Accidentally in Love: An utterly uplifting laugh out loud romantic comedy Page 4

  His eyes search my face, and, for a moment, he wears the look of a man who’s finally been beaten into submission. It lasts only a second, giving way to a soft smile.

  ‘Please.’ I’m almost begging. ‘Don’t you think I deserve to know where I stand? This has been going on for months and I still don’t know what I am to you. I mean, what do I tell him when he asks? Do I say you’re a boyfriend?’

  John scoffs incredulously. ‘He’s not going to ask.’

  ‘He’s my brother. He’ll ask.’ I huff. ‘And he will keep asking until he has an answer.’

  John rubs at his mouth and lifts his shoulders though he won’t make eye contact. ‘Let me handle it?’

  ‘That’s not going to help me right now though, is it?’

  ‘Tell him what you want, then,’ he says, patience wearing thin.

  I raise a brow. ‘One night this week?’

  ‘Wednesday or Thursday.’ He sighs, though it’s more a question. ‘One of those should be quiet enough to sneak out early. Either way, call me. We’ll sort something out.’

  ‘Okay.’ I cup his face in my hands and kiss him. ‘See you then.’

  Selfishly, I wish he would stay and own up to this, because I am not looking forward to what’s about to happen.

  Chapter 4

  ‘Are you kidding me right now?’

  Finally emerging from stunned silence, Adam waits while I dash about my flat getting ready for the day. A quick splash under the shower, a dash of deodorant, my hair piled up onto my head in a loose and lazy bun, and I’m almost ready to go. I bemoan the bags under my tired blue eyes and the first emerging grey hairs I spot in the mirror while Adam jangles keys impatiently.

  Soon enough, I find myself tumbling out of the lift and into the echoing concrete grey car park beneath my building.

  ‘Not last time I checked, no.’ I scuttle alongside Adam, his shock and my defensiveness echoing from pylons around us. ‘Are you sure you want to drive? It’ll be midday before we get there. Would you rather not get the train?’

  ‘Katharine, it’s not that far.’ Adam looks at me from the corners of his eyes. ‘We used to do this trip all the time, remember? Anyway, you’d be better prepared if you opened your bloody emails.’

  ‘You could call, too, you know. Or text. Like a regular human being,’ I say. ‘Like you could have called this morning. Or, you know, knocked before helping yourself.’

  ‘I never knock.’

  ‘I know!’ I shriek.

  He’s walking so quickly I can feel my chest squeezing and heaving as I try to keep up with him. Even though my building has its own gym, I’m sure the last thing I ran for was a food truck.

  ‘You and Harrison?’ he continues.

  I nod, my eyes wide. I’m not so secretly enjoying his shock. ‘Yes. Me and John.’

  ‘Katharine, I have to work with the guy.’ His arm swings dramatically towards the lift we’d just tumbled out of, as if John might just reanimate at the mention of his name.

  ‘Yes,’ I repeat slowly. ‘I know you do.’

  ‘We share an office!’

  ‘I’m also aware of that.’ I try and fail not to laugh as we reach my car. I pop the boot and toss some front seat rubbish in there beside my weekend bag. ‘Honestly, what’s the problem? We’re all adults.’

  ‘He’s not even the least bit attractive.’ Adam snatches the car keys from me and mutters about driving. He is also notoriously tight with money; hence, driving my car.

  My blue Mini Countryman is filthy, covered in the detritus of a rainy weekend spent in Bath with John about a fortnight ago. I shove those memories, along with my handbag and a half-drunk bottle of water, to the back seat and watch the sour look of disgust settle into my brother’s features.

  ‘Oh, but he is.’ I smile and bite the inside of my lip. Not gonna lie, I’m a little bit enjoying this.

  ‘No, he’s not, Katharine. He’s a cardboard cut-out of a man, a shopfront mannequin that you dress up and he dances for you, and he tells you exactly what you want to hear because that’s what he’s trained to do,’ he argues. ‘Thinks he’s so bloody refined like he’s Pierce Brosnan or some shit, not that Pierce Brosnan is anything to write home about.’

  ‘Excuse me.’ I feign my disgust, hand pressed to my chest. ‘I did not watch GoldenEye for the plot.’

  ‘Do you know they call him Remington when he’s not around?’

  I swallow down laughter. ‘That’s not nice. He’s a lovely man. As is John. Very attentive.’

  ‘Did you know—’ Adam looks over his shoulder as he reverses from the parking space ‘—just last week he was telling me about this amazing girl he’s seeing. “My blue-eyed girl” he called her. This is how bloody stupid I am; he all but told me it was you. “She’s a brilliant artist, Adam, you should see her photos.”’

  ‘Who’s telling fibs for five hundred pounds, Adam?’ I laugh. ‘I haven’t had my camera out properly in years.’

  ‘Then I don’t want to know what kind of photos he’s talking about.’

  While I’d been preoccupied with worrying about my place in John’s life, I’d never considered whether he’d told anybody about me. His blue-eyed girl? That’s lovely and all, but he’s never acted like I’m his girlfriend. It scratches at something warm, giving me a glimmer of hope that this isn’t all in vain and that I’m more than a late-night stop for him.

  ‘You are good, you just don’t trust yourself enough,’ he says. ‘Then he goes on about how he’s finally met someone who isn’t after him for his money.’

  ‘I pay him to say those things.’ I plug my phone into the console charger. ‘Also, I have my own money, thanks.’

  ‘Please don’t tell me it was you he took on a weekend away recently?’

  ‘He told you about that?’

  Now I’m completely confused. There are mixed signals and then there’s full-fledged Wimbledon levels of back and forth. Why is John behaving like I’m a girlfriend if he can’t bring himself to utter the awful word himself?

  ‘Some country-club-cum-golf-course out by Bath? Oh, we heard about it all right. Wasted half a Monday morning meeting with it. Thankfully, he spared us the graphic details.’ He sniffs as his mouth sours at the corners. ‘And is that his aftershave I can smell? “I wear Tom Ford.” Yeah, well I wear Lynx, get over it.’

  ‘Might be.’ I do a quick head check to find one of John’s polo shirts crumpled in the back seat. ‘And Lynx? You must drive the ladies wild. No wonder you smell like a high school changing room.’

  ‘Wait, how did you even meet him?’ Adam barely glances at me as he pulls out into traffic.

  I shift to face my brother. ‘Do you remember that get-together at your place late last year?’

  It was a bitterly cold evening, fit for roast dinners and mulled wine. After spending the day scrubbing my flat from top-to-toe, an invite for impromptu drinks at Adam and Sophie’s came through. I’d pulled on my favourite pair of comfortable black jeans, torn at the knees, a loose-fitting Springsteen T-shirt, and an old faithful pair of pants. My look was topped with an old peacoat and gloves. Nothing about me said I was there to meet anyone.

  After a quick stop at the gallery to check for a delivery, I’d passed by the off-licence and purchased a bottle of both red and white wine, just to hedge my bets and have something to offer Sophie. From there, I walked up to Adam’s inner-city duplex. It dwarfed mine, and came complete with a balcony, bespoke kitchen, marble fittings, outdoor entertaining area, and a refrigerator that talked to the internet. It was the perfect place to entertain, which coincidentally happened to be one of Adam’s favourite things.

  And there he was.

  Standing by the heater with a wine in his hand, John drew his fingers through his dark hair. What first struck me was his chalky-blue shirt. It pulled at his shoulders and stretched across his chest so tightly I thought the buttons might pop. His black jeans were ripped at the knee like mine, his boots were unlaced, and beneath that businessman
bravado there was something completely magnetic about him.

  ‘Hello there,’ he said as I clambered next to him for some warmth.

  ‘Mind if I steal your warmth?’ I asked.

  ‘Only if you tell me your name.’ He took a sip of his wine.

  ‘Katharine,’ I said, holding out my hand.

  ‘Are you the Katharine I’ve been warned to steer clear of?’ The corner of his mouth rose in a mischievous smirk as he shook my hand.

  I frowned and pushed my lips out though I was on the verge of laughter. ‘I don’t remember telling you that, no.’

  It didn’t matter what direction I travelled in that night, whether I’d moved to talk to mutual friends or introduce myself to strangers, we continued orbiting each other. A shared joke turned into a flirt and, before I knew it, we’d spent a chunk of the evening buried in conversation by an oversized planter box.

  He’d get a drink and offer to refill mine, we’d talk about my job and favourite pieces of art, and I’d laughed when he told me the last time he’d seen the inside of a museum was when he’d gone to visit his grandparents an age ago. Throughout it all, he made me feel like I was the only one in the room.

  When he offered to walk me to the tube station later that night, we made a quick detour for his flat and were in bed not an hour later. Oh, and one of the buttons did pop.

  ‘It’s been going on that long?’

  The car lurches to a stop while we wait for the lights to change. Adam turns to me, and I feel myself bristle. It irks me that he seems so het up about this. He has his own marriage to worry about, and it is my life. Surely, he could dial back the brotherly protection a notch or two.

  ‘Surprised?’ I try.

  ‘So, what,’ he stammers, ‘are you telling me this was love at first sight?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it love,’ I say, fiddling with the audio controls until I find a radio station that isn’t classifying my favourite school hits as ‘classics’. I’m not that old. Yet. A cyclist whizzes by, precariously close to my side mirror. ‘It started as a bit of fun.’

  ‘A bit of fun?’ The light changes green. ‘Are you serious? Katharine, he’s so dull. Let alone the fact that you deserve so much better than that.’

  Dull wasn’t a word I’d have readily used to describe John. He’s always seemed so exciting, refined, gentlemanly, accessorised with fast cars and country club weekends. Sure, he works long hours. But I do, too, and when we see each other, we do often talk. Oh God, we talk work. Does that make me dull, too? I’m not sure I want Adam to continue. Not because it’s not his business, but because I’m scared he might be right.

  ‘Well, when we both have a free moment—’ I explain.

  Adam’s silent, too busy concentrating as we scoot towards the M1. Part of me hopes he’ll drop the topic.

  ‘A free moment?’ he blurts over the radio. ‘A free … Katharine?!’

  ‘You really do enjoy repetition, don’t you?’ I ask. ‘No wonder you’re a lawyer.’

  ‘And you say I work too much?’ Adam sighs. ‘That guy is worse than me. Hell, he’s even worse than you. I’m surprised he hasn’t got a Cyberdyne Systems stamp at the back of his neck like a Ken doll.’

  ‘He hasn’t,’ I quip back. ‘I checked.’

  He retches dramatically as we merge onto the motorway. I hope he’s planning to wind the window down if he’s going to be sick. I’ve had to clean vomit from the footwell of my car before (mine after a bad batch of rhubarb) and it is no fun at all. Sun starts to peek through the clouds, so I let the sunroof open enough to feel the breeze through my hair. It’s the perfect day for a drive.

  ‘And where’s Sophie, then?’ I ask, desperate to change the subject. ‘Why isn’t she coming with us?’

  Something flickers in Adam’s eyes and I know from years of sibling arguments that I’ve touched a nerve. He gives his head a quick shake and turns his attention back to the traffic. ‘She’s away with friends this weekend.’

  Let me say this upfront: I love Sophie. She is bubbly and welcoming, warm and an absolute joy to speak to. Adam moved to London a few years before I did and, when he first arrived, lived in a Clapham share house he found through friends. Sophie’s parents owned the building, and she let rooms to pay the bills and get ahead financially. London wasn’t somewhere we’d ever visited a lot as kids, so Sophie soon became his tour guide, local directory and social circle.

  Twelve months after moving in, he asked her to dinner as a thank you for looking after him that first year. The rest is now sandwiched between untold numbers of shared social media posts and a wedding album that’s always been proudly displayed in their living room.

  ‘Away with friends?’ I prod. If he’s going to put me up on the witness stand then it’s only fair I do the same.

  ‘Yes,’ he says with a sigh. ‘They planned it ages ago. Girls’ weekend at a hot spa.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Oh,’ he echoes.

  ‘Not at some country club in Bath, then?’

  ‘Shut up.’

  We fall into an uncomfortable silence, one where his knuckles go white around the steering wheel and his bottom lip becomes a chew toy. I stare out my window and wait for the moment to pass.

  It doesn’t last long. By the time we hit the first services, where he fills the tank and I hide in the loos for five minutes of peace, he’s already talked me through his client list for the month. I love hearing about his cases and courtroom victories; it’s great to see him get so excited about what he does, but, boy, does he go on. And he calls John dull.

  By the time we hit the last roundabout in Nottingham, he’s swung back to the topic of John again.

  He wants to know the ins and outs and, of course, he knows exactly how to phrase a question so I can’t wriggle my way out of an answer. Handy for his job, not so handy for me, because all this interrogation is making me feel uneasy.

  I deflect as much as I can. I don’t want to field questions I’m not sure of the answer to. Yes, it’s been going on a while. Yes, I really do fancy him. Yes, I hope it will become more and, no, I can’t explain why he won’t come to dinner. By the time we reach Sheffield, Adam’s so wound up he completely ignores my request for a café stop. I’m convinced he didn’t even hear me.

  As we slice through the centre of town towards Greystones, there’s a strange feeling sitting in my chest. We both try counting back to the last time we were here. For me, it’s been a few months. Adam refuses to trust his memory, otherwise it’s been almost a year.

  We’ve seen Dad in between, of course. He’s taken the train to visit us both and stayed a few nights in Adam’s spare room, and Christmas lunch was hosted by my brother. But coming home today, the city almost feels brand-new, like she’s trying to tell me something about how beautiful she is. Even our old detached stone-fronted home looks like somewhere I know but am not entirely familiar with.

  ‘So, is it serious?’ Adam asks, breaking me out of my hometown haze.

  ‘You have nothing to worry about.’ I pat him on the shoulder. ‘At the rate I’m going, he’ll probably never be your brother-in-law. Take a deep breath and count to ten.’

  ‘Katharine.’ He sighs heavily and gives the steering wheel a soft slap as we pull into Dad’s driveway, which is decorated with an old Defender. ‘I don’t mean it like that.’

  ‘Is this a party?’ I switch subjects and narrow my eyes at Adam. ‘Whose car is that?’

  ‘As long as it’s not an orgy,’ he mumbles, tugging at the seat belt. ‘Anyway, that’s not what I’m saying. I can’t stop you doing that, getting married. In fact, I think it would be wonderful if you did. A life partner is so much fun. I just worry about you, that’s all. I’ve known him longer, so I’ve seen him go through one or two women, and I don’t want you to become another casualty.’

  ‘And I’m thirty-five and quite capable of looking after this myself.’ I fix him with a look, and he turns a light shade of pink.

  ‘I know,’ he says qu
ietly. ‘That’s what I’m worried about.’

  ‘And who would you rather I date?’ I ask. ‘Hmm? Come on, Mr Perfect Match.’

  ‘Why can’t you just find yourself a nice artistic boy?’ he asks, slamming the car door so hard I’m certain it’ll fall off if we take a corner too tightly on the way home. ‘Someone who can keep up with your wild conversations and that small art gallery you’ve got happening in your flat.’

  ‘Sure.’ I shrug. ‘That way there’ll be two equally neurotic people in my house. That would be great.’

  ‘At least you’d have something in common,’ he says. ‘I’m only trying to look out for you, you know. I do love you.’

  I want to pretend like I’m angry at his intrusion, but he cares so much that I can’t be. So maybe I am a little miffed that the only thing he’s focusing on is my love life. And maybe he has planted a few seeds I’m not sure I want sowing. He hasn’t asked me about anything else on the way here, not my job or my friends or my otherwise inactive social life.

  I decide that’s okay, because I don’t feel like talking about the rest of my life right now. In fact, it’s been nice to not feel that bile-ish rise of unemployed panic in my throat for a few hours. I blow him a raspberry and walk along the stone path, through a Monet’s garden of flowers, towards the front door.

  I’m home.

  Chapter 5

  Adam holds the front door open and straightens a family photo on the sideboard as he follows me inside. Our footsteps echo along a hallway decorated in a collage of memories and we say a quick hello to a photo of Mum that takes pride of place atop a display cabinet in the dining room, which is full of her favourite china.

  A jasmine-scented breeze carries laughter with it up the middle of the house, which appears empty except for Dad. As we enter the kitchen, he reaches into the windowsill and fiddles with the radio dial until the crackling sounds of Tchaikovsky register. One look at him, and the first thing that comes to mind is Picasso. His sunflower yellow T-shirt is accentuated with royal blue stripes and splotches that would be right at home in an Eighties music video. Mark Knopfler, eat your heart out.