About the Author

BELINDA MISSEN is a reader, author, and sometimes blogger. When she’s not busy writing or reading, she can be found travelling the Great Ocean Road and beyond looking for inspiration. She lives with her husband, cats, and collection of books in regional Victoria, Australia.

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‘An awesome read’

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‘Wonderful heart-warming romance’

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‘Belinda has a warm, witty style of writing that makes characters and emotions leap off the page’

‘A lovely summer read’

Also by Belinda Missen

One Week ‘Til Christmas

Lessons in Love

An Impossible Thing Called Love

A Recipe for Disaster

Accidentally in Love
BELINDA MISSEN

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Belinda Missen

Belinda Missen asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © Belinda Missen 2020 ISBN: 9780008296926

Version: 2020-08-07

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Readers love Belinda Missen

Also by Belinda Missen

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

‘Urgh. Yuck. Hair in my lip gloss.’

My best friend and colleague, Lainey, pulls globby strands of blonde hair away from her mouth. She puckers and plumps and adjusts her blouse one last time. ‘Okay, all right, I’m good.’

I lift my camera and adjust the zoom, lowering it – and my shoulders – just as quickly.

‘Now what?’ she cries.

‘I’m just waiting for the bus to pass.’ I gesture at the giant red mass beetling along Embankment on the opposite side of the Thames.

‘Really?’ She turns to shout at it, and we fall about laughing, much to the annoyance of passers-by. It’s London’s South Bank in the middle of summer, she’s lucky her background isn’t a sea of tourists. They’ve so far been gracious enough to give us a wide berth.

‘Surely you don’t want it to look like you have a TFL special protruding from your ear in your photo, do you?’ I ask.

She chortles. ‘It would make a great talking point.’

After the bus disappears and a water taxi is out of focus, I snap off a handful of shots and hope they aren’t awful. I’m so out of practice with this photography lark that I’ve got the camera set to ‘automatic’ and all my extremities crossed. I don’t have time to worry about focal length and shutter speed today. I try for a few different angles, forcing Lainey into some uncomfortable-looking poses and, when I’m satisfied I’ve got enough photos, I wave her over to look.

‘Nope, not that one.’ She swipes at the two-inch display as if it’ll make her photo disappear. ‘I look like I’ve just done a double-shift at the London Dungeon.’

‘What?’ I shriek in disbelief. ‘You do not. Don’t be awful about yourself. You look fine.’

Nobody could accuse Lainey of looking like a horror movie villain. Ever. From the moment I met her, in our first year at Sheffield Hallam University, she’s carried herself with ballerina grace and the style of a golden era Hollywood starlet. Her hair, usually held in an impeccable ballet bun, is free-flowing today, with no thanks to the muggy summer breeze. It’s the kind of warmth that feels like breathing tepid water and I’m not a fan.

‘What about this one? How do I zoom?’ She jabs at the + button I point to. ‘That’s better. More professional, less crazy eyes.’

‘What did you want these for again?’ I ask.

Lainey grimaces. ‘LinkedIn.’

‘What? You’re leaving? Really?’

‘Figure it’s time to put myself out there,’ she says quietly. ‘Look for something that pays a bit better. I’d launch my own social media business, but what with the brand-new mortgage—’

‘And a wedding coming up.’

She grumbles. ‘Don’t remind me.’

When she’s not posing for an updated profile photo, Lainey normally occupies a desk on the same floor as me at Webster Fine Art Gallery on the South Bank. While I’m with the curating team, she’s smack-bang in the middle of the social media hub, updating, sharing, engaging the community, and enticing visitors through our doors with fresh and ever-changing content. She’s so amazing at what she does that I have no doubt she could sell art to even the most hard-nosed critic.

‘Wait, is that why you weren’t in today?’ I look up at her, twinkling brown kohl-rimmed eyes betraying the horrible lurgy she reportedly had on the phone this morning.

‘Shhh.’ She presses a finger to her lips. ‘I got a sick note. It’s legitimate.’

‘In light of that, you need to get out of here before old Mr Webster spots you.’ I throw an arm around her neck and hug her tightly. My phone pings as I pull back; an appointment reminder. ‘I’m apparently on a tea break, and I have a meeting with Rockin’ Roland in twenty.’

‘A meeting?’ she asks. ‘About what?’

I pull a face. ‘I’m hoping it’ll be to tell me I’ve got the senior curator job.’

When the clock struck midnight on the first of January this year, I braved the chill of a London night to raise my thumbprint-smeared martini glass to the sky. Fireworks bloomed in convex perfection through it and, in that moment of inebriated clarity, I promised myself two things would happen this year. I don’t so much call them resolutions as I do revolutions, because that’s what we’re doing: revolving around the sun. Ask Julian Lennon, he’ll tell you.

The first of those revolutions was to level-up at work. After five years slaving away as an assistant then junior curator, cataloguing and keeping records, planning and budgeting, I’d landed on my feet as one of the gallery’s two curators, designing my own programmes and acquiring new art.

Sure that I was destined for bigger things and all that, when Roland announced last month that he was leaving for a stint at an Irish museum, I threw down my application quicker than a winning hand at poker and bailed out of the room with explosions in the background, billowing hair and perfect slow motion.

Well, not exactly, but you get the picture.

‘Good luck with that.’ She almost scoffs. ‘You know, I caught the three of them in the tearoom the other day. Roland, Steve and that brown-nose Charles.’

‘Oh, please call me Charlie,’ we mock in unison before sniggering.

On his first day in the office eighteen months ago, he’d made sure to tell all of us to call him Charlie, as if the affable nickname would make the shitty attitude vaporise.

‘Standing about with their dicks in their hands, no doubt,’ I say. ‘You know, we were supposed to have a strategy meeting, me, Steve and Roland. As it turned out, I got an email about half an hour after they’d finished, telling me they caught up in the hallway and decided we didn’t need a full meeting but here are the Cliff Notes if you need them.’

‘If you need them,’ she mimics Steve’s nasal whine. ‘Yeah, well, conversation fell off a crag the moment I walked in the room, but it was all covert looks and nudge, nudge until I left.’

‘They make me so angry.’ I lift my chin in the direction of the gallery and we begin walking. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do if I don’t get this role.’

Lainey gives my camera a nudge. ‘Why don’t you do something with your photography? You’ve always taken amazing photos.’

‘That never really took off though, did it?’ I said. ‘I mean, it was fine as a hobby in university. I didn’t have bills to pay then, but you’ve got to grow up and get an adult job some time.’

‘Adults,’ she scoffs. ‘Are we boring? We are, aren’t we? Mortgage dwellers with a solid nine-to-five and a rosé habit.’

‘That’s a bit grim.’ I wince, stuffing my camera back into my bag. ‘What I’d really love is my own gallery, something small like that place near Embankment.’

‘The one that did the Kennedy exhibition? I love that place,’ she coos at the memory. ‘Let’s go back there soon.’

‘Absolutely,’ I say, pulling to a stop just by the doors of the gallery. They swish open with a wave of air conditioning. ‘Speaking of habits. Dinner tonight?’

‘Hello, yes, always. I’m going to go get us a table right now, in fact.’

‘Even better. Fingers crossed we’ll be celebrating.’

‘Good luck.’ She hugs me again and offers a small wave as she melts into the crowd by Jubilee Gardens.

Slinking back to my desk, a family photo catches in the corner of my eye. A pre-digital age selfie of my father, brother and me at Disneyland Paris. I wonder what they’re both up to right now. I’d likely know if I opened Adam’s emails, but I’ve been too preoccupied this afternoon with Lainey’s photos and waiting on data from one of our researchers, Sally. I need her document before the weekend kicks in, otherwise I’ll be spending another Saturday night writing exhibition notes with only Netflix and a bottle of wine for company, like all good social animals.

As always, I’ll answer Adam later. He never expects a response straightaway.

‘Katharine, are you ready?’

Roland, my boss, pokes his head out of his door and waves a beckoning hand. He’s the only one in our small team who’s been blessed with an office, not that it’s much to write home about. The windows look like they haven’t been cleaned since Theresa May was Home Secretary, the carpet is weak tea beige, and it smells like toilet lollies.

I cross the office knowing all eyes are following me like a stage spotlight. Guess I’m not the only one who knows I have a meeting today. It’s a little intimidating if I’m honest. The door closes behind me with a soft click.

Situations like this don’t normally faze me. Roland’s attitude is less wanky art gallery manager and more everyone’s-best-friend-Bob-Ross. I’ve spent more time in the last five years schmoozing with million-dollar corporate sponsors and doing more overtime than I care to admit, so I can talk the talk, but he’s fiddling with things on his desk like they’ll never quite line up properly. And is that sweat beading on his forehead? Gross.

It’s also not often that I apply for his job, either.

I have the nous and the experience, which certainly helps, but it’s nothing without the art. While photography gave me a place to belong as a teenager, somewhere to explore ideas and feelings, as I got older, I began to experiment with different streams. I’ve dabbled in sketching, oils and watercolours. And, even though photography remains my one true love, I’m constantly amazed by the texture and depth, the layers that are built up to create a story on a canvas.

Regardless of my efforts, I could never quite convince a gallery to show my photography. A lot of conversations ended with ‘It’s fantastic, but …’, or the less brutal ‘We just don’t have the room.’ So, I set my sights on curation instead. Sure, I wasn’t creating work as such, my own art fell by the wayside of busy adult life, but I was creating experiences and sharing my love of art with the world, all while being able to pay my bills at the end of each month. It was the perfect match, and one I wanted to nurture throughout my career. Long story short: being senior curator would be a dream come true.

Looking around the office while Roland finishes nesting, my eye catches on faded prints that have been passed down through generations of senior curators. If this becomes my office, they’ll be out the door and replaced with photography, or an original Romantic period painting if ever I could afford one (I say as I laugh into my empty bank account). The desk looks like it was built around the same time as the museum, during the peach tubular metal fascination of the mid-Eighties, back when Springsteen was The Boss and a DeLorean was the only way to travel.

‘Sit, sit,’ Roland urges as he throws himself into his own chair. Air wheezes from the asthmatic cushion. ‘How’s your day been? Good?’

‘Busy,’ I say, blowing my cheeks out. ‘I’ve been downstairs with the design team this morning, looking at their plans for the exhibition that opens next month. They’ve got everything under control, the displays are coming together nicely. They were working on the entrance piece today. In fact, I’m ecstatic with the way things are progressing. I’m planning on writing up the didactic panels this weekend.’

Didactic panels are those little squares next to artwork in museums, and they can be more painful to get right than a thesis after a bottle or two of cava. So much information to impart, so little space.

‘Excellent.’ Roland laces his fingers and hunches over his desk. ‘Tell me, have we talked about the fundraiser a few weeks ago?’

My mind wormholes back to that night, to the exhibition space that had been transformed into a sleek, polished concrete, dimly lit function room. Soft blue and purple lights embedded in the floor made us look properly fancy, as if our best outfits and napkin swans hadn’t already.

The finest pieces from each department had been painstakingly moved and displayed away from the trajectory of wine glasses and greasy finger-foods, and team members worked the room using our best manners and extensive art knowledge to woo potential corporate sponsors. Now, though, I’m left with the frightening realisation that maybe I’d done something wrong, and that’s why I’m in here. I run through all the conversations I had and try to pinpoint anything crucial. Wait. I didn’t have a full tits-out experience no one told me about, did I? I’m mortified at the thought.

I shake my head and try to gather some moisture in my mouth. It doesn’t happen.

‘Let me be blunt: we smashed it out of the park.’ Roland reaches for a thick legal pad. ‘I had a cheeky vino with the powers that be at lunch today and they’ve greenlit our Van Gogh exhibition for next year. They say there’s enough folding stuff to see us through to the end of next year. We’re all ridiculously excited about it, especially me, because I won’t be here having to do the hard work.’ He snorts a derisive laugh.

‘That’s excellent.’ I nod, feeling myself lean closer. Is he about to tell me what I want to hear? I mean, this is all good news, isn’t it? We’ve made our money and my exhibition suggestion has just been greenlit. ‘Though I’m a tad confused as to why we didn’t just have a team meeting for this?’

‘Oh, right. Yes.’

He mashes his computer mouse into the mat so hard dust floats from the monitor. Pushing fire-engine-red thick-rimmed glasses back up his nose, he squints at the screen. ‘I have one email here … here it is. “We were particularly enthused by Katharine’s knowledge of classics—” they mentioned you specifically “—and are one hundred per cent sure the exhibition will be a success.”’

My insides bubble in the effervescent wonder that, for once, something might be going right. I bite my lip and try to repress a smile. ‘Ah, that’s wonderful. I’m so pleased.’

‘Don’t be so coy.’ Roland finger-guns me. ‘That’s incredible feedback. You’re a bloody star, you are. A credit to any team.’

‘That’s very kind, thank you.’

Wait? What? Any team?

Please, just bloody tell me already. I’ve chiselled away at this job for years. It’s been the Rodin on my CV; long and arduous but ultimately worth it. After all the work I’ve put in, the scratchy-eyed overtime and dinners sucking up to rich people who, despite what they think, know very little about art, and books I’ve spent late nights memorising, I was secretly confident I was a shoo-in for the position. So why the gut feeling that I was being put on the rack?

But I can’t stop here. After compliments like that, I decide I’ve got nothing to lose. I need an answer.

‘Roland, tell me about this lunch meeting,’ I probe. ‘Did they talk about plans beyond Van Gogh? What can I expect to be working on after that? Is it the Women in Renaissance exhibition maybe? I adore that period, and it would be a great win for the museum.’

‘Okay.’ He wriggles uncomfortably, like he has an itchy bomb in his pants. I’d allow myself to entertain that idea if it weren’t for the fact I might laugh in his face. ‘I’m really glad you asked, because there’s been a lot of chatter about who’ll be filling my role and what the office is going to look like—’

‘And?’ I cut over the top of him, too excited to care for rigmarole or patience. Now is good. My heart is beating against my ribs like a muffled xylophone. Flight of the bumblebees, maybe.

‘Management went through each interview: yours, Steve’s, and the other applicants. They looked at responses, qualifications, roles within the team, work that needed to be done, and matched it all up against the criteria matrix, et cetera and so forth.’

He swallows. Hard. And he isn’t making eye contact, instead looking anywhere but at me.

I roll a hand in the hope that the breeze I create will hurry him along. I know I ticked all the boxes on all their checklists; I’d studied the job ad profusely, made notes and carried index cards around the entire week before my interview. Hell, Lainey was even roped into no less than six mock interviews. Nobody could tell me I didn’t meet the qualification criteria – I hold a Masters in Curating and Collections, something Roland likes to throw out to the investors like it’s a dangling carrot. If that isn’t enough, then poke me with a fork because I am done.

‘They’ve decided to run with Steve.’

He says this with such finality that it’s like dropping a brick from a height. For a moment, I can hear nothing but my own blood racing through my ears.

‘Steve?’ I ask, knowing how incredulous I sound. Not even sorry; I can’t help it.

Roland fumbles, for what I don’t know. ‘W-w-well, y-yes. He’s got the experience of his stint at MoMA, and he does consistently great work.’

‘He was at MoMA for ten whole days,’ I deadpan before mumbling, ‘And that was including the jetlag.’

As I say this, I can see Roland’s frame shrink back. He knows this is bad, and not at all the answer I was expecting. I also suspect he knows this makes no sense either, other than the preferential treatment of friends, but no more words come. My mouth gawps like a sunbathing goldfish.

‘All right then.’ I nod and purse my lips.

What else am I supposed to say? I can’t argue, because it would only make me look bad. Assertiveness is often dismissed as aggressiveness in women, and it’s no different here in the art world than it is in any other corporate office. Roland’s leg starts bouncing, and a sinking feeling sets in. This is about to get worse. I’m acutely aware that there is now complete silence in the office behind me; no radio, no chatter, nothing.

Until laughter erupts outside. I glance sideways to see Steve hovering over the desk of one of the other male curators, a sly look trained my way. He knows that I know, and he knows exactly what he’s doing. Right now, I want to grab him by his scrawny designer-shirt-clad shoulders and shake the smug out of him. But I can’t. Instead, I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I can taste the iron tang of blood.

I am furious in a way I don’t think I have ever been before in my life. I wasn’t even this angry when I was nineteen and my brother borrowed my clapped-out Ford Escort and deposited it into a brick wall.

The next few minutes don’t register, not really. Breath coming in short spurts, I get up from the seat as calmly as I think I can, and yank the door open so hard I’m surprised the hinges are still intact. Walking into the open-plan area from Roland’s office, I reach for the first empty box I can find and drag it over to my cubicle.

Family photos and postcard artworks are tacked on the walls of my desk partition, a designer ceramic pot that found a new life as a pen holder is slumped in the corner, and a folder of plans that has been dropped on my keyboard during the time it took for Roland to drop his bombshell leaves my computer trilling its disapproval. A tiny brass plaque with my name engraved sits above my monitor as if to taunt me.

I tear everything down and toss it into the ratty box. There’s no rhyme or reason, and I’m far from gentle with any of it. When I’m done, I reach into my messenger bag and feel around for my next target. From the corner of my eye, I can see the room at a standstill. Roland is pleading with me to come back into his office and talk, but he’s an underwater mumble in a raging torrent of anger.

What am I even doing? Who the hell knows? All I can tell you is that I am not putting up with this anymore. I am not being overlooked in favour of jobs for mates, not anymore. I am not smiling and nodding while I watch the incompetent leap-frog over me. Again. I am not working nights and weekends and overtime just to be kept in a holding pattern. I have had enough. Time to draw a line in the sand.

And I draw it in Taylor Swift-red lipstick. Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab a sheet of paper from my in-tray and scrawl ‘I QUIT’ across it in big bold letters, the lipstick crumbling and mashing as I go. Grinning at Roland, who I can’t quite hear over the siren call of blood in my ears, I hold my sign aloft like I’m about to announce a wrestling match.

The office erupts into a cacophony of noise. Roland shouting for me to stop breaks through the hoots and hollers. I push past him, head held high until I pause below the glowing Exit sign and clock my sight on Steve. One hand on the emergency exit door, I raise the other up in line with my face and indulge in one last act of pettiness, showing him my middle finger. The drum of my chest is replaced by the clacking of heels as I flee down the stairwell, and, somewhere behind me, I’m sure I can hear the faint clatter of clapping.

Chapter 2

Above my head, the shining face of Big Ben lights up against the dusky sky, reminding me that as of 5.09 p.m. on a muggy Friday in July, I am now unemployed. A busker croons by the Westminster tube entrance, but I’m not sure his upbeat Ed Sheeran covers are going to cut it tonight. I don’t need castles on hills or to sing at the top of my lungs. The exhilaration of leaving the office is beginning to wear off, so I need food and drink and the company of a good friend to help unravel the humiliated knot in my stomach.

When I finally stop and take stock, I realise that I am absolutely, bottom of the well without a ladder terrified. I could barely afford to live in London on my wage, let alone without it. Sure, I’ve got some savings stashed away, but they won’t last forever. Hell, they probably won’t last until the change of seasons.

A summer breeze tickles the backs of my wobbly legs as I hoist my messenger bag higher on my shoulder and scramble to stop my small box of junk cascading out of my arms and onto the pavement. It’s not like it’s an Aladdin’s cave of treasure, but it is mine and I’d rather keep it that way. I jab at the pedestrian crossing, once, twice, three times in quick succession while my mind runs over the last excruciating thirty minutes of my life.

‘Hurry up!’

The woman next to me glares at me with all the patience of a lottery winner waiting on a cheque. Ironic, really. She probably wouldn’t be too excited if she were me, though I don’t say that aloud. In a pocket I can’t reach, my phone continues to vibrate. It has since my heels hit the street.

A Hop-On Hop-Off bus rolls over Westminster Bridge and through the intersection, the flash of camera phones turns the top deck into a mobile disco. It’s joined by a swarm of Deliveroo cyclists trying to beat everyone through the intersection. As they pass, the last of them chiming wildly on their bell, the lights change, and I join the throng as we pull each other across the street. It’s a regular Friday evening synchronised swim.

I muddle my way through the crowd. It’s not as simple as it looks when everyone’s clambering up and down the steps for the tube and I’m not. I find myself unusually irritated with the slow movers and the tourists who bottleneck because they need to work out the best vantage point for just one more photo of Big Ben.

I get it, I really do, but he’s under scaffolding and I need to be somewhere. Leave him (and me) in peace.

Slipping through all that, I turn into Parliament and head for the Red Lion. With its dark façade of railway tiles, glittering signage, and bushels of flowers, it brings a bit of old-world charm into every Friday evening. I glance in the windows quickly as I approach.

‘Hungry, miss? Table for one? Two?’ A waiter catches my eye.

‘Two, thank you.’ I smile politely. By the time he pulls his notepad from the pocket of his apron, I’m already pointing out Lainey, who’s perched at a bench for two in the back window.

With an arm outstretched, he lets me wind my own way through the maze of diners to where my friend sits, already looking cosy with a bottle of white.

I’ve known Lainey going on sixteen years now. Outside my family, she’s the longest, dearest friendship I’ve had. We met one fly-riddled, sticky afternoon after an all you could handle beer and pizza bender organised by the student union. I’d sat myself down on a grassy hill and peeled off my shoes and socks just to feel something cool under my feet and photograph some of the boxy modern architecture.

With a harrumph, she flopped down beside me and shook out a bag of liquorice while muttering about boys who couldn’t take a hint and how, under no circumstance, did she want to go and look at the Def Leppard plaque at the spoon factory. When I chimed in about how it reminded me of a boyfriend I’d recently broken up with, it set us on the start of our long trajectory of broken hearts and happily ever afters.

After university, she decamped to London, heading straight from undergraduate into working for a smaller gallery. I stayed in Sheffield to complete my master’s before landing an assistant role at Webster Fine Art. When a position in my office opened up a few months later, I sent her the job ad, she applied, and we’d worked together ever since.

Tonight, even with her day off, she looks like the poster child for corporate office perfection, whereas I’m sure I left the office looking like the love child of Beetlejuice and Alice Cooper.

Her smile slips as she takes one look at the box in my arms. It registers that tonight is not one of those happy endings we like to celebrate. Mugs, tattered diaries, pictures and old Cup-a-Soup boxes are the office worker’s walk of shame.

‘What the hell have you done?’ She gawps as she reaches across the table to fill my glass while I busy myself with hanging my bag and coat over the back of my chair.

‘This is what happens when you have a day off,’ I titter with a wave of the finger. ‘I might have quit.’

She gasps, recoiling slightly. ‘You did not.’

‘Oh, but I did.’

‘What the fu …’ she says waspishly. ‘What happened? Are you okay?’

‘I’m okay,’ I lie with a huff as I collapse into my seat. Having confessed to someone makes things seem suddenly more real. I just quit my fucking job.

‘As it turns out, the meeting with Roland this afternoon was to tell me that, although I’m amazing and our investors love me, someone else was getting his job. I might have had a brain snap and decided enough was enough. I’m sick of being passed over in favour of less skilled men.’

‘Oh, what?’ She bashes down on the table. A symphony of stainless-steel clatter joins her outrage. I love how passionate she is about anything involving her friends and family, even if it occasionally draws the ire of surrounding diners. Where I’d spent the last thirty minutes trying to tamp down an ‘it’s not fair’ tantrum, her outrage bubbles forth freely and it reminds me of why I love her so in the first place. ‘Who got it?’

I rub my face and flip the menu over as if I’m ever going to order anything other than fish and chips, mushy peas and curry sauce. ‘Bloody Foot Fetish Steve.’

Now, I’m not one to spill secrets, but he got that nickname after an especially rowdy office party that involved him walking off into the night with a woman who charged by the hour. Not that there’s any shame in that, but let’s just say the stories that filtered back in the ‘Don’t tell anyone, but …’ game of telephone were a riot. Hence, an office nickname was born.

‘Penis.’ Lainey tips her glass in my direction. ‘That’s what it is. It’s the sausage factory churning them out again. You’re perfectly capable. I mean, sure, you don’t have the sailboat for weekends with the boys, and you have to sit down to wee, but does it matter?’

‘I know how to do this job. I have lived art for years,’ I press, hands jazzed out by the side of my head. When I raise my eyes to meet Lainey’s, hers crinkle and laughter bubbles up between us. ‘And I do sit down to wee.’

A waiter appears beside us, a cautious bounce in his step and an unsure smile. I order my regular fish and chip dinner and the longest Long Island Iced Tea they’ll legally pour me.

‘You know what, I should be on the Vimtos.’ Lainey pokes the air. ‘But I’ll have what she’s having.’

‘Why the Vimtos?’ I ask as our waiter departs.

‘Wedding tosh tomorrow.’ She waves a hand. ‘Tell me more about this meeting.’

‘Somewhere in the mix I’m sure he said they were moving in a more contemporary direction,’ I continue. ‘Can’t quite remember.’

‘What has that got to do with anything?’ Lainey asks. ‘You studied art, not just classical art. You fucking photograph it too, in case they forgot. If I sliced you with this knife you’d probably bleed out like a Jackson Pollock.’

‘Maybe, but I haven’t taken a decent photo in years,’ I grumble. ‘Yours today notwithstanding, the most I can manage is a Polaroid that reads like a Bond movie … for my eyes only.’

Life has been too busy for me to even consider photography. All right, I could if I forced myself but, after working long hours, finding time to socialise, and life in general, I must admit that it’s one of my life’s failings.

‘Plenty of time for that now,’ she jokes.

‘What I don’t understand is that Roland made sure to tell me how much the investors loved my knowledge of classic art.’ I look at her. ‘Do you think that might be it?’

‘That sounds like a rubbish excuse.’ She refocuses her attention on me and folds her arms across the table. ‘They’re not just going to dump the Italian bloody Renaissance in favour of an exclusive run of modern art. They know what brings visitors in and doing a complete switch into a new direction will only be a bad thing. Katharine, you were the best of all of us, you know that. Let’s not even get into the workaholic tendencies.’

I roll my eyes. ‘For what that was worth.’

Her mouth flatlines. ‘What are you going to do now?’

‘I have zero idea.’ I draw my fingers through my dark hair, tugging it out of the French knot I always style it in. An instant tingling relief crawls across my scalp. ‘Anyway, going on about it won’t fix it, will it? Talk to me about you. What’s happening on Planet Lainey and Frank? How did your job interview this morning go?’

‘I think I’m in with a shot.’ She does a hair toss. ‘Soho tech start-up, another ten thousand a year, don’t mind if I do. Can start immediately post honeymoon.’

‘Great,’ I enthuse. ‘That’s brilliant. I’ll keep everything crossed. What about wedding plans?’

She lights up immediately, the whimsical, breezy look of a bride in love floats across her face and softens her features. Reaching into a handbag the size of her torso, she produces a glossy ream of magazine. It lands on the table with such a thud the tealight candle flickers and cutlery clatters again. I push the candle aside to get a better look. I’m not keen on setting fire to the table; an arson charge never looks good on a résumé.

As we eat, we pore over pages of shimmering gowns, sharp suits, perfectly styled place settings, car hire companies, and every other painstaking detail a bride and her groom could possibly need to think about on their way to the altar. It’s an exciting time, and I couldn’t be happier for my friends. Lainey and Frank are two halves of a walnut, perfectly snug in their world, cocoon-like in the way they protect, love, and look out for each other. In my softest moments, it made me a teensy bit jealous.

They’d been engaged for eighteen months now, the sparkling black-tie party held at Sky Garden. Now, it was a matter of planning things at the pointy end. Wedding invites were recently posted, and the RSVPs had begun trickling in. It was now down to picking suits, final dress fittings, and searching out the perfect pair of shoes.

‘You know, I have to ask, because I’m a qualified panic merchant.’ Lainey downs the last of her drink and fixes me with a nervous look.

‘Shoot.’

‘Are you sure you’re okay with not being maid of honour?’ she asks, her face cinched as if waiting for the fallout.

‘Are you kidding?’ Glass held to my mouth, I let out an amused snort. ‘I think it’s great. I love you, but hell if I want to traipse around under layers of warpaint and three-inch heels all day.’

She breathes a sigh of relief. ‘Gosh, I love you. It’s just, my sister would go spare if she weren’t involved. My mother would book the seventh circle of hell as a honeymoon destination, and Frank and I already agreed on having a maid of honour and best man only. Did I tell you they tag-teamed me into giving her the role? I got puppy dog eyes and “your sister is desperate to be a part of your big day” at ten paces. The little shit is making life difficult though.’

‘Honestly, it’s fine.’ I shake my head and peel apart a flaky piece of fish. I’m not sure if it’s the most amazing meal I’ve had, or if the alcohol’s helping, but the fish is smooth and buttery, and I could easily eat a tonne of these chips. ‘I will be there with bells on. Helping with the invites and place cards is more than enough involvement for me.’

In the last few years, I’d found calligraphy a great way to unwind and put my failing skills to the test. I think it has something to do with the fact I was better at writing than producing anything photographic. Smooth strokes of a pen always seemed more finite, more foolproof than selecting just the right f-stop or lens. I also didn’t need a darkroom to see the final results. Working on wedding stationery had been a fun way to stretch my artistic muscle while still being part of something magical.

‘Speaking of, what are you doing Sunday? Frank’s heading for a round of golf with the boys if you want to come over. We can drown your work sorrows and my wedding woes and watch cheesy rom-coms with biscuits and coffee and maybe work on place cards?’

‘Sounds great,’ I say around a mouthful. ‘I have all the time in the world right now.’

‘You know, you still haven’t told me who you’re bringing as your plus one,’ Lainey says in a way that tells me she’s casting a long line and fishing for information. ‘John, maybe?’

‘I’ll ask, though last time he said no.’

‘You mean to tell me he hasn’t realised yet that you are the most amazing woman he’s ever clapped eyes on, and that he needs to wife you immediately?’ Lainey watches me with her huge green eyes, mozzarella dangling towards her mouth from a height that implied I might have been looking at Michelangelo’s Creation of Lainey. Well, pizza is life, isn’t it?

‘No.’ I shake my head with embarrassed laughter. ‘Probably not.’

My other New Year’s revolution was to sort out my love life. As it turns out, that’s not going entirely to plan, either. My not-quite boyfriend, John Harrison, started as a one-night stand that has spiralled out of control. It’s lasted way longer than I expected and now feels like I’ve been living on the precipice of something more for months.

I wasn’t asking for a gigantic rock that caught my sweater like a doorknob, although I was sure he could probably afford one on his lawyer’s salary. All I wanted to know was where I stood. Girlfriend? Fly-by-night shag? Was it too much to ask him to help define what we were? Contrary to what Pink Floyd wants you to believe, suspended animation is not a state of bliss. We were allegedly exclusive, though had never really talked about it. Are we dating? Are we not dating? Maybe we should do the whole family introductions thing. After all, it had been nine months.

Not knowing where I stand makes me feel like I’m somebody’s dirty little secret. Lately, that’s begun chipping away and exposing my soft fleshy underbelly for what it was: tragically romantic.

‘When are you going to nip that in the bud?’ Lainey asks. ‘Hey?’

‘Not tonight.’ I drain the last of my glass and look at her, locking that romantic daydream away. ‘If anything, he’ll be a nice distraction.’

She tuts and sighs, though I’m not entirely sure she disagrees with me.

‘I know.’ I hold my hands up defensively and her eyes widen with laughter. ‘Let me have my small mercies. Please. All I’m asking for tonight is an orgasm. At least then something good will have happened today.’

‘I know you say you’re not dating—’

‘We aren’t officially dating.’ I wipe a napkin across the smile on my face. ‘We are simply exploring each other’s naked forms. It’s art.’

‘It’s all art, darling.’ Lainey laughs. ‘Speaking of dating though, this Friday night dinner is becoming a regular date for us. One that I enthusiastically support.’

Had life become so routine that the biggest night of my social calendar is a cheeky feed in the back corner of a 600-year-old pub? While it’s nice to have close friends and regular catch-ups, it was obvious this pub had more of a life than I did. Outside of Lainey, the friend who keeps me grounded, there’s John, the man I call after a few too many drinks or, on a night like tonight, when I need to lose myself in someone else.

And that’s exactly what I do at the end of the night, not more than two minutes after my bus deposits me near my Camberwell block of flats. The dial tone and the sound of background traffic is my company as I start walking. When I think it’s going to ring out, he answers.

‘Katharine,’ he says matter-of-factly.

‘Hello.’ I try but can’t help the silly grin that threatens to light up the darkened street.

‘Hello, you.’ His voice dips and is now warm, familiar, and exactly what I want to hear. ‘What are you up to at this time of night?’

‘I’m almost home,’ I say, listening to him mutter about how late it is. ‘Late dinner with Lainey.’

‘Late nights with Lainey sounds like a local radio show.’

‘I know, I know.’ I spin on the spot, randomly checking over my shoulder. A couple with their arms linked and heads dipped towards each other disappear into the shadows of a side street. When my box slips, I hoist it higher under my arm. ‘What are you doing right now?’

‘I have just walked through my front door after a fascinating phone call about a breach of contract case. In a few moments, I may pour myself a cheap whisky, and sit myself down on my sofa and watch the Thames pass by. Now, I think I’ll tug seductively on my silk tie.’

I smile, worrying my bottom lip. ‘Why don’t you bring yourself, and that tie, around to mine? You can poke holes in my deposition?’

He snorts, and I can hear him untwisting a bottle cap. ‘Poke holes in your deposition?’

‘You like it? It’s the only lawyer joke I know.’

‘I am … yep, never going to hear that word the same way again.’ He tries and fails at sounding disgusted.

‘So, are you coming around to interrogate me, or what?’ I try.

‘Katharine, it’s just gone ten thirty,’ he whines. ‘You can’t come here?’

As much as I love the plush fittings and oversized shower at John’s Pimlico flat, I tap my access card against the door lock and shuffle into my building. The box of belongings I’ve been lugging around all night gets dribbled along the floor and into the lift. ‘It’s been a long day. I’ve just got home. I’m going to head inside, then into my shower where I will endeavour to prepare more bad law puns for you. You’ve got twenty minutes.’

‘It’ll take me at least thirty on the bus.’

‘I can clean my place up in thirty minutes, sure.’

John groans. ‘You’re gonna make me get up, aren’t you?’

‘I will get you up, yes.’ I giggle, then thank the late night I’m the only one in the lift. ‘Come on. I’m offering you no strings sex.’

‘Let’s clarify something,’ he says through a chuckle. ‘All of your sex is no strings, so this is just Malibu Stacy with a new hat.’

‘Have you got a problem with that?’ Though I say that, it pinches at something uncomfortable, a tight reminder of what I’m not getting out of this.

‘On the contrary,’ he mumbles. ‘It’s my favourite kind.’

‘See you in thirty?’ The elevator arrives on my floor and my reflection disappears as the doors slide open.

‘Make it twenty.’ He hangs up and dead air fills my ear.

Chapter 3

I roll over and reach for my bedside table, fumbling about for my phone and coming up with a pile of photos wedged beneath an instant camera. The first one is of John, taken only a few hours earlier in the grey and dusty morning light.

Across the hall, I can hear the shower running. It’s odd in that it means he’s stayed the night and hasn’t left me a ‘Dear Katharine’ text like he often does. I wonder if I should pounce and ask what it means, whether these increased overnight stays signal something bigger about to happen, but I’m quite enjoying being snuggled in bed, listening to the sound of his humming occasionally floating above the water.

I twiddle the white-rimmed photo between my fingers. He’s smiling out at me, face half obscured by a pillow that still smells of aftershave, black hair dangling in his eyes where his fringe is getting too long. I joke about him not getting his hair cut, when the truth is, I adore it this length. His left eye is open only enough to show me that immutable spark that hides behind his eyes for everyone but me and his mouth is perfectly carved into a tired smile.

Barely moments after taking the photo, the flash still casting shadows on the wall, he threw a languid arm around my waist. Our limbs were still heavy and warm with sleep as he pulled me underneath him as we greeted the morning the best way we knew how.

Evidence of his stay is spread across the room, slacks crumpled beside the bed, shirt somehow hanging from the doorknob, and his tie is knotted around the bedhead for reasons I’d never speak aloud.

A crash in the kitchen steals my attention. It’s not the cymbal-like clash of pots and pans of someone making breakfast, but the muted clunk of ceramic that doesn’t quite bounce on tiles. My skin prickles because, unless John has grown tentacles in the last few hours, it means that there are now two people other than myself in my flat. Realisation hits me in a cold sweat.

Only one other person has a key to my flat: my brother. I sit up straighter and chew on a hangnail while I consider exactly how I’m going to get out of this. Hint: I won’t.

Adam is thirty-eight, three years older than me, and lives with his wife Sophie in a bigger, brighter, and far more expensive flat in Gladstone House, where I’m certain the minimum dress code for some of the cafés is suit and tie. Bonus points for a horsehair wig.

I pull on the first pair of jeans I see, sniff test a loose T-shirt and take a deep breath. Sweat tickles down my spine as I step out of the bedroom.

When people ask me to describe my flat, I find it easier asking them to imagine a small but cosy hotel room. In fact, I’ve often wondered if this building wasn’t a hotel built and discarded by some huge conglomerate. I have a bedroom, small living room, bathroom, laundry in a cupboard, and a kitchenette, which is where I find Adam. His mousy brown hair protrudes from the horizon of my kitchen counter like a shark fin in the ocean.

‘And a very good morning to you.’ I slip my hands into my pockets and rock on the balls of my feet.

He grumbles, still hunched over the floor, still mopping up his accident.

‘You okay?’ I lean over the counter to see more of him. He barely registers a glance over his shoulder.

‘Dropped a bloody mug, didn’t I?’ He stands, tossing a limp brown bundle of kitchen towel into the sink. ‘Anyway, I thought you were in the shower.’

‘Ah, no,’ I say. ‘That’s not me.’

He nods in the direction of a bouquet of flowers on the white stone bench; dusty pink peonies and roses, sweet peas and ivy wrapped in brown paper and held together with twine. ‘Got anything to do with these?’

What is it about older brothers that makes younger sisters feel like they’ve done something to be embarrassed about? The moment a brother meets a boyfriend is always destined to be a little awkward, but this feels like it’s about to get a whole lot worse.

I dig about my messenger bag for my phone and slip it on charge, surprised to find a barrage of messages from colleagues. Correction: past colleagues. Shaking that from my mind, because I do not want to talk about it, I busy myself searching for a vase. Digging the card out from between the foliage, I smile and feel heat bloom in my cheeks.

Here’s to stolen moments – J x

As much as John and I couldn’t decide what we were, I loved that he bought me the occasional bouquet. Especially when it involved opening my front door last night to find him in his suit and tie looking like he’d just stepped out of the courtroom. I’d already stripped down to my pyjamas and drunk the first glass from a bottle of wine, which is enough to tell you how different we are as people. As he tried hiding behind the oversized bloom of foliage, I’d clutched a fistful of waistcoat and pulled him through the door.

Adam plucks the card from my hand.

‘Who’s J?’ His head bobs about in an impression of the chicken from Moana as he tries desperately to make eye contact with me.

‘Somebody.’ I snatch it back. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’

‘Well, if you had opened the email I sent yesterday, you would know Dad has asked us to come home for lunch today.’ He looks at me, wide-eyed. ‘Complete with a robust “Are you two workaholics still alive? Or do I need to have a stroke before either of you make it up for a visit?” message attached.’

‘No,’ I say slowly. ‘I noticed your email there, it just kind of slipped my mind.’

‘Slipped your mind in the middle of the night.’ Adam tips his head towards the bathroom. ‘So, come on. Who is he?’

My brain does an Olympic level of gymnastics trying to work out how I’m going to get around this situation.

I could sneak into the bathroom and leave a spare key while bundling my brother out the door, using the excuse of needing breakfast to get him moving. Adam is always up for a full English and a pot of coffee at a greasy spoon. God, he’d been banging on about his favourite café for months before I first moved to London. When I did finally get there, let’s just say he was more in love with the congealed bacon than I was.

Naively, I hope he’ll drop the subject altogether, but there’s currently another man in my flat and my brother is a lawyer which means that, as far as this was concerned, there’s blood in the water and he’s circling. Never mind the box of belongings sitting by the phone, the same box I dragged home from work last night; these flowers are much more exciting.

‘Come on, you can tell me.’ He crosses a finger over his chest. ‘Pinkie swear.’

‘Really?’ I narrow my eyes and cock my head. ‘Because that’s not a pinkie swear.’

‘It’s not exactly a state secret though, is it?’ He finally pours himself a coffee. ‘Jeremey, Jason, Jarrod, Jared, Jarryd, Julian, Julius?’

I shake my head quickly, my eyes set towards my bathroom door. Yes, I can leave John the spare key, send him a text. He did it once for me at his flat. That’s exactly what I’ll do. ‘Come on, let’s go. We should go get breakfast.’

‘Oh, no, no you don’t.’ He stops. ‘Is it a she? Jennifer? Julie? Jessica?’

‘Stop,’ I grumble.

‘Because it’s okay if it is.’

‘I know it’s perfectly okay,’ I say with a sigh. ‘I’d just—’

‘Can I buy a vowel?’

‘No, you cannot buy a vowel,’ I snap and stamp my foot.

‘Katharine?’ John’s voice curls itself into a question as he appears from the bathroom. ‘Do you think my penis ascribes to the golden ratio?’

Adam’s eyes grow wide and his face lights up like the Blackpool Illuminations. Right now, I want to remind him of how much he looks like our father, with his brown hair full of salt and pepper fleck and dark eyes crinkling in horror at the edges, but I don’t.

I clear my throat beneath a mortified chortle. ‘That’s not … no, that’s not quite how that works.’

‘What about my arse, then?’ He stands in the small passageway, seemingly bracketed between the bathroom and my bedroom. Right as he’s about to pivot like a runway model and show me his backside, he spots my brother in the kitchen. The towel drops slowly from his ruffled hair to his crotch. For the first time ever, I’m sure I see John blush. ‘Adam. Hello.’

Adam turns to me, slack-jawed, full of brotherly repulsion. ‘That is officially the second worst way he could have used the word “golden” in this flat.’

‘Adam,’ I scowl, feeling my cheeks douse in embarrassment. Strike a match of inappropriate brotherly comments, and I may well light up like a grassfire.

Silence stretches out between the three of us and my attention swings in a pendulum, back and forth between the two of them, waiting for something, anything. Eventually, John steps forward, fire-engine red Egyptian cotton the only thing protecting his modesty, and he extends his hand.

‘Good morning,’ he says.

Hesitantly, my brother accepts and shakes his hand. ‘Ah, yep. Hello.’

‘Much on today?’ John asks casually.

Listening to him talk, anyone would think he was in a regular office environment, not standing in my flat dripping wet and under the increasingly heavy scrutiny of my brother, who’s dumbfounded. But John’s just so damn nonchalant about it all; cool and calm and confident, as if this were so ordinary and everyday.

‘More than you, by the looks of things,’ Adam says slowly, wiping a not entirely inconspicuous hand on the back of his trousers as he mumbles about hand sanitiser.

‘Yeah, about that. I’m going to go get dressed.’ John presses a kiss into my hair and the bedroom door closes behind him.

If the foot of God were to appear from the sky and squash me in some Monty Python-esque skit right now, I would not be upset. In fact, I’d welcome the sweet victory of death. Beneath the silence that stretches through my kitchen, we listen to John yawn as he dresses.

Though Adam is silent, I can almost see his thoughts playing out above him in comic book speech bubbles. He’s shocked but, when John announces that he’s leaving, that gives way to concern.

I follow John and pull the door closed behind us as far as I can without wedging my neck between the frame and the door and cutting off my own air supply. He blows his cheeks out and offers up a silent, anxious laugh.

‘That’s one way to make a man disappear up into himself,’ he says with a smirk.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I mouth, cringing, before I whisper, ‘I didn’t realise he was going to be here this morning.’

‘It’s okay.’ He takes a step closer and draws a finger down my cheek, sliding a lock of wayward hair behind my ear. It’s slow and it burns, and it takes me right back to last night. ‘Cat’s out of the bag now, isn’t it?’

That may be, if he would finally agree that we were something halfway serious. Hope sinks with the reminder that we still have not sorted things out. Again.

Pressing a hand to his chest, I can feel the heat of his body through his expensive shirt and smell my cheap and cheerful apple-scented body wash against his skin. Would it be wrong to kick my brother out and drag John back to the bedroom? I want to. A brief flicker of sanity stops me.

‘About that. Can I see you during the week?’ I venture tentatively. It’s not our normal thing. We’re strictly weekends and Friday nights only, but a girl can try. ‘In light of today, I think there are a few things we need to talk about.’

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 quietly. ‘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.

‘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?’

‘Is that what you’re offering?’

Against everything running through my mind right now, the shock and irritation and, hell, the sheer audacity of him, I smile. ‘I’m not offering anything.’

‘No?’ he asks, head tipped. ‘Why are we talking about it, then?’

‘You’re very tenacious, aren’t you?’ I ask. Frustration sifts through me and I take it out on the mixing bowl.

‘Hardly.’ He shifts and presses his palms against the bench. ‘It’s a no, then?’

‘It’s a no,’ I say as sweetly as I can. ‘I can’t authorise anything, especially in my father’s kitchen on a Saturday afternoon. Mr Webster would have a coronary, which wouldn’t be the best look for me, given he already had one last year.’

‘I’ll bet if I were hugely popular and mainstream attractive, you’d sign me right up.’ He snaps his fingers.

‘That’s not true.’ Annoyance starts to climb my ribs again. It settles on my shoulders and pulls them tight.

‘What’s your next exhibition?’ he asks. ‘Huh?’

The unemployment queue, I think.

‘Van Gogh,’ I say, noticing how tired he looks under the skylight.

‘Before that?’

I sigh and tip my head back. ‘DaVinci.’

‘Oh.’ He smiles, tongue rolling around in his cheek pocket. ‘So, basically all the famous dead guys.’

‘All right.’ I fling my hands up in the air, little particles of cake mixture rising alongside them. ‘Pitch me.’

‘Oh, so now you want me to pitch you?’ He laughs as he crosses his arms.

‘Yes, pitch to me.’ I wave a hand. ‘Come on, Mr Underground.’

‘Mr Underground?’ He bows his head and pinches his bottom lip. When he lifts his eyes to meet mine, I feel something in the room tip. Instinctively, I reach for the edge of the counter and clutch it so hard my knuckles lose colour. ‘Let’s see. Pitch, pitch, pitch.’

Kit begins pacing across the kitchen, both of us completely ignorant of the world around us, of the conversations happening outside, or that we might be missing out on them. I watch as he hugs himself and fills the space between the refrigerator and the kitchen counter.

‘A retrospective on the nature of learning in the realm of art?’ he tries. ‘A progressive snapshot of art coming together. The journey from beginner to exhibited artist.’

I frown. ‘You want to sell that to the board of directors? Half-finished paintings?’

‘I want to sell it to someone.’ He nods vehemently.

‘Keep in mind, you just insulted my art,’ I said. ‘As a beginner artist. So, you know. You’ve gotta be better than that.’

‘It’s a legitimately terrible piece.’ He chuckles, as if to lighten the mood. ‘Amateur.’

‘I was fifteen!’ I argue. ‘It’s lovely. And I was amateur. What? Are you seriously going to tell me you have nothing of sentiment on your walls?’

His smile falters.

‘And I’m going to sell prints now because of you. I hope you feel good about that.’ I point at him. ‘Watch out for my Etsy store.’

‘Do I get commission?’

‘You wish.’

‘I wouldn’t mind it, honestly.’ He claps his hands together. ‘It’s because you’re only in it for the fame, right? That’s why you don’t want me.’

‘What?’ I shriek. ‘No, it’s nothing to do with that. I cannot just walk into my boss’s office on Monday morning, slap my papers down and announce I’ve found the next big thing. I don’t even know who the artist is or what they’re known for and, in fact, half the paintings aren’t even finished, but never mind that. I’m sure it’ll sell. The directors will want to know how many visitors I can attract, who are the big names on show, and whether it’s going to be financially viable. It’s got nothing to do with popular versus underground. It’s really not.’

‘But popular brings all the punters to the yard, doesn’t it?’

‘Of course it does.’

‘Then it does have to something to do with that.’

‘For the love of God,’ I mutter into the mixing bowl. ‘Will you give up already?’

When I finish mixing the cake and turn to look at him, he’s gone, spirited away out of the room without a whisper of a footstep. In his place, my father, who looks highly bemused at best.

‘That sounded interesting.’

‘Where’d he go?’ I peer around him towards the dining room. ‘He was just here.’

‘He’s outside. He just sat down.’

‘He is awful,’ I whisper loudly. ‘Walked right in here, insulted my photograph and then asked me for space in the gallery like I should be grateful for his time.’

‘He did?’

‘Yes.’ I nod so hard I could put my neck out.

Dad laughs. ‘Make it happen.’

‘What?’

‘Do it. Talk to whoever you need to at Webster and make it happen.’

‘What?’ I complain. ‘No.’

‘Yes, here, let me show you.’ Dad’s madly swiping and unlocking his phone, ready to show me the Gallery de Christopher. ‘His work is so vibrant.’

I place a hand over the screen without looking and give him a stern look. ‘Dad, no.’

‘Katharine, he hasn’t exhibited anything in two years. Please?’

I clench my jaw, pour the batter into a tin, and take out my mild rage by belting the tin against the counter under the guise of removing air bubbles. ‘I can’t.’

‘Don’t be silly. It’s too good an opportunity to pass up. Do you have any idea the people who’ve tried to get him to show recently? He’s turned away every single one.’

‘Dad, I can’t,’ I say, this time a little more forcefully.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I don’t have a gallery to show his work in.’

He snorts. ‘Don’t be silly. Yes, you do. Carlton Webster would love it.’

‘Yes, but he wouldn’t love me very much right now because I quit last night,’ I say quietly, unable to meet his eyes.

‘You what?’

‘I said, I quit my job.’ I groan and rub floury hands across my face. ‘Marched myself right out the door.’

Dad holds a finger in the air. ‘You wait right there.’

‘No, don’t.’ I grab at his arm. ‘Please don’t make a big deal about this. You’ve got a friend here, and I went to the effort of making you cake. At least let everyone eat it.’

‘Since when can you make cake?’

‘I can bake.’ Surprisingly well with the help of a packet mix, as it turns out.

Though he looks pained, he agrees, but it doesn’t stop him dragging Adam and Fiona into an impromptu family meeting while I try and clean my mess. The four of us huddle around a tiny butcher trolley, each taking turns to wipe the left-over cake batter from the mixing bowl with our fingers.

‘You know, I kind of already knew.’ Adam slurps at his finger.

‘You what? How could you possibly know?’

‘Well.’ His shoulders make for his ears. ‘When you didn’t answer your email, I called your desk. Whoever answered told me you’d just upped stumps and marched out.’

‘Oh.’

‘Why would you walk out?’ Dad asks. ‘Did you do something wrong?’

‘What? No. I didn’t do something wrong,’ I say angrily. Why has he automatically gone for me as the blame? ‘I got passed over for the senior curator role. Again. It’s the third time I’ve applied and, honestly, I’d had enough.’

‘And never mind the box of belongings on your kitchen counter this morning,’ Adam adds.

‘You saw that?’

‘Focusing on that proved a valuable distraction,’ he teases, making me blush at the thought of a naked John squaring off with my brother.

‘There’s nothing to be ashamed about, Katharine.’ Dad plucks a half-eaten packet of biscuits from the top of the cupboard behind the teacups no one ever uses. We figured that was where he hid all his favourite biscuits not long after Mum died, and we walked in to find him mainlining a packet of custard creams.

Adam’s got his lawyer hat on, trying to weasel his way into any side argument or point of law he can think of. Not that it matters, I tell him. What’s done is done. That’s life. I’ll find another job and move on, and it will be okay. I’ll be okay.

‘Find another job?’ Fiona asks. ‘Where?’

‘There are plenty of jobs.’ Dad hands me the newspaper. ‘If you’re willing to change things up. You know, I could retire while you run the shop?’

‘Oh.’ My shoulders slip. ‘No, don’t do that. I’m sure I’ll be fine.’

‘Have you got enough money? Did they pay you out?’ Fiona asks.

‘Yes, and yes, probably,’ I say with a sigh. ‘I’ll get paid out what I’m owed. Not much, but it’s something. Honestly, it’s not the end of the world. Let’s just enjoy this afternoon. In case you’ve forgotten, we have a guest waiting. I’m sure he’s absolutely thrilled about not being centre of attention right now. Let’s just entertain. I’ll sort this.’

And that’s exactly what we do. I keep one eye on the oven timer and the other on the newspaper classifieds. Conversations go on around me, Dad’s busy reading the arts pages and trying not to answer emails that are coming through to the shop. He’s got staff for that, Fiona reminds him. Kit discusses a mutual friend, and Fiona is the floater who brings us all back into singular conversation occasionally.

One thing that strikes me, huddled in my chair in the back corner of the room, is that the more I browse the newspaper and online sites, it’s abundantly clear my job prospects are limited. I peer over the top of the newspaper at Kit, who seems to have a radar and offers me a cursory glance before resuming his conversation. I flip him the bird behind the paper before continuing my search.

Sure, I could throw my hat in the ring for anything. I’d happily stack shelves or flip burgers if that’s all that was on offer. Someone has to do those jobs, right? There’s no shame in them, but they’re not long-term plans for me. Also, they won’t my cover rent, which is already in the upper quadrant of what I could afford to begin with. I need cashflow quickly and, with my limited job prospects, I have to think outside the box.

Kit leaves, and there are hugs and handshakes and requests to catch up again. I smile and nod and say all the right words, even promising I’ll think about coming up for one of his classes. He’s barely down the hall before I retreat to the living room and throw myself into my favourite recliner, legs tucked up under me and T-shirt pulled tight over my knees.

I am never going to one of his classes.

He throws one last look at me. ‘Lovely to have met you, Katharine. You let me know how you go with that gallery space.’

Both Adam’s and Dad’s heads spin to me so quickly anyone would think Holy Water had been tossed about. I keep quiet, instead choosing to watch through the window as he climbs into a beat-up old enamel-green Defender. When he lurches down the street, Dad reappears in the front room.

‘Did you like him? He’s great, isn’t he?’ he asked. ‘Did he show you his art in the end?’

‘He’s rude.’ I shake my head slowly. ‘So rude. And, no, I didn’t see his art, and I don’t really want to.’

‘No,’ he soothes. ‘He’s just a little blunt, that’s all.’

‘Blunt?’ I almost yell. ‘Talking to him is like being hit in the face with a frying pan.’

‘One that’s cold, or still on the hob?’ Adam pops a crisp in his mouth.

‘On the hob,’ I deadpan. ‘Highest setting. Molten.’

Though he’s gone and well down the street, his words echo in my ears. Something about his interest in gallery space sticks. Not that he hadn’t already been otherwise swilling about my mind like a heady wine, but it’s possible he’s planted an idea.

I couldn’t offer exhibitions to just anyone while working at Webster. There were rules and procedures put in place that meant Kit would likely never get past the gatekeepers. But, if I owned my own gallery, I could show whoever I wanted.

Including him.

If I wanted to, which I don’t.

With a fizz in my feet and a tingle in my fingers, I retrieve the newspaper and a coffee from the kitchen. I tear the pages open, pass the ‘Office junior wanted’ ads, taste the bitter blend of ink that jumps from thumb to tongue, and land with a thud in the real estate section, specifically industrial sites that are up for offer.

My brain leapfrogs ahead, playing a holiday slideshow of moments I could only hope to experience. Opening nights, signing new artists, sold-out shows, hosting huge international names. Handshakes, hugs and takeaway dinners eaten by a sales counter as I worked late into the night. They’d be shows I could choose and curate. It’s appealing but, in this moment, it feels like a mirage.

It doesn’t take long for one listing to stand out.

‘Oooh, look. This old place in West Bar up for sale.’ I turn the paper to show everyone. ‘Is it a fire station? It looks like an old bank, maybe.’

‘You getting into the supernatural?’ Adam hauls himself over the arm of the chair to look at the paper. ‘Park the ECTO-1 out the front?’

‘Piss off,’ I say with a laugh.

‘You’d be Egon.’

‘Stop it.’ Dad lashes out and gives him a shove. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘What if I opened my own gallery?’ I look up.

It’s like someone has hit the pause button on the room. Dad’s got his coffee cup to his mouth and Adam stops mid-bite of a biscuit. An excited smile lands on Fiona’s face as she claps her hands together. Only their eyes move as they catch each other for one concerned moment.

‘It’s the perfect space,’ I continue against their silence. ‘Corner position, bright and airy, beautifully classic architecture. Stone building. The colours inside are a bit shite, but that’s nothing a lick of paint can’t fix.’

‘You’d move home?’ Adam asks. ‘That’s a huge decision to make in the space of twenty-four hours.’

‘This is all hypothetical, but I could. Maybe I’d find a place in London. The foot traffic would be great, but it’s bound to be hideously expensive.’ I grab my phone and load up the same ad online and look at the listing complete with technicolour aubergine purple and burnt orange walls, and carpet with more stains than I want to ask about. ‘But it works, right? Or is it silly?’

‘It’s not silly as such,’ Dad says carefully. ‘It’s a great idea. It’s just … finances?’

‘Yeah,’ I say, absent-mindedly. ‘I do have a little cash stashed away. I’ve been wheedling money away for a deposit on a flat of my own, but it might see me through.’

‘But you love your flat,’ Fiona offers. ‘I thought you enjoyed living in London?’

‘Absolutely I do. I love the vibe.’ I glance around the room. ‘But maintaining the status quo hasn’t worked out so well, has it? I’ve been there for, what, ten years now and what have I got to show for it? Bosses who give jobs to their friends, in an already competitive market. By rights, I should have been further along in life than this. I don’t own my own home; I barely even own my car. Something has to change.’

What have I got to lose?

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