by Lily Morton
I bet he doesn’t take it easy when he walks on his own, but I appreciate the consideration. There’s no way I’m breaking the one-minute mile with my leg in its current condition. It’s a surprisingly sweet thought from him.
“Okay,” I say. “I’m meeting my stepfather and mother for dinner, but it’s in that direction, so it works. I’ll text him to tell him I don’t need a lift. He’ll appreciate that because I’m sure he’s dying to meet his cronies for a drink.”
“Excellent. I’ll meet you at the main entrance. I just need to get out of my robes and take this fucking wig off.”
I have a sudden vision of him removing his black robes to reveal his naked body, and heat stirs in me. I quickly pin an innocent smile on my face. A few months ago, I’d have met him, shagged him, and left us both with smiles on our faces as we walked away without any thoughts of reconnecting. It’s a dance I’ve done all my life. But I can’t do it now. I’ve got other things to think about.
Nevertheless, vanity makes me stay seated as he moves away. I don’t want him to see my creaking process as I get out of my seat. When he’s vanished from view, I stand up and groan as all my aches and pains surface in a sudden rush of agony. I stop still for a few seconds, letting the pain wash over me. Then, when it’s gone, I cautiously straighten up.
I don’t know whether it’s the fact that I’m in my late forties that’s making it hard to get over my car accident, or whether it was the severity of the accident itself, but it’s a fact that I hurt a lot at the moment. It’s no longer the bright clamour of pain ringing in my body like a peal of bells, but more a constant ache. The doctors assured me that the aches will pass too, but I avoid taking the muscle relaxants they recommended, because they leave my mind hazy.
I walk towards the foyer slowly. As is usual, I limp badly at first, but then the stiffness lessens, and I walk easier. It’d be even easier if I’d use the stick the hospital provided, but I’m an impatient person. I want to be well again, and the stick seems to be a symbol of a bad time.
I switch my phone on in the vast marble lobby. Messages and emails immediately sound out in a flurry of chirping, and I spend a few minutes checking anything for urgency.
Something makes me look up, and I watch as Magnus walks towards me with that elegant stride of his. He’s wearing a black pinstriped suit, the material clinging to his long legs and those broad shoulders. I’m amused to see that he’s swapped his shiny black shoes for a pair of pink Nike trainers.
A man calls to him, smiling widely, and he stops for a second to speak to him before walking over to me.
“Sorry I’ve been a while,” he says. “I needed to speak to my pupil.”
“How very Prime of Miss Jean Brodie,” I say and he laughs.
We exit the building into the warm May air. Fleet Street is busy with traffic and the afternoon exodus from work, so we don’t speak for a few minutes as we push our way through.
“Sweeney Todd’s barber shop was on this street,” he observes. “Just in case you are considering a haircut.”
“Should I be?”
He purses his lips. “It would be very ill-mannered of me to suggest that.”
“And yet I’m sure that won’t stop you.”
His chuckle makes me smile. The crowds slowly lessen as we move away from the main thoroughfare and take the back streets, passing delis and small shops. We pass a florist, and for a second, the air is full of the sharp scent of soil and flowers.
“So, you have a pupil, then?” I say, appreciating the fact that he’s set a slow pace. I don’t think my leg is up to anything else. Already it’s aching like a bitch. “What are you teaching him? Extreme sarcasm with a minor in Danish witticisms?”
He laughs. It’s a warm and rich sound that makes his eyes crinkle and lets me know my original guess was correct. “Not exactly.” He shoots me a look. “Do you know much about being a barrister?”
“Doesn’t come up much in the life of a poor portrait artist,” I say slyly.
He shakes his head. “Poor? Ridiculous. I looked you up, and you could definitely afford something better than that monstrosity of a jumper with the prices you charge.”
“What’s wrong with my jumper?” I look down at the offending object. It’s thin and navy, and… I curse as I notice the paint on my sleeve.
He rolls his eyes. “It would be easier to ask what is right with it.”
I laugh. “So, you’ve been looking me up, have you?” I nudge him and am fascinated to see a tinge of red on those wide, high cheekbones. “How intriguingly stalkerish of you.”
He clears his throat. “Out of idle interest,” he says quickly. His lip twitches. “I wouldn’t have to move too fast if I actually was stalking you.”
This time he startles a full laugh out of me. It echoes through the small square we’re crossing. “So, now you’re taking the piss out of my injury. You’re a terrible person, Mags.”
He sighs. “Is it worthwhile to tell you that my name is Magnus? It’s a perfectly serviceable name and one I’ve answered to for many years.”
“Nope,” I say cheerfully. “Mags suits you. It’s quirky. It says, ‘I am a strange Danish man who shags twinks who like to accessorise with penis decorations.’”
He grunts. “Hopefully, that will never happen again. Young people can be so alarmingly impetuous.”
“Alright, Grandad,” I say, nudging him again. He sighs long-sufferingly, and I shoot him a sidelong glance. “Is that what you like?”
He raises his eyebrows at me.
“Young men in their twenties?” I qualify.
“I like uncomplicated men,” he corrects me. “It just so happens that men in their twenties fit the bill perfectly. They don’t want any ties or a relationship.”
“Some of them obviously do,” I correct him.
He grimaces. “He was an anomaly.”
“Good job, really,” I say in a comforting tone. “You’d never have afforded his haberdashery bill.”
He shakes his head and then loses the battle with laughter. I fight the tug of my mouth at the sight of him. He has such enticing energy. He seems more alive than anyone I’ve ever met. I push the thought away. He could be a complication for me. One I don’t want. I’m relying on the fact that I’m a good twenty years over his shagging criteria to keep me safe. I’ve never needed a relationship, and that’s more true now than at any other time of my life. However, I can always use a friend, and he interests me enough to keep talking.
I turn to him. “So, tell me about your pupil. Is he a mini Mags?”
“He is not,” he says, revolted. “He has thought processes like tinned tomatoes at the moment. Soggy and mushy,” he clarifies.
“He must be in his twenties. Is it some sort of apprenticeship?”
He nods. “Anyone who passes their bar finals and wants to be a barrister must go through a pupillage with a senior barrister. For the first six months, they can’t represent anyone in court, so he shadows me and watches the process. He’ll spend a year with me, and I’ll show him the way to conduct himself in court and the way to behave as a barrister.”
“Is it with extreme sarcasm?” I ask.
He chuckles. “He could do with some of that. He’s alarmingly literal.” He shrugs. “He’ll get there.”
I eye him as we cross the road. I bet he’s a good teacher. He’s scarily bright and rather intimidating, but I’m sure that anyone who spends the year with him comes out a better lawyer. For all his laconic air, he’s a brilliant defence barrister, and you don’t enter that occupation unless you need to right a few wrongs.
We pass through some ornate cast-iron gates and onto a street lined with beautiful old regency buildings that are slumbering in the late afternoon sunshine.
I look around with interest. “So, this is Lincoln’s Inn?”
“Have you been here before?”
“No, but I love London’s history.”
“Well, this is the largest of the Inns of Court.”
“What are they? I’ve heard my stepfather talk about them before, but I’ve never wanted to ask. Mainly because I couldn’t spare the month needed for the answer.”
He laughs. “I’ll endeavour to be brief.”
“Much obliged.”
“Every barrister who wishes to practise in this country must belong to an Inn of Court. They’re Lincoln’s Inn, Gray’s Inn, Middle Temple, and Inner Temple.”
We pass a gorgeous building that looks early Tudor gothic and I look at it in interest.
“That’s Old Hall,” he says, following my gaze. “It’s the original dining hall that was built in the fifteenth century. In the old days if a barrister wanted to belong to an Inn of Court, they would have to eat twelve dinners in the dining hall.”
“Your profession isn’t exactly demanding.”
“Depends on the food,” he says glumly. I laugh and he smiles at me. “The tradition came about because the lawyers would be instructed in the law while they ate. We enjoy our traditions.”
We come out into a square of graceful buildings lining a small grassy park where a few people are sitting enjoying the sun.
“It’s extraordinarily photogenic and so quiet. You wouldn’t think we were in the middle of London,” I say.
He grimaces. “It isn’t always quiet. They’re forever filming around here because there isn’t any twentieth-century architecture. Last week I almost destroyed a shoot by trying to walk through a scene. They were excessively rude.”
I bite my lip to stop a smile. “What were they filming?”
He waves a dismissive hand. “Something called Downton Abbey. I have no idea what that is.”
“Maybe not, but I feel you have a lot in common with the Dowager Countess.”
He shakes his head. “I know somehow that is not complimentary.”
He stops talking and comes to a stop. I look up at the beautiful, tall Georgian building. “These are your chambers?”
He gazes at it affectionately. The wisteria climbing the building looks bright purple in this light and gives off a soft, sweet smell. “Home sweet home.”
I smile at him. “Then it’s time for me to go.”
“Where are you meeting your stepfather?” His brow furrows in what looks very much like concern. “Will you be okay walking?”
I become aware that I’m rubbing my leg where an ache is building. I pull my hand away. “I’ll be fine,” I say briskly. “I’ve only got to go a few streets over.”
For a long second, we look at each other and then he shakes his head as if clearing it.
“Well, thank you for the company, Laurie.”
“Any time, Mags.”
He winces, and I laugh and wave a hand in farewell. Turning away, I walk back across the road. My back itches and I’m pretty sure he’s watching me go, so I make an effort not to limp too badly. Once I turn the corner though, I slump and lean down to massage my leg where the muscle is starting to cramp. “Shit,” I mutter.
I look back the way I came. Magnus Carlsen is an unforeseen complication and one I don’t need.
Chapter Four
One Week Later
Mags
The knock on the front door disturbs my concentration, and for a second I just stare in the door’s direction, my head still deep in the work that’s spread all over the desk in my study.
While I’ve been wool gathering, the person at my door has obviously become impatient because the knock comes again. Louder this time.
Cursing, I throw my pen down and storm out of the room, wincing as my back twangs. When I had a bike accident in my twenties, I’d moved blithely on from it, thinking my injuries were behind me. I never realised they were just in hiding, waiting to ambush me in my fifties with strange aches and pains.
I swing the front door open, intending to send whoever it is off with a flea in their ear, but stop dead in surprise. Laurie is standing there. His wavy hair is a mess and there are dark circles under those stunning eyes of his. He’s dressed in ancient-looking jeans and another disreputable top. This one is an orange T-shirt that is so old it’s the colour of marmalade. Faded yellow Converse complete his hobo look.
He smiles cheerfully at me. “Are you ready?”
I blink. “I beg your pardon?”
“Are you ready for our walk?”
I rack my brain, trying to remember making plans. Then I realise that I didn’t. “Why would I be ready for a walk, Laurie?”
His expression is sympathetic but still somehow manages to look like he’s taking the piss. It seems to be a character trait of his. “For fresh air,” he says, slowly enunciating every word.
I roll my eyes. “I’ll open a window if I require that,” I inform him. Normally, I’d shut the door in his face. I have no problem with being rude. Today, for some unknown reason, I just stand here looking at him.
His mouth quirks and he claps his hands together. “Come on then, Mags. The day’s a wasting.”
“I’m not sure that my day was wasting in any form.”
“Were you working?”
I nod.
“It’s a Saturday. Your day was definitely being wasted. Come on,” he says. “Grab a jacket and your pension book and let’s go for a walk. It’s a lovely day.”
“I do not possess a pension book,” I state. “Because I am only a few years older than you.”
“It’s not the age. It’s the mileage,” he says happily. “And those twinks of yours look like they could take a lot out of a person’s tank.”
I want to be angry, and indeed I open my mouth to blast him, but what comes out, to my amazement, is a huge laugh. He watches me, smiling, and when I’ve finished chuckling, I wink at him. “I have a tank with a great capacity,” I inform him.
“Those who don’t, brag. Get your stuff and hurry up.”
Grumbling, I stride into my bedroom to grab a thin olive-coloured jacket. I look down at myself, realising my outfit of jeans and a navy Ralph Lauren polo shirt will look immeasurably different from Laurie’s. It lacks holes for a start.
I come back out to find him examining a picture on the wall. It’s a six-foot landscape of the Danish coast done in sepia tones. “This is so good,” he says. “Your mum?”
I nod. “She gave it to me when I was twenty-one.”
He whistles. “Nice present.”
“I’d have preferred a motorbike,” I inform him. He gapes at me and I wave my hand. “Shall we?”
He peeps through the open door of my study at the mess of papers on the desk. “We definitely should.”
We leave the flat, and, as I lock the door, he leans against the wall watching me. “You seem busy,” he observes.
“I have a trial starting on Monday. I’m just getting a few things straight in my head.”
“Are you nervous?”
I look at him incredulously. “No.”
We walk towards the lift. “You thrive on your job, don’t you?” he says.
I shrug. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”
“Even living in such an artistic world? Your dad was a poet laureate and your mum a painter. Being a barrister is such a departure.”
“I was the shame of the family,” I say solemnly. “My mother was so embarrassed when I got my law degree that she wouldn’t tell anyone what I did for ages. She thought I should be doing something creative, so she’d tell people rather vaguely that I did something with paper. Half of her circle were convinced I was an origami expert.” He laughs. “It is true. I still get handed paper and asked to make a swan.” I consider that. “The only thing worse would have been if I became a policeman. But then I’d have had to arrest half of her boyfriends.”
“Did she have many?”
We walk out of the building into the sunshine, and I slide my Ray-Bans down over my eyes. “Define many.”
He starts to laugh. “Ouch!”
“Usually at this point, a man would be full of sympathy for me.”
“I’m not most men
,” he informs me truthfully. “Anyway, that’s a lie. Your young men would probably be pretending to listen to you while wondering which knot to tie on their genital decorations.”
“You could be right,” I say slowly. “Good grief, I always thought they were interested.”
“Probably just bored into submission,” he says in a comforting tone.
I laugh, and then look around. “Where are we going?”
“For a walk.”
“The river is just over there. We’re going towards the city.”
“Best place in my opinion.”
I eye him. “You are a very strange man.”
“It has been said.”
The next few minutes are silent as we walk along with me following his lead. He seems to know where he’s going.
“You know the area?” I finally ask.
He looks startled for a second, and I get the strangest sense that he’d forgotten I was even here. Which doesn’t make sense, as he was the one who asked me to come with him. My curiosity stirs.
“I do know it,” he finally says. “My brother’s lived in the area for years. He likes being near water.”
“You’ve visited him?” I’m startled and I don’t know why.
He smiles at me. “Of course. I visit him whenever I’m in England.”
“Where do you live?” My question surprises me. I don’t usually get interested in men beyond a discussion of sexual preferences. Nevertheless, I wait eagerly for his answer.
He takes a left turn, walking down a narrow side street that’s lined on both sides with elegant houses. “I live in Saint-Paul-de-Vence.”
I whistle, thinking of the hilltop village in the South of France. “Beautiful place.”
“You know it?”
“I backpacked around Europe when I was sixteen. That was one of my favourite places. We reached it in the early evening and the smell from the flowers was incredible. It was less incredible when we had to sleep on a bench outside because someone stole our wallets and I realised that I got hay fever.”
He chuckles but a soft expression crosses his face. “It’s home,” he says simply.
I eye him curiously. I don’t think I’ve ever felt that about anywhere apart from my chambers.