by Lily Morton
He gives a wicked grin. “Or a Mags Carlsen.”
I huff. “Not my name,” I say and take a long drink of my pint. I exhale in pleasure. “That’s good,” I say reluctantly.
“This place has got a good reputation for its beer. Good to know the guides are right.”
“You’ve never been here?” I ask, surprised. “You’re rather knowledgeable for a stranger.”
He shrugs, and I watch as he traces a beer spillage on the table, drawing patterns with one long finger. “I read about it.” He looks up at me. “I’ve drawn up a list this time. Usually, when I’m in London, I see family and friends and then vanish home.”
“But not this time?” I ask.
“No, I can’t—” He hesitates and then says quickly, “No, I want to do something different this time.”
I’m possessed by the conviction that this wasn’t what he meant to say at all. I don’t challenge him, though.
“So, you have a list, Laurie?”
“Yes, I’ve got a list of all the places I’ve always wanted to see in London and never made time for before.” His gaze becomes distant. “I don’t want to see London through the eyes of a painter anymore,” he finally says. “I want to actually experience it.”
“Does looking at it through the eyes of an artist distance you from it?” I ask against my desire not to get involved in this conversation.
He looks startled for a second, then says eagerly, “Yes. That’s just it. I want to really see the city. Not paint it.”
“Why now?”
“I’m looking forward to ticking everything off the list,” he says, his tone chatty.
He hasn’t answered my question at all, and we both know it.
Eventually, he rambles on about his list, almost feverishly. I have no idea what is going on with this man. He’s running from something, but I can’t imagine what would make this easy-going man run. Likely, I’ll never know, which almost makes me sad.
I become aware that the words have stopped, and he’s looking at me expectantly. “Well?” he says. “What do you think?”
“Hmm,” I say in what I hope is an enigmatic manner. I take a sip of my beer to buy some time, and he rolls his eyes.
“Not listening. I suspected as much,” he says breezily. “Would it help if I stripped naked and attached something to my penis?”
The words are light, but I’m struck by an image of him naked and waiting on my bed. Heat pools in my stomach, and I immediately force my thoughts in another direction.
“The only thing I would like you to attach yourself to is a silencer,” I say tartly.
I relish his warm chuckle. It makes me feel curiously light, as if I’m filled with helium.
He leans forward. “I’m glad you agree with me, anyway.”
I pause with my glass halfway to my lips. I feel like a mouse when he looks up and sees a cat. “That makes me rather nervous,” I say. “What exactly have I agreed to do?”
“You’re coming on my checklist adventure,” he says.
I blink. “I certainly am not.”
“Oh, come on,” he wheedles. “It’ll be fun.”
“I’m in the middle of a trial.”
“You’re near the end of one,” he corrects me. “You said earlier that it would wrap up tomorrow. And you’re finished for the day by six, aren’t you?”
“I’m finished in court, but not necessarily for the day. I don’t go into suspended animation when they shut the doors of the Old Bailey.”
“Well, that’s a relief. They wouldn’t let you shag your twinks in there.” He leans forward, an imploring look on his face. “Come on, Mags. I can come to you at your chambers, and then we could go off on an adventure in the evening.”
“Have I fallen into the pages of the Famous Five?” I ask waspishly. “I’m not cycling over England breaking up the plans of criminals and drinking ginger beer.”
“I feel you’re rather trivialising the work that the Famous Five did in reducing the UK’s crime statistics.”
“I have work to do,” I say desperately.
“I bet you’ve done it already. You’re always saying how prepared and clever you are.”
“Well, I am, but I don’t like to blow my own trumpet.”
“Of course not. You’d like the whole orchestra to blow it for you.”
“This is not inspiring any desire to do something with you,” I inform him.
He laughs. “Come on. I’ll be gone soon, and your life will go back to its normal boring perfection. Let’s do something while I’m here.”
I take another sip of my pint, studying him. He’s smiling, but after a few weeks of knowing him, I can detect a trace of that odd, frantic gleam in his eyes—the look he gets when he’s too distracted to conceal it. Something is driving Laurie, and it goes far beyond a desire to explore London. He eyes me expectantly, and I give a heavy sigh.
“Alright,” I say, and he cheers. I lift a hand to stay him. “But if you drag me into any ridiculous situations, you’ll be up there behind the bar and sitting beside the stuffed parrot.”
“I think you’re far more temperamentally suited to that avenue. Polly would certainly find himself out-grumped.”
Chapter Eight
Mags
I’ve been waiting for the knock on the door, and so I’m already standing up when Laurie pops his messy head around it.
He blinks. “You’re not in a suit.”
I look down at my outfit of khaki shorts and a navy, short-sleeved T-shirt. “No. It was dress-down day in court today.”
“Really?”
I scoff. “No. The trial finished. The jury came back quicker than we thought.”
“Did you win?”
“What do you think?”
He taps his chin in a typically piss-taking manner and makes a sad face. “No, but don’t get despondent, Mags. You’ll find a job that suits you one day.”
“Maybe I could take up painting,” I say silkily. “It doesn’t seem to take a lot of talent these days.”
He laughs, and the merry sound makes my lips twitch. “You’re so right. Any Tom, Dick, and Harry could do it.”
“You know I’ve lived in this country for many years, but sometimes your phrases still trip me up. What does that mean? Whose dick were Harry and Tom using?”
He sighs dramatically. “We haven’t got time for one of your grown-up conversations now, Mags. There’s fun to be had.”
I slide my wallet into my back pocket. “I’m not sure if those words should strike fear into a man’s heart the way they do mine.”
He steps back towards the door. “Gird your loins.”
“Another ridiculous phrase,” I cry, but he’s vanished, and I follow him out, trying not to ogle his fine backside in those grey shorts. Summer has finally arrived in England, and it’s hot, so he’s paired the shorts with a plum-coloured T-shirt and grubby white Converse. I can’t help noticing the bulge of his biceps. Where does an artist get those muscles?
I revert to staring at his arse, which is why, when he comes to an abrupt stop, I flail slightly, trying not to trip over him. His mouth opens as if to say something, but he must realise where my eyes just were, because his expression heats. It’s subtle, and I might have missed it a few weeks ago, but I’ve learnt enough about him to catch the moods as they flit across his thin face.
Seconds stretch like treacle as we stare at each other, and I swallow hard. Shit. I don’t need this. He moves almost imperceptibly towards me, and my hands rise to grab his arms.
I’m not sure whether I was going to kiss him or shove him away, but luckily, one of the clerks comes around the corner and nearly bumps into us.
“Sorry, Mr Carlsen,” the clerk says quickly. “Didn’t see you there.”
“It’s not a problem, Edwin, and I’ve told you before to call me Magnus,” I say. My voice is hoarse, and Laurie shoots a quick look at me but I keep my focus on the clerk. “Mr Carlsen was my grandfather.”
“Not your father?” Edwin asks and immediately looks mortified at the personal question.
“No. My father’s surname was Frederick. He was the poet of the family, and I don’t think I’d be suited to spouting poetry.”
“God forbid,” Laurie says cheerfully. “You’d still be looking for a word that rhymes with clitoris.”
I can’t help my laugh, and on that note, we’re off. After nodding goodbye to Edwin, who looks scandalised, we make our way out of the building.
“Where are we going?” I ask as we begin to walk. The sun is low in the sky, but it’s still warm, and the pavement is hot beneath my feet. “God, I hope it involves alcohol,” I say fervently.
Laurie holds a hand up to summon a taxi. “I don’t think God spends a lot of time listening to you, and it’s a good job. We don’t need his mental health suffering.”
We climb into the taxi, and Laurie gives directions to the driver before he settles next to me. “So, what’s next for you at work, Mags?” he asks.
I breathe in, smelling lemony soap but no turps. Strange. “You haven’t painted today?” I ask, ignoring his question.
A complicated expression crosses his face, but it’s gone before I can identify it. “Not today, Sherlock,” he says. “I’ve finished.”
“Really? How did the judge’s picture go? Did you manage to adequately convey the po-faced expression of superiority he wears?” I’m unable to keep the acid from my voice.
He laughs. “Oh, dear. Someone sounds bitter.”
“I had him for a trial yesterday. He told me I talked too much.”
“Well, he’s not wrong.” I roll my eyes, but he happily ignores me. “Anyway, I finished his portrait last week. The painting I concentrated on this week was something else.” He pauses. “Something special.”
His expression tells me he doesn’t intend to say more, so I keep my questions to myself and settle more comfortably on the seat.
His shoulders ease, and I know he’s relieved I’ve kept quiet. “You never answered me, Mags.”
“Oh, the irony,” I say dryly, enjoying the flush that appears on his cheeks.
He continues doggedly. “What’s next for you?”
“A couple of cases this week. Then I’ve got a trial starting the following week in Nottingham.”
“You don’t just work in London, then?”
“I go all over the place.”
“Like a grumpy Danish delivery driver.” I glare, and he laughs, his humour restored. “Is this the one you had all those files for?”
I nod. “It’s a complicated case. A charge of murder that’s based on some rather dodgy physical evidence. Those files you saw have doubled since then.”
“How do you get through them all and retain all that information?”
“I’m a speed reader. Most barristers are. It’s easy for me to retain information.”
“Well, it’s not as if your brain is full of scintillating conversation.”
I bite my lip to stop the smile. “It’s certainly not when I’m talking to you.”
“Ouch, Mags. Touché Turtle.”
That startles a laugh out of me. “Good grief. That’s very ageing.”
He nudges me. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember that cartoon.”
I sigh. “Sadly, I do.”
“I always fancied him a bit,” he says musingly.
I chuckle. “You were attracted to a turtle with a musketeer hat?”
“That’s not the disturbing bit. That comes when you realise the hat was all he was wearing.”
I laugh. “A naked flasher reptile. It sounds so you.”
“Who’s the weirdest character you’ve been attracted to?”
“I think it might be Robin from the Disney film Robin Hood. He was a fox and disturbingly charismatic.” He snorts, and I shove him. “Tell me where we’re going, Laurie.”
He looks out of the window. “No need. We’re here.”
He pays the fare, and I follow him out of the taxi, gazing up at the building. “A bookshop? You’ve brought me to a bookshop. Why?”
“For books.” I roll my eyes, and he elaborates. “This is one of the oldest bookshops in England. It apparently looks like something from a Harry Potter film. People are always Instagramming it.”
“Ah, Instagram. What a joy.”
He smiles. “Not for you, Dinosaur Dave?”
I grimace. “I don’t have any particular desire to photograph my breakfast.”
“Is it because it’s usually a dick?”
I choke on my own spit, and he laughs loudly. He looks up at the exterior of the shop. “I’ve always fancied coming here, but I never made the time before.” A complicated look crosses his face.
I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn’t. “Okay,” I say. “So, we go in and look, and then we come out and find somewhere to get a drink, yes?”
“It’s like taking Oliver Reed out for the day,” he observes. “We will be taking our time in there.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a bookshop, you cultural desert. And I have a challenge for you.”
“Is it to beat you at drinking vodka? Because I’ve already done that.”
“I wasn’t on my game.” He points at me. “Don’t distract me. Your challenge is to go in and pick ten books.”
He opens the door, and I follow him into the shop. I can instantly see why he’d be attracted to the place. It’s wood-panelled, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a mezzanine level. Three huge stained-glass skylights are set into the ceiling, and the sun shines through them, laying lazy stripes of colour over the shelves and floor. There are leather chairs and sofas dotted about and a smell of fresh coffee in the air. I smile because I’ve already spotted four people taking selfies.
I return to our conversation. “Why will I be picking ten books?”
“To read. And you have to read them. That is the rule, Mags.”
“Why do so many people put rules in games? These limitations spoil all the fun.”
He bites his lip but doesn’t quite conceal his smile. “Oh, I’m seeing a lot of your father in you today. Well, at least the bits I remember from that article about his private life in The Sun.”
I grimace. “Please don’t. That was published while I was at school. I was called the Son of Spanker for a whole term.” I look around. “So, I have to choose ten books, and then we can get out of here and get a drink, yes? Easy.”
I walk away and stop when he calls me. “Where are you going, Mags?”
I wink at him. “I am going to Paris for a croissant. What does it look like I’m doing?”
“I’m pretty sure you’re heading for the law section.”
“I am.”
“No, you’re not. You have to pick fiction.”
“Why?”
“You need to change it up a bit. It’s the rule.”
“You bear a real resemblance to your stepfather at the moment, Laurie.”
“Don’t be rude. You don’t read fiction, and you should.”
“It’s obvious you’ve never read some of my clients’ statements.”
His laugh is loud enough to make several people look over at us. He pulls my arm, guides me over to the fiction shelves, and gestures to them. “Ten fiction books need to be picked before we can leave.”
I head over to the thriller section. “Why the emphasis on fiction, anyway?” I ask, taking a book down to examine it. “I thought any reading was good for you.”
“It is, but I’ve decided that you need shaking up a bit.”
“Oh joy.”
“You seem to live without rules, but it’s all a sham,” he says consideringly as he leans against the shelf next to me.
I feel suddenly uneasy. “What do you mean?”
“You might ignore all of society’s expectations and go your own way, but you still have your own rules, and you don’t step outside them.” He eyes me. “Rules like no getting involved, never eating in the same pla
ce too often, and no overnight visitors. You’re fifty percent Danish and a hundred percent anti-relationships. You should wear a label.”
“And I suppose you’re looking for the one,” I say scornfully.
“I wouldn’t look for the one if he was the last oil paint supplier in the world. I have zero intentions of ever having a relationship.”
I gaze at him, the book in my hand forgotten. “That’s not the way you appear.”
He raises his eyebrows. “How do I appear?”
I shrug, feeling awkward. “You just seem like you would be good at a relationship.” I recover my composure and continue to peruse the bookshelf. “You’re certainly filled with the conviction that you know everything. I see that characteristic a lot in other people’s relationships.” I glance at him. “Why don’t you want one?”
He stares into space, his eyes looking very green in the shop’s varied light. “It’s always interfered with my career in the past, and now it’s too late.”
I jerk. “What? Why is it too late?” I’m far too loud, and someone shushes me even as he jumps in surprise.
“What?” Laurie asks.
“You said it was too late for a relationship.”
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t. You have to stop making things up, Walter Mitty.”
I narrow my eyes at him, and a flush rises on his cheeks as he pretends an absorption in the bookshelf next to us. I consider prodding him—he’s acting as though I’ve got him cornered—but I haven’t the heart for it. Instead, I proffer the book I’m holding.
“What about this one?” I ask meekly.
He takes it from me and looks down at it. He brings the cover up until it’s about two inches away from his face and squints even though he’s wearing his glasses.
“What’s the matter with you?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says abruptly. “My eyes are sore today. I worked late last night.”
It’s obviously a blatant lie, but I let it go. “So, can I have that one, Laurie?”
“It’s a legal thriller.”
I take the book back. “It’s fiction. I’ve already spotted three errors in the blurb.”
He shakes his head. “How happy this book will make you. I told you fiction was fun.”