Beautifully Unexpected

by Lily Morton

  I stand up as the judge dismisses the jury. “Well, that’s that,” I say cheerfully. My client struggles to his feet, and I hold out my hand. “Congratulations, Mr Simpson.” He shakes my hand, his palm cold and wet, and I lean closer. “Make better choices after this. Most people only get one Get Out of Jail card in their lives. You’ve used yours up.”

  I gather my files and walk away, leaving his solicitor to organise his client.

  Most people rush off after court, hailing taxis left, right, and centre and vanishing back to their offices. However, I’ve always enjoyed a good walk. It lets me stretch out and clear my mind. The day is sunny and warm, and I turn my face into the soft breeze, welcoming how it ruffles my hair. Wearing a court wig might look good on the television, but they’re bloody hot in a stuffy courtroom.

  I walk briskly along, dodging pedestrians and then entering Lincoln’s Inn, where my chambers are situated.

  The small park in the centre is busy with groups of people sitting around on benches chatting and eating lunch. Most of them are in suits and have come from the chambers in the graceful old buildings that line the grassy square.

  I look up at my chambers as they come into view. I get the same feeling coming towards the three-storey Georgian building as others get with their own homes. I suppose the chambers are my home. I certainly spend more time here than at my flat. I look at the wisteria climbing the outside of the building and make a mental note that it’s getting out of control.

  Carl, the senior clerk, is outside leaning on the cast-iron railings and puffing on a cigarette.

  “You really should pack those in,” I say virtuously.

  He shakes his head. “And then where would we be, Mr Carlsen? I’d rip someone’s head off, and you’d have to defend me.”

  “I knew you preferred me,” I say, whipping past the long board outside the door with my name second from the top. Magnus Carlsen QC. “I won’t rub it in with Ms Peterson.”

  “Yes, you will, sir,” he says, chuckling as he comes up next to me.

  I hand him the file from under my arm. He loosens the pink ribbon and opens the packet of papers, making an approving face at the Not Guilty written across the first page.

  “Well done, sir.”

  “Yes, well, I’m not sure I’ll be very popular with the constabulary after this.”

  “Not your problem, sir. We all need a defence. It was the right call.”

  “I’m not sure the victim’s family will think that,” I say sombrely. Then I dismiss the thought and stride through the rooms that are as familiar to me as the back of my hand. I pass wood-panelled rooms with huge comfortable sofas and chairs, and offices filled with the busy sounds of chatter and phones ringing.

  Finally, I enter my office and close the door. The afternoon sun filters through the tall Georgian barred window, falling on my oak desk and playing over the multicoloured files and box folders that are spread across the surface.

  I take off my jacket and hang it over my desk chair, then reach over to switch the machine on to make a coffee. Once I’ve got my cup, I take it across the room to the large green sofa in the corner. It’s fairly old but insanely comfortable, and I sigh in happiness as I ease into the soft surface. If a piece of furniture could talk, this one would tell tales of obscenely late nights working, snatched hours of sleep, and endless takeaways wolfed while sitting on here with my shoes off and files spread everywhere.

  I’ve hardly had time to take a sip when there’s a knock, and the head of my chambers peeks around the door.

  “I hear congratulations are in order,” she says, coming into the room.

  Dressed in a tight-fitting navy dress and with her red hair shining, she’s the picture of organisation and neatness. Two traits that she possesses in full and that make her such an excellent head of chambers. It’s a job that requires levels of tact and diplomacy not seen since the days of the Medicis, which is, coincidently, why Jane is infinitely better suited for it. When she and I first set up the chambers, I’d been appalled by the responsibilities the job entailed.

  I raise my cup at her. “There’s coffee in the pot.”

  She throws herself into my desk chair and gives a lazy couple of spins, looking much like the girl I met at university before she got herself a husband, children, and a job that sends everyone grey. “Fuck that,” she says in her Yorkshire accent. “Let’s go and have lunch.”

  I laugh. “Had enough, dearest?”

  She rolls her eyes. “I’ve been here for five hours and haven’t even got to my work yet. Instead, I’ve dealt with the coffee supplier, told Brant off for leaving takeaway containers in his office, and argued with the electricity company.”

  “A woman’s work is never done,” I say solemnly with my tongue in my cheek.

  “Wanker.”

  I laugh and stand up to grab my jacket. “Okay, lunch, yes. You’re paying, and I want the best piece of steak in London.”

  “You would, you expensive Danish bastard.”

  “I’m worth it,” I say truthfully and not at all modestly.

  Lunch is easy and fun. We haven’t sat down together for a while, as our schedules conflicted. Jane and I met at university in freshman’s week. She was attempting to chat up the head of the mountaineering club. I had my eye on him too, and for a week, we circled each other like gladiators after a lion. That ended one drunken night in the student bar when we realised that we’d both had him, and he hadn’t lived up to the promise of his carabiners. We got drunk and became each other’s best friend in the space of three hours. We’ve lived in each other’s pockets ever since. Evan, her husband, always said he knew he was taking on two people when he met Jane.

  We eat our way through a delicious lunch, exchanging gossip about the goings-on in other chambers. When she calls for the bill, I sit back in my chair and idly scan the busy restaurant. And that’s when I see him.

  It’s the man who’d witnessed my exchange with Micky in my building’s corridor. He’s sitting alone at a table, looking down at his phone. I can only see his profile, but it’s definitely him, and I sit forward, interested.

  “Who are you looking at?” Jane asks, handing her card to the waiter with a smile of thanks.

  “Him,” I say, pointing. “He’s staying in the flat opposite me.”

  “The one where the hottie Luke lives?”

  I nod.

  “Who is he?” she asks. “Have you been introduced?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” I bring her up to speed, and at the end of the story, she throws her head back, laughing. Jane has an extremely loud laugh, and, as if on cue, other people turn around, including my onlooker of this morning. Before I know it, I’m out of my chair and striding over to him.

  “Hello,” I say. “We meet again.”

  He looks up at me, smiling and now that I’m viewing his features more closely, I get the odd feeling that I’ve seen him before—and not only during that unfortunate episode with Micky. He has brown hair shot through with grey that tumbles around his angular face, and a scruffy jaw that manages to be neither designer stubble nor a beard. He’s tanned, telling me he hasn’t been in England for a while, and I put him in his mid to late forties. He isn’t pretty, but his eyes are stunning. They’re pale green, the colour of the sea in Denmark where the warm shallows meet the cold deep. My stomach dips, and I wonder if I’m getting indigestion.

  “So we do,” he says. His voice is low and pleasant. “How nice to meet you when you’re not dealing with a naked man with a ribbon around his genitals.”

  “Ack, it’s been a slow day,” I say.

  He laughs—a warm, rich sound that makes the corners of my mouth tick up against my control.

  I offer my hand. “Magnus,” I say. He eyes me for a second and then slides his palm into mine.

  “Lovely to meet you.” His fingers are long and slender, with nails bitten down to the quick.

  My hand tingles, and I swallow and quickly let his hand go. He hasn’t gi
ven me his name, and just as I wonder if this was deliberate, his lips twitch. The teasing light in his eyes makes me want to smile.

  “So, are you alone?” I ask and inwardly curse. I don’t want him to think I’m flirting. He’s not my type at all.

  He shows no sign of falling for my charms, though. “I’m not,” he says. “I’m eating with Miles Bannister.”

  “Judge Bannister?” I say slowly.

  “Yes, do you know him?”

  “I should do. I was in his court this morning.”

  “Soliciting?” he says.

  I laugh. “Hardly. I’m a QC.”

  “How lovely,” he says politely and with no sign of being impressed, which is ninety percent of the population’s response after watching legal dramas like Silk or Crown Court.

  I’m reluctantly intrigued.

  “So, you’re eating with him? I’m surprised you’re still awake.” He looks startled, and I lean closer and whisper, “He’s a frightful bore.”

  His lip twitches. “You don’t say.”

  “Oh yes. Terrible. Better than a sleeping tablet. I know him professionally, but I also have a personal connection to his family—”

  “Magnus?” a deep voice interrupts from behind me.

  I straighten and turn. “Judge Bannister.”

  “Good job this morning. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I say politely.

  He settles back into his seat at the table. “Do you know my stepson, Laurie?”

  “I know your stepdaughter, Lennie, sir,” I say slowly, thrown by the question. Is Bannister getting dotty in his old age? “Remember? She’s married to my best friend. And I know Luke, your stepson who lives in the flat opposite mine.” The judge has a shocking number of stepchildren, and I can never keep track of them. Nor have I wanted to. “But I’ve never met Laurie.”

  “Well, you were just talking to him.”

  Shit. I glance down to find my stranger looking at me. His eyes are gleaming with barely repressed humour.

  “How nice to meet you,” I say slowly as he finally loses the battle and bursts into laughter.

  Chapter Two

  Magnus

  Later that evening, I stand outside the door of the opposite flat. I clear my throat and run my finger around the collar of my shirt. Shit.

  I reach up and resolutely ring the doorbell. I wait, but nothing happens, so I ring it again. I hear faltering footsteps and the sound of the latch being lifted before the door swings open.

  “You,” he says.

  I eye him. He’s wearing a pair of battered jeans that cling to his long legs and are worn white in places, teamed with a black jumper which saw better days many years ago. It’s ripped at the neck and has holes on the hem. He’s barefoot, and his hair is a mess, and I inhale the scent of linseed oil and paint.

  He clears his throat, and I hastily drag my attention back to his face to find him staring at me.

  “How lovely to see you again. Have you come to insult my father for a second time? Maybe you’d like to meet my mother and punch her in the face. I think I might even have a spare aunt for you to maim.”

  I groan. “Ack, I’m so sorry. I am here to apologise.” I brandish the bottle I’m holding. “I bring a sorry gift.”

  He whistles. “That’s an expensive apology. That whisky is about sixty quid.”

  I shrug. “It’s a very big apology.”

  He eyes me, and then to my astonishment, he grins, displaying a dimple in his left cheek. “Nah, it’s fine,” he says. “He’s my stepfather, and you weren’t wrong. He’s extremely fond of the sound of his own voice. You should try spending a day with him.”

  “No, thank you,” I say quickly, in case he’s thinking of forcing me to do it. I tap my fingers against my leg restlessly. “So, you are Laurie Gentry.”

  “You say it as though you’re announcing the queen.”

  “Probably because it should have the same effect. Your sister Lennie might have mentioned you to me once or twice.”

  He bites his lip. “What a very small world we live in.”

  I shake my head. “Did you know who I was this morning?” I gesture towards the corridor.

  “Not at first.” He smiles. “I was a teeny bit distracted by the man with the exposed genitals, but then I rallied and realised that you were the Magnus who was at uni with Chris and Lennie, and who I’ve heard so much about.”

  “Probably only extremely good things,” I say. “And yes, I was at university with Chris and then later, Lennie, when she came into his life. For my sins,” I add sourly and he starts to laugh. “Ack, I should have guessed when I saw you. You even look like Luke.”

  “Now there’s no need to get nasty,” he says happily and swings the door fully open. “Come in.” He takes the bottle from me. “You can help me drink it,” he calls as he turns and walks away.

  I follow him, noticing that he walks with a slight limp, which explains the uneven footsteps I’d heard earlier.

  He glances back and sees where my gaze is. “Sorry,” I say. “You’re limping.”

  “Car accident a few months ago,” he says cheerfully.

  “Good grief, are you alright?”

  He blinks. “I’m fine. The limp will go.”

  The flat is a mirror image of my flat, but while mine is all clean lines and minimal furnishing, this is… This is chaos. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases spill books onto every available surface. Piles of them adorn the floor. Paintings are stacked up against the wall, and dirty cups are dotted about everywhere.

  He must catch my expression because he starts to laugh. “Have you been in here before?”

  “Once.” I shake my head, unable to drag my appalled gaze from the table full of dirty cups. One of them has a chocolate bar sticking out of it. “We keep very different hours. We tend to just say hello and goodbye in the corridor.”

  “Ah, the scene of some of your most memorable farewells.”

  I ignore that. “Your brother is a hoarder,” I announce.

  “Luke is definitely that.”

  “So, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m housesitting for him while he’s in California for work.”

  I chuckle. “I thought he was an English professor when I first met him.”

  He scratches his scruffy chin. “Why? Because he has books?”

  I look around the living area. “He doesn’t just have books. He has many books.”

  He skirts a table where a huge tower of books is teetering and heads into the kitchen. “He loves them. Always has done. He can’t throw them away or sell them. He doesn’t even like lending them to people.” I wrinkle my brow in incomprehension, and he grins at me as his long fingers unseal the wax at the top of the bottle. “You don’t understand that?”

  “Well, no. I don’t keep books. I don’t like clutter.”

  He attempts to look shocked, but his expression is plainly mocking. “You don’t like books?”

  “No. I like reading, but I do that on my tablet. That way, the books don’t mess up my living space.”

  He gets the bottle open, extracts a couple of tumblers from the kitchen cupboard, and pours a healthy splash into both of them. He hands me one and raises his own glass. “Slainte.”

  “Skål,” I say.

  “Is that Danish for ‘pass me the bacon’?”

  I roll my eyes. “I should apologise for the scene this morning too, yes?”

  He throws his head back and breaks into peals of laughter. It’s a rich, warm sound, and I find myself smiling too. Finally, when he’s reduced to chuckling, he wipes his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says. “But that was so funny.”

  I grimace. “It makes me very uncomfortable when my bed partners leave and come back.”

  He shakes his head. “Oh dear. That one definitely came back. I’m stunned you’re not moving him in.”

  “I’d rather pickle my eyeballs,” I say gloomily.

  We move out into the main area and I look a
round in an attempt to change the subject. “I didn’t see that the last time I was here,” I say, pointing to an ancient-looking easel set up in the corner of the room. “Has Luke taken up painting?”

  “Let’s hope not for the sake of the world of art. We used to chalk on the patio stones as kids, and some of his drawings were the subject of nightmares. My mother always hovered by us with a bucket of water to wash them away before we needed therapy.”

  I chuckle and move away.

  “Where are you going?” he asks.

  I throw him a smile. “I just wanted to look out of the window. Your brother has a different view than me.”

  I walk over to the floor-to-ceiling windows and gaze out at a side view of the river.

  “Well?” he says, slipping into a seat at the breakfast bar.

  “It’s definitely not as good a view as mine.”

  “I bet you’re so relieved.”

  “I am.” I peer out of the window again and then focus downwards and whistle. “Come and look at this,” I say, gesturing to him.

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll see if you look. A man is fucking a woman on his balcony on the third floor.”

  “Lovely,” he says faintly.

  I’m puzzled. “You are not coming to look?”

  He waves a hand. “I’ll take a pass.”

  “Why?”

  He rolls his eyes and turns back to his whisky. “I’m afraid of heights.”

  I stare at him and start to laugh. “You’re afraid of heights and your brother has you housesitting one of the penthouse flats. The smaller one,” I add.

  He sips his whisky. “Oh, the irony of it all. But alas, even the less imposing penthouse flat has windows.”

  “Your loss, I suppose.” I take another look. “Not that you’re missing much. His technique is woeful.”

  He chokes on his drink, and I throw him a smile. I wander around the room, touching the book spines and examining their titles.

  “Did you come here to apologise or just to have a nosy?” he asks. He doesn’t look bothered, sprawled in his seat and watching me.

  I come back towards him. “You can tell a lot about people from their homes, no?”