Accidentally in Love

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.

‘Well, shit.’ Dad throws us a quick look over his shoulder, his dark eyes suddenly bright at our intrusion. ‘You’re both still alive.’

‘I told you I’d get her here.’ Adam slips his coat over the back of a chair, claiming his place at the dinner table. As if he were ever allowed to sit somewhere other than the side of the table facing the window; childhood habits die hard around here. I kiss my father’s bristly cheek and steal a slice of Brie from the cheeseboard he’s piecing together.

‘As if you can talk,’ I demur. ‘What are you doing home on a Saturday morning? Hey? Come on, you’re the one who instilled our work ethic.’

Adam reaches into the refrigerator and grabs for a Capri-Sun Dad insists on keeping in the refrigerator for him. A holiday snap from Italy feathers its way to the floor before he curses and picks it up again.

Dad runs an art supplies store in the middle of town, so his Saturday mornings were usually spent working there. Given it was his busiest day of the week, it was rare to see him home, let alone putting on a spread.

‘Things have been on the up at the shop, so I’ve hired a few people to cover the occasional shift.’ He hands me the cheeseboard. ‘I thought a catch up might be on the cards.’

‘Time to break out the sparkling.’ Adam pops a cocktail onion in his mouth and disappears with his drink. From the sunroom, Dad’s girlfriend, Fiona squeaks her excitement at the sight of him.

‘So.’ Dad looks at me. ‘How’s the museum? Running the place yet?’

I huff, my fringe doing a Mexican wave against my forehead. I really want to tell him what’s happened, but now isn’t the time to pour out my feelings on the parental chaise longue. At least not with an audience. ‘You know, the usual. It’s frustrating. Office politics, men, promotions that seem like a fantasy. But, yay art, right?’

‘Big city life, huh?’ He sounds as thrilled as I feel.

‘You can say that again,’ I mumble.

‘Are you okay?’ The bridge of his nose furrows. ‘You look spooked.’

‘Me?’ I stuff a cube of cheese in my mouth. ‘La vita è bella.’

‘You do know how that movie ends, don’t you?’ he asks.

‘Dad, come on.’ I grin, nodding in the direction of the hall. ‘I’m fine.’

‘I don’t believe you.’ He waggles an accusatory finger. ‘Anyway, come out and say hello, see who I’ve managed to rustle up today. I’ve got someone I want you to meet.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you. You’ve got a lot in common.’

I grimace. ‘Sounds ominous.’

He shepherds me into the sunroom, where I find Adam and Fiona, who is the sunshine of the place, her greying hair swept together in a chignon and her apron-smock smattered in a rainbow of paints. She’s just as eccentric as Mum was, with a touch more bite, which means she’s slotted into our family perfectly.

She’s already drawn Adam into an animated discussion about a new piece hanging on the wall. It’s as wide as I am tall, I’m sure of it, and it’s a magnificent landscape of the Ribblehead Viaduct and surrounding Dales, full of oranges and greens and spurts of light. I love that, from a distance, anyone would be forgiven for thinking it was a photo. Looking around the room, at the empty seats and half-drunk teas, I spot another guest outside.

‘Oh.’ Dad pushes past me, drawing me into the backyard. A wayward arm reaches out to the man walking towards us, a confused look on his face. ‘Katharine, this is Kit. He’s an artist, like you, and he runs an art school out at Loxley.’

Help me. My own father thinks I’m so hard up for a shag he’s setting me up with one of his friends. Kill me now. It all makes sense, the desperate need for us to visit today and, strangely, Adam’s displeasure at John. Never mind the fact Dad’s friendship circle is more eclectic than a Pokémon deck, so you can guarantee he’s caught them all at some point. There’s no guaranteeing what I’ll get.

As Kit steps forward, I get a better chance to focus on him. He. Is. Tall. I’m five foot seven and, even though it’s only the difference of a few inches (some would argue that matters), I feel like he’s teetering over me.

And he’s solid. Not in that need-to-lose-ten-kilos way, but solid in a broad-shouldered, rips wood apart in the rain and plucks kittens from trees like low hanging fruit kind of way. Dressed down in faded blue jeans, scuffed boots and a white T-shirt under red-check flannel, I would not be shocked if he opened with: ‘Actually, I’m a lumberjack.’

Blond hair waves over the crest of his head to a soft widow’s peak, his eyes are the deep blue of an ocean that hasn’t seen the tinkle of sunlight in a while, and there’s a steely determination to his face. He steps forward and offers a reserved smile, one that considers me carefully.

‘Lovely to meet you,’ Kit says quietly. It’s almost a mumble but, still, he reaches out to shake my hand. Now that he’s closer, I can see his fingers are long and paint stained.

‘Likewise.’

‘I thought you two should meet,’ Dad adds. Slowly, Kit’s eyes leave mine and wander across to my father. I can see he’s not entirely convinced of this, either. ‘Katharine is a gallery curator at Webster Fine Art Gallery in London.’

A flash of recognition passes over Kit’s face as he turns to walk away. ‘Is that so?’

‘That is so, and she’s amazing at what she does.’ Dad scuttles after him. ‘I went to one of her opening nights about eighteen months ago. It was incredible. A weekend in London, black-tie, expensive champagne and fantastic finger food!’

‘Well, if it was in London that makes all the difference,’ Kit says.

‘Oh, no, but the art was fine.’

‘I’m sure it was popular.’ He glances at me briefly before disappearing inside.

As I step back through the door after him, my elbow catches on an orchid to my left. Its pink flowers wobble as the terracotta pot rounds and finally falls back into place, along with my nerves. Fiona and Adam turn to greet us and Dad ducks into the kitchen, reappearing with arms laden with more food.

‘Oh!’ Fiona pips her excitement. She’d been too busy in conversation with Adam to realise I’d disappeared. ‘Katharine, have you—’

‘We’ve met, yes,’ Kit says haltingly. ‘Peter was generous enough to do the introductions.’

Something about the way he speaks sits uncomfortably with me. Thankfully, I can’t see his face, and I throw a confused frown my father’s way. Who does this guy think he is? If first impressions count, this isn’t a good one.

‘Master of Curating and Collections,’ Dad adds proudly.

‘Well, then,’ Kit says in a slow, slow grumble as I wait for the sting in his tail. ‘Sounds like you might teach me a thing or two.’

And there it is. I’m suddenly flustered. I begin to speak, but words come out in a lopsided mess. Both Adam and Dad jump in to tell me off about downplaying my education. My own personal cheer team.

Everyone my father meets gets the same story, usually after he brags about Adam’s first-class honours. As embarrassing as it can be, I’m also so thankful he gets excited over our achievements. Chalk that up to another reason why I haven’t told him about yesterday yet. I find myself a seat on the opposite side of the room in the furthest corner, away from Kit. I’d rather deal with his grumpiness from afar.

Being on the other side of the room, however, doesn’t spare me his presence.

‘What’s your favourite style of art, then, Katharine?’ Kit asks, crossing his legs over in a mirror of mine. I immediately uncross mine. ‘I mean, you must see plenty in your work, but what about, say, a favourite period?’

‘Definitely the Romantic period.’

‘Really?’ Kit says, mouth downturned. ‘Why?’

‘Well, I mean, you’ve got Turner and Grimshaw, who both have the most stunning—’

‘Grimshaw was Victorian era, but go on.’

I freeze, as does the rest of the room. From the kitchen, I hear Fiona drop some cutlery.

‘He was, wasn’t he?’ As much as I want to appreciate his correction, it itches and sticks somewhere under my ribs, and not simply because I should know better. ‘And I always thought Runge looked like he’d be a bit of fun.’

‘Nobody recent then?’ he asks.

‘I don’t really know a lot of recent work,’ I say, scrunching my nose. ‘Sorry.’

‘Really?’ Kit says. ‘Why’s that?’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ I lift my gaze to the ceiling as if the answer might fall from above. ‘I guess, by the time I get home from work, the last thing I want to do is run out to another gallery. I spend most of my time around classics, so perhaps I’m just more predisposed to them.’

His brows kick up momentarily as he thanks Fiona for a coffee. ‘We all have our foibles.’

A glob of sandwich lodges in my throat. Did he just imply I’m faulty because I enjoy the classics? God, he’s only affirming my worst fears after yesterday, that there’s something lacking in my life’s repertoire. Is it that obvious that I’m a hack?

To save embarrassing my father, I stay deathly silent. I glance across at Adam, who hides his smile behind a hand. Dad doesn’t know which way to turn, and Fiona is wearing a look that says she’s surprised I haven’t reacted. I wonder how Dad feels now, thinking that this was the guy I should date.

‘Adam, how’s work?’ Fiona makes a show of turning to my brother.

I’m relieved when the room settles into casual conversation, giving me the opportunity to become an observer. Adam gives the Reader’s Digest version of what I’ve just spent hours listening to. Fiona talks about her latest adventures selling art at the market, while Kit does his best to convince my father he’s wrong and that the latest artwork he bought is terrible. I’m not sure how I feel about being witness to all this.

I want to see this piece just so I can agree with my father. They seem like such an odd pairing, more so because I can’t work out if the conversation is spiteful or sarcastic, and whether Kit is genuinely smiling or sneering. Perhaps it’s all a game of one-upmanship? But that begs the question: why does he need to compete with me?

‘Have you ever heard of her?’ Kit directs his question to me.

I straighten my back. ‘Sorry, who?’

‘Marnie Buller.’

I shake my head. ‘Sorry, no.’

He rattles off a series of names, none of them familiar. If I shake my head any more, I’ll transform into a dashboard doggie. When he gets to the end of his list, he leans forward and rests an elbow on his knee, propping his chin up in the palm of his hand.

‘Do you practise your own art?’ he asks.

Suddenly, I’m made of glass. ‘Well, it’s been a while, but—’

‘She’s an incredible photographer.’ Dad stuffs a cracker laden with baba ghanoush into his mouth. ‘Landscapes mostly, a bit of portraiture. You did a lovely series of shots of the Town Hall once, I remember.’

My gaze slides towards Dad. Normally, I’d speak up at being talked over but, right now, I don’t mind so much.

‘He’s right,’ I say. ‘Photos are my thing, but it’s been an age since I’ve had the time.’

‘You know, if it’s been a while since you’ve made any art, you should take a class at Kit’s to help rebuild your skills,’ Dad adds. ‘Hell, he’s even sucked me into going. And it’s great, you should see some of the stuff we’re doing.’

‘But she has a master’s degree. Surely, she doesn’t need me,’ Kit chimes in as he slouches back into his chair. ‘Right?’

‘He’s right,’ I agree, begrudgingly. ‘I think I’m okay, thank you. Just need a bit of time to myself, but I’ll keep it in mind.’

I can’t remember the last time I felt so out of the loop in a conversation of this kind. So, when Fiona leaps from her chair and announces she’s going to organise dessert, I take the opportunity to follow her to the kitchen and away from the discomfort.

Chapter 6

‘She wrote her thesis on Grimshaw.’ Dad’s voice floats through the walls and into the kitchen. ‘I proofread it about a dozen times. Bloody brilliant if you ask me.’

‘I didn’t understand a word of it,’ Adam chimes in.

All I can do is bury my face in my hands and laugh. Fiona gives me a light slap with the dish cloth despite the fact she’s tittering too. Neither of us hear Kit’s response. Perhaps it was too low and mumbled, perfect volume for a roast, or maybe there wasn’t one at all. I make the decision there and then that, despite how amazing his art might be, or how wonderful his school for the gifted is, I don’t like him. I’ve had my fill of art snobs lately.

In this moment, I’m glad for the sanctuary of the kitchen. It’s comfortable and non-judgemental. Once upon a time, I’d spend nights and weekends helping Mum whip up all manner of gastronomic creations. Despite what Dad likes to think, she really was the cook of the two of them. I laugh sometimes, thinking about how frustrated she’d be if she ever saw my microwave gourmet paired with the first bottle of wine Sainsbury’s has on offer.

Not a lot has changed here since she died. Besides Fiona, that is. We’ve still got the same beige laminate worktops that have almost worn through in Mum’s favourite spot where she’d sit and lean into the counter while having a conversation and a brew. Knife wounds slice the surface in spots where Adam and I selfishly made sandwiches without chopping boards. Even the mixing bowls are in the same cupboard by the oven.

‘I thought you were just cutting up cake?’ I ask. ‘Do you want me to do that? I can make one if you like?’

Because of course I’ve made mountains of cakes lately. Not.

‘Oh, you don’t have to do that.’ She fluffs and flutters and tries to steer me out of the way.

‘Please, let me.’ I reach above the refrigerator for a cookbook. ‘It’ll be nice to be out of the spotlight for five minutes.’

‘Go easy on the old boy.’ Fiona relents and lifts her mug to her mouth, eyes already crinkled conspiratorially. ‘He thought Kit would be right up your alley.’

‘Let me be very clear,’ I whisper and pinch my fingers together as I lean into her. ‘He’s not going anywhere near my alley.’

‘Oh.’ She breaks into a scandalised laugh that lights up her face. ‘No strike then?’

‘Not even a gutter ball.’

‘Oh, balls.’ She giggles.

‘No, no balls.’ I laugh with her. ‘None at all.’

We corpse all over again.

Before I have a chance to gather ingredients, Fiona is pulling packet mixes from the pantry and whispering about how Dad thinks she makes caramel mud cakes from scratch. She leaves me to bake if I swear never to reveal her secret. I cross my heart and, soon enough, am alone and listening for whatever conversation wafts into the kitchen.

I’ve barely managed to crack the last of the eggs into the bowl when I hear footsteps thudding along the hallway towards the bathroom. I pay no attention to them until they start up again. This time, they’re getting closer. They’re not the one-two shuffle of my father or the slightly shorter version preferred by my brother and I can still hear Fiona laughing in the sunroom.

It can only be Kit, and he’s now standing in the dining room, staring up at Dad’s makeshift gallery wall. It’s covered in prints and postcards of Dad’s and Fiona’s favourite pieces and it’s where I got the idea to do the same thing in my flat.

‘Hello.’ I spare a look over my shoulder and try to be as upbeat as possible, though I’m sure I sound desperate, panicky even. ‘Lovely day today.’

I bristle and brace myself for whatever’s bound to come out of his mouth but his only response is to offer me a disinterested grin before turning back to the art. He’s so bad at faking a smile he can barely manage to crinkle his eyes.

It doesn’t take long to realise, as he moves around the space, he’s watching me. That’s okay, because I’m watching him too. We just aren’t doing it at the same time. I catch him in the corner of my eye and, when I turn away to melt butter, he’s watching me do that. It’s a silent tug-of-war.

‘Can I help you with anything?’ The room is so still I’m sure it’s not the clock I can hear ticking, but the cogs in both our brains. He doesn’t move or flinch. Even the conversation in the sunroom seems to have ground to a halt. Instead, he leans in closer to the piece he’s in front of for a few more minutes. I rub the back of my neck. ‘They’re some of my parents’ favourite art pieces.’

‘It’s an interesting collection, isn’t it?’ he asks, finally making eye contact.

I smile. ‘It’s certainly eclectic.’

‘He loves his Picasso.’ His head tilts and turns as he takes the work in from all angles. ‘So, you’re a photographer?’

‘Pretend to be,’ I say.

‘Any favourites?’ he asks, offering another cursory glance.

‘I quite like Adams.’

‘Ansel?’ he asks. ‘I don’t mind the landscapes.’

‘No, Bryan.’

He rolls his eyes and clucks his tongue. ‘Figures.’

‘Why does it figure?’ I ask.

‘Well, he’s famous, isn’t he? Mainstream.’

‘Of course.’ I feel my brow furrow. ‘I wouldn’t have heard of him otherwise.’

‘My point exactly,’ he says in a soft grumble as he waves a languid finger towards the wall. ‘This one here seems out of place with the rest of them.’

I take a deep breath and fumble with the mixing bowl; I can’t discard it quickly enough. There’s just something about him that sets my nerves on edge. ‘Ah … you want to know about that piece in particular?’

‘What I don’t understand is: your father has all this great art on his wall. There’s Klimt and Monet, Picasso and Matisse and then this. It’s got me beat why anyone would pay good money for it.’ A long finger flicks at the frame. ‘It’s not a particularly skilled piece.’

If that statement is designed to capture my attention, consider me bound and gagged. I blink slowly and draw a deep, steadying breath.

‘Go on then, Neil Buchanan, what’s wrong with it?’ I fold my arms over in challenge. I’m ready.

‘It’s just so clichéd.’ He points to the offending parts of the small photo. ‘I mean, the framing is all wrong. There’s part of a tree in the foreground and the small fence keeps guiding my eye towards the bloody foliage. At least I think it’s foliage. It’s hard to tell because it’s so out of focus, and I’m sure the selective black and white disappeared with the early Noughties. It’s just such a postcard, isn’t it?’

‘Well, shit, I’d really love to read your master’s thesis on the use of focal points and acceptability to modern art.’ I look at him. ‘Have you brought it with you? It’s a long drive home, so reading it would give me something to do.’

The house is silent. Around his shoulder and down the hall, I can see my dad give me a thumbs-up. I turn my attention back to Kit, who’s still staring at my photograph, the briefest hint of pink crosses the tips of his ears.

‘Anyway, what if that’s all it’s meant to be?’ I ask. ‘Personally, I love receiving postcards. It means someone’s thinking enough about me to want to share something with me. Above that, it says they’re willing to put those words out in public by sending them through a postal service where everyone gets to read them on their journey. They’re intensely personal.’

He turns his gaze to me, and something in his eyes trips my tongue over itself.

‘Some would even say they’re romantic,’ I continue, trying to keep the lightness in my voice.

‘If that’s all it’s meant to be, then it’s wasting space on what is otherwise an incredible wall of art.’ He cranes his neck to look at something closer to the ceiling.

I snort.

‘Who’s the artist?’ he asks.

He’s standing so close I can feel his breath tickling the tip of my nose and see the tint of paint he hasn’t been able to scrub from around his cuticles. I pull the frame from the wall and turn it over, making a show of looking for the name.

‘Oh!’ I clap a hand to my cheek and feign surprise. ‘Would you look at that? “Katharine Patterson, Scarborough Beach, April 1999”. I think that means me. Yes. Definitely me.’

It’s a photo I submitted for a school assessment. Dad decided it needed to go on his wall because it scored top marks, and he was proud enough of that.

‘Maybe,’ I say, turning to find his face slightly ashen, ‘I can start selling postcards of it. Great business idea, thanks.’

He stumbles around for the right words but comes up blank. The look on his face is a little gawping fish, a little ‘man put in place’. For the record, it’s already a firm favourite in my limited experience of his facial expressions.

‘I’m aware that it’s not the most artistic piece.’ I’m only prepared to give him a minor concession, God knows why. He doesn’t deserve it. ‘But it seemed to resonate with my parents which, forgive me if I’m wrong, might be what art is all about.’

‘Ah.’ The corner of his mouth rises just so as he looks away with something like a nod. ‘That explains that.’

There’s no logical reason for wanting to impress him, it’s nothing more than my competitive streak. After yesterday, I feel a desperate need to prove people wrong, so I offer up the camera roll on my phone. Among the selfies, food photos and the inappropriate photos of John I hide the screen for, are other photos I’d taken, ones I’d wanted to show Dad or Adam without having to lug prints around.

‘I’ve taken plenty more photos since.’ I shove my phone under his nose.

Though his eyes move around the screen as I swish left and right, pinching the pictures in and out, he stays resolutely, frustratingly silent. He’s Shania Twain and I’m Brad Pitt, because nothing I show him impresses him much. Would it be right to say I’d love to strangle him right now? Instead, I bite my lip to stop me swearing and count backwards from ten in the echo chamber of my mind.

‘What about you?’ I try. ‘Where’s your artwork? Are any of your masterpieces hanging on the wall today? Oh, that’s right, I don’t recall seeing any.’

‘I dabble.’ He offers a bashful smile, and his entire face changes. It softens as light spills forth and changes the tension of the room almost immediately. I can only imagine what laughter would do to him. He’d likely combust. He returns to where he was only moments ago looking at a life drawing.

‘Oh, you run an art school and you dabble, do you?’ I ask. ‘Well, I’m going to look you up, Mr Kit.’

‘Why? You’re going to exhibit my work in your museum?’ he says. ‘Sorry, gallery.’

‘Now, that’s a very clever way of asking. Five points for that.’ I waggle a finger at him as I retreat to the kitchen and pick up the whisk. ‘But isn’t the old saying “Those who can’t do, teach”?’

He follows close behind. ‘Oh, I didn’t say I was asking.’

‘Aren’t you?’ I crack another egg into the mixing bowl and toss the shell into the sink. I wonder if Fiona would mind so much if I threw one at him? ‘Certainly sounds like you are.’

‘And what if I was?’ He leans against the counter and folds his arm over. If I want to leave the kitchen right now, I’d have to crash tackle him on my way through. For what it’s worth, that’s not beneath me.

I grin at him. ‘I would tell you no.’

‘Without even listening to a proposal? Or seeing my portfolio?’ he asks with a disbelieving laugh.

I check him over my shoulder. ‘Correct.’

‘You know, that’s hardly fair.’

‘Is it?’ I ask. ‘Because I don’t decide the exhibits we run. I simply curate them.’

‘You make it sound so fancy, Miss Patterson.’

I smile and shake my head and hope he can’t see my face in a reflection.

‘Is that seriously what you want?’ I turn to him. ‘Gallery space?’