny that this is the positive, carefree experience I’d desperately craved from him.

  No. Surely not?

  It’s definitely the bacon butty I had for breakfast coming up to say hello. Anything else right now is just way too much of a complication I don’t have time for. I can’t, and don’t want to, go through anything like John again, so I bury those thoughts away in the biscuit barrel of my mind and hope he goes away.