Beautifully Unexpected

by Lily Morton

She smiles wickedly. “Well, I think if he were, you’d be the first person he’d tell, don’t you?”

  I lunge forwards, and she gives a gasp and a shriek of laughter as I grab her and hug her.

  “Thank you,” I say, letting her go.

  She grins. “I like you, Mags. I hope to see you soon.”

  I nod, and, calling Endof, I race down the steps. My car is in for a service, and I rack my brains to think of my next move. A few houses down the street, a neighbour is paying for his taxi, and a brilliant idea occurs to me. I jog over as the driver begins to set off. “Wait,” I thunder, slamming my hand on the bonnet.

  “What the bleeding hell are you doing?” he says, poking his head out of the window. He’s in his fifties with a florid complexion.

  “I will give you five hundred pounds to take me to Dover,” I gasp.

  “What? Are you drunk, mate?”

  I draw myself up to my full height. “I am as sober as you hopefully are. I need you to take me to Dover right now. I can’t fly because it might distress the dog, so I have to catch a ferry. I will pay you five hundred pounds to get me there.” His gaze tracks to Endof, who is attempting to strangle himself with his lead. “I will, of course, add another hundred pounds if you allow the dog,” I say silkily.

  “For six hundred quid, mate, I’ll even let him sit on the seat.”

  “Then we have a deal,” I say, coaxing Endof into the taxi and throwing myself in after him. “Time is of the essence. Let’s go.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mags

  It’s early evening when I park the hired car in Saint-Paul-de-Vence. The sun is low and gilding the honey-coloured stone of the houses in this charming medieval village. I breathe in the scent of flowers from the baskets that are everywhere. It’s still very hot, and I bless the fact that I had time in Dover to shop for a couple of changes of clothing. Despite that, my outfit of khaki shorts and a sky-blue short-sleeved shirt look as if I’ve slept in them for a week.

  I shake my head in despair. I had plenty of time during the ferry ride and the endless drive here to wonder what has become of me. A few months ago, I was Magnus Carlsen QC. Dapper, debonair, and never without a young man on my arm. Now I’m dishevelled, wearing cheap clothing, and I probably smell. How the mighty have fallen. And I’ve done all of this with no real idea of why. I might be in love with Laurie, but I have no reason to hope that he feels the same. The elation of his mother’s words had faded at midnight while driving on the trunk road charmingly titled the Route de la Mort during the holidays.

  I square my shoulders and climb out of the car, stretching and feeling my bones creak. I look over at Endof, who is sitting in the passenger seat that he claimed as his own as soon as I hired the car in Calais. “We should try, yes?” I say. He wags his tail, and I grimace. “I surely cannot be more embarrassed at myself than now.”

  He looks a little dubious, and I can’t blame him. I could have a great deal more embarrassment coming for me.

  “Enough,” I say loudly, startling a young couple who are coming down the hill towards me with lots of shiny carrier bags. I smile at them, but given the fact that they jump hastily into their car, I may look a frightening sight. I check my reflection in the car window and curse. My hair is standing up from where I’ve swept my fingers through it over the last several hours. I hastily smooth it down and try to do the same with my shirt, but it’s a lost cause.

  Giving up, I reach in and clip on Endof’s lead. After locking the car, I walk slowly up the hill. It’s a lovely place where Laurie has chosen to make his home. The narrow cobbled streets are full of little shops, art galleries, and restaurants from which heavenly smells are starting to emerge. I sniff and my stomach rumbles, but I ignore it in favour of looking at the piece of paper in my hand with Laurie’s address on it.

  I stop a man passing by, glad that I speak fluent French as I ask for directions. Once given them, Endof and I walk down the streets, passing tourists wandering and taking photos and chattering happily. Laurie’s house turns out to be down a little cobbled side street. It’s so narrow that you can reach across it in places, and the air is filled with the scent of flowers. Laurie’s cottage is at the end. I stand for a second, taking in the details. It’s made of honey-coloured stone with a set of stone steps leading up to a sage-green door. Huge terracotta pots filled with colourful geraniums line the steps. It’s charming and very small.

  “We’ll have to extend,” I say to Endof and then blanch. “Ack, forget I said that. How ridiculous is your master?”

  I take a deep breath and wipe my hands on my shorts, feeling an explosion of nerves in my belly. I hesitate for another few seconds, and then Endof nudges me with his head. He seems like he’s smiling, his mouth stretched in a wide doggy grin.

  “As you say,” I say solemnly. I walk up the stone steps and ring the bell on the door. It gives a merry peal, and a few seconds later, it swings open. My heart is in my mouth, but I relax as an older woman appears. She’s wearing dark clothes and carrying a cardigan.

  “Ah, the taxi,” she says. I hesitate, but luckily she doesn’t require an answer. “He is in the back,” she says in French. “He has his case. Please help him with that.”

  Fear swamps me. “His eyes are bad, yes?” I reply.

  She hesitates but eventually nods. “Yes. Carry his case for him. His flight is at ten.”

  “Flight? Where is he going?”

  I open my mouth to ask more questions, but she whisks past me. “Go through,” she says. “He’s expecting you.”

  “I sincerely doubt that,” I say, but she’s gone, walking down the cobbled street quickly.

  I walk into Laurie’s house. It smells like him, I think wonderingly, feeling my spirits lift as I inhale the scent of linseed oil and paint.

  I wander through the rooms, looking around eagerly. It’s a typical French cottage—small and charming and full of light. It’s painted in soothing tones of white and sepia, the washy colours complementing the terracotta-tiled floors and the sandblasted beams. Squashy sofas in pastel colours flank a fireplace where a display of flowers adds their scent to the air. I pass through a kitchen with mismatched cabinets that somehow flatter the stone walls and old tiled floor, and then through the French windows where I stop dead.

  Laurie is sitting on the flagged terrace at a small table. The chairs are painted a shocking pink that echoes the big earthenware pots full of geraniums. Fragrant bougainvillea grows up the side of the house in a flashy display of shocking pink petals. He’s wearing shorts and a white T-shirt, and I huff at the fact that there’s no hat to protect him from the fierce Provencal sun. Someone needs to look after this man.

  He hasn’t heard me and is staring into space, his face sad. I wonder if his head is hurting.

  Endof obviously disapproves of the fact that we’re just standing staring at one of his favourite people in the world, because, with a big bark, he pulls free of me and with his lead trailing after him, he throws himself at Laurie.

  “Shit,” the man in question shouts. “What the hell?” There’s a pause, and then he says, “Endof?” in a tone of astonishment.

  I stay still, my heart beating hard in my chest as he spins around to see me.

  For a few seconds, we gaze at each other in the golden evening hush, and I watch as joy and trepidation cross his sharp face. He looks older somehow, as if the last couple of days have lasted an eternity. I hope they have, I think selfishly. Then he’ll know how I feel.

  “Mags?” he says, and everything that I want to hear is in his familiar voice. He pushes his chair away from the table.

  I open my mouth to say something witty and clever and am horrified to hear myself say far too abruptly, “I made you this.”

  His eyes widen in shock and he resettles in his chair. “What is it?” he asks cautiously, looking at my hand, which is brandishing the fucking mixtape.

  My cheeks heat. “What does it look like?” I snap.

  He bites his li
p, darting cautious happy looks at me. “A cassette tape. Which is astonishing, because I haven’t seen one since the eighties.”

  “Yes, and you have no idea the pains I went to in choosing the songs on it. It took ages.”

  He takes the tape from me and looks down at it curiously. “And why have you made this?” he asks, and I’m sure it’s my imagination, but he appears to be holding his breath.

  “I wanted to tell you about my f-feelings.” I stumble over the silly words, and his bloodshot eyes grow bright.

  “Your feelings?” he says in a soft voice. I nod. “Why didn’t you just tell me?” He looks down at the tape. “Or make me a Spotify playlist.”

  “Ack, I never thought of that.” I scuff my foot on the flagstones. “I wanted to send you a message, and it had to be this way,” I say stubbornly.

  “Was the message to get out of your bed? I seem to remember you saying that was the only message you’d ever want to send.” The twist to his mouth is sad, and I have an intense desire never to see it again on those soft lips

  “Never,” I say, far too fervently. I roll my eyes. I’m committed to this ridiculous endeavour now.

  He looks down at the tape. “I think I’ve got a tape player somewhere in the house.”

  I hold up my hand imploringly. “Please don’t make me listen to the thing. Bad enough that I made it.”

  His lip twitches, and the pink tinge on his nose suddenly catches my attention. “You’re going to get burnt,” I jerk out. “You never pay attention when you’re painting. You need someone to look after you.”

  He bites his lip, hope written all over his face. “Is that you?”

  “I think it might be.”

  He looks at me quizzically, the familiar note of doubt in his eyes, and suddenly his uncertainty rankles like I’ve grabbed a stinging nettle.

  “The thing is, it could be me,” I say crossly. I’m off and running. “But you didn’t give me a chance to take care of you, so you wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  He goes extraordinarily still. “Would you have wanted a chance?”

  “I know you think I can’t look after anyone, that I’m shallow and selfish and—”

  “Mags,” he interrupts. There’s a new note in his voice that makes my chest feel warm and my eyes hot and tight. “Mags, I never meant any of that fucking stupid stuff I said. You must k-know that. For God’s sake, you’re fucking wonderful.”

  I ignore the ridiculous words that make me feel warm inside. “The thing is, Laurie, look at the dog.”

  His brow furrows. “Why?” he asks cautiously.

  I spread my hands. “Ack, I’m shit at this. Just take a look at Endof. He’s fine and hearty.” We both turn to the dog, who immediately adopts a tragic pose as if I’ve spent the last couple of days beating him. “Okay, don’t look at him,” I say quickly. “Just concentrate on the fact that I’ve looked after him very well since you offloaded him onto me, so why can’t I do that with you?” I eye him sourly. “Your nose is always cold and wet, and you’ve certainly got the walking bit down pat.”

  His lip twitches, and then he smooths his expression. “So, you think you can look after me because your dog is still living even after his time in Carlsen Towers, the Hall of the City Twinks. Why would I believe you?” He puts up his hand. “Not to mention the fact that I don’t need looking after.”

  I scuff my foot again. “You might one day.”

  “Oh, so it’s pity that’s brought you here,” he growls. “When I wrote you that note, it was goodbye. I don’t need you here trying to help the blind man. I can get along fine without any help.”

  “Have you learnt nothing?” I say incredulously. “The only pity I feel is for myself being saddled with such a recalcitrant man and having to take part in this godforsaken conversation.” I eye him. For some odd reason, all the anger leaves him in a rush, and his eyes are happy again. I will never understand him.

  I sigh, long-suffering. “Jeg elsker dig,” I say sourly.

  There’s a very protracted silence as he stares at me, expressions running too fast over his thin face for me to parse.

  “I have no idea what you just said,” he finally says. “Did you ask me where the washing machine is?”

  I look askance at him.

  He laughs. When he’s finished behaving like an idiot, he stands and steps forward. His familiar soapy scent envelops me, and I feel the last bit of tension unravel inside me like I’ve stepped through a door and I’m home. Then he speaks, and everything else vanishes.

  “I love you too,” he says fiercely, the words impassioned and his thin face alive with so many feelings. “I love you so much, Mags.”

  For a wild second, I’m struck dumb, like the world has stopped turning. There’s a protracted silence, and his lip twitches.

  “You… do?” I finally say. I can’t help the note of incredulity.

  His eyes dance with amusement. “Is there some reason why I shouldn’t?”

  “Oh no,” I say quickly before he can change his mind. “I’m very lovable.”

  “And irritating.”

  “Who said that?” I ask crossly.

  He makes a display of looking around, and I contemplate shoving him. “I think it was me.”

  “Well, you obviously aren’t a good judge of character. I’m very loveable. I’m rich, attractive, and very clever.”

  “You’re also arrogant, entirely convinced you know everything, and act like you need antibiotics if someone expresses even a hint of fondness.”

  “I had a lot of people in my childhood expressing very vigorous fondness for each other. I didn’t believe in any of it. It makes me uncomfortable.”

  “And now?”

  I run my hands through his soft hair, loving the way he tilts towards me and the fine lines at the corners of his stunning pale green eyes. “Now, I do.” His face is so dear to me, so warm, and I reluctantly decide to opt for honesty. “You could do better.”

  “Undoubtedly,” he says serenely.

  I glare at him. “I’m not sure where, but maybe you’ll find someone better, Laurie.” I think of that nebulous figure and feel rage towards him. “But he wouldn’t be me. And I think you need me.”

  “Why?”

  “To make sure you eat something other than biscuits and noodles. To let you put your cold feet on me in bed, to do your accounts, to watch over you and make sure no one takes advantage of your far too kind disposition. Someone to challenge you.” I pause. “Someone to love you. The real you,” I say far too awkwardly.

  “And who is the real me?”

  “He’s clever and funny and has a disposition like Mary Poppins on a bad day, but he’s still the only one I would ever let dunk biscuits in my hot milk.”

  He steps into my arms as if the space there is made for him, and maybe it was, because before I know it, I’m wrapped around him with my head on his neck, inhaling the scent of soap and home.

  “Well, it’s fortuitous that I happen to like arrogant men who hide their kindness very well,” he says, kissing my ear. “I’m very partial to extreme tidiness, forty-eight-hour workdays, and minimal decor.”

  “No, you are not. That was a blatant lie. You like mess, chaos, and paint everywhere. It’s like you’re taking over the world one oil paint tube at a time.”

  He laughs, and I’m so grateful to have the capricious man making that merry sound in my arms again. Then he sobers as I straighten up. “I was coming back,” he says solemnly. “I need you to know that. My flight back to London is booked.”

  “You were coming back?” I gape at him. “To me?”

  He nods, and that last trace of uncertainty in my belly leaves me. “I got home, and I was so miserable without you, Mags. I didn’t know whether our relationship meant anything to you, but I had to try.” He takes a deep breath. “And I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to see the consultant. I’ve decided to have the operation.”

  Relief weakens my knees. “Really?”

/>   “Someone told me I should try, and not give up.”

  “Was he very intelligent?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Rather noisily keen on his own opinions.” I chuckle, and he hugs me, pushing his face into the space between my neck and chin. His breaths come hot and hurried. “It might not work, Mags. I could still go blind.”

  His voice wavers, and my stomach hurts, but I’m honoured that this man has chosen me to confide in. “Then we will deal with it,” I say steadily, giving him a squeeze. “It’s us, yes? We are a team.”

  He pulls back, looking up at me with those sun-washed pale eyes that echo the Danish sea of my childhood. “Us?”

  I nod. “It will always be so.”

  “Well, now you’ve said it, I’m sure it will come true.”

  “It will.” I cup his sharp chin in my palm. “This is the way it will go. Are you listening, Laurie?” He nods, and I smile. “You will have the operation, and we will deal with whatever comes from it. I hope that you do not go blind, Laurie, but it makes no difference to my feelings. I am in love with you, and I know myself. I am a man who doesn’t feel lightly, and I tend to be loyal to the ones I love. You make me laugh, and you make me feel alive, and you will continue to do that regardless of whether you can see or not.”

  His eyes are shiny. “I’m so lucky I found you.”

  “I wasn’t lying around like an old chip wrapper.”

  “No, just having a twink crisis on your doorstep.” He sighs. “God bless all the beribboned twinks of the world.”

  I laugh and look around at the sunlit terrace. “I think I shall move in with you eventually, Laurie.”

  His eyes widen. “Don’t you want to be back in London rather than living here?”

  “Do we have to rule out one?”

  “I suppose not. I can work anywhere. But what about your law career?”

  “I shall continue to do that, but I’ve been thinking about scaling things down a bit. I would like to write a book. I’ve read your fiction challenges, and it appears to me that the world needs a very good legal thriller.”