Beautifully Unexpected by Lily Morton

 

 

Chapter One

Magnus

My morning startswhen the alarm sounds, and the blinds glide smoothly back from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Rolling over in my soft sheets, I look out at where the River Thames moves past, early sunbeams trapped in its wake. In the distance, the imposing bulk of Tower Bridge stands tall and wreathed in early morning mist. Stretching out, I relish the caress of the cold sheets and the fact that I’m not sharing them with anyone. The only sign of my bedmate from last night is an indent on the other pillow and the empty condom wrapper on the bedside table. Just the way it should be.

The next hour passes precisely as I like it. I run on the treadmill for forty-five minutes with the news playing and shower afterwards, enjoying the powerful spray on my body. By the time I’m buttoning the cuffs on my shirt, the apartment is filled with the scent of fresh coffee. When I stride out into the open plan of my flat, it’s to find my housekeeper standing at the breakfast counter.

“Coffee’s on the table, Mr Carlsen.”

“Thank you, Mrs Sinclair.”

“An egg-white omelette? Or would you like something different?”

“The omelette will be lovely,” I say, heading over to the dining table and draping my black suit jacket over a chair back. I grab my cup, and, humming happily, I take a sip as I open the newspaper waiting by my place setting. Then I pause as the doorbell rings.

I check my watch. It’s six in the morning. Mrs Sinclair sets her spatula down. “No need,” I call. “I’ll get it.”

The doorbell sounds again, and I huff indignantly as I throw the door open. And stop dead.

It appears that my bedmate of the previous night has not gone away. Instead, he is standing on my doorstep in a long coat and with a slightly maniacal look on his face. I blink.

“Hello, er–?” I falter, his name escaping me.

His smile grows wider. “Ta-dah!” he says loudly.

The lift door bings and a man emerges. He walks down the corridor towards us, pulling a wheeled suitcase. He stops at my neighbour’s door and starts to rifle through his pockets. Hopefully, it’s for his keys. I don’t have time to deal with a burglar this morning. Not when I have my own problems.

At the thought of the most predominant one, I turn back to the young man and my mouth falls open. It appears that the minutes when my attention was diverted were crucial ones, because his coat is now lying in a heap on the floor, and he’s completely naked.

For a moment that seems to stretch into eternity, I stare at him. The stranger, meanwhile, seems to have entirely abandoned looking for his keys, or whatever he was searching for, in favour of leaning against the door and watching us in fascination.

“What is happening at the moment?” I say faintly, trying not to look at my former bedmate’s penis. It has a small blue bow attached to it.

He gives a wide smile. “I wrapped myself up in a ribbon for you.”

“Well, not all of you,” honesty compels me to admit. “It’s mainly just your penis.”

His brow furrows. “That’s to celebrate how we met.”

“Ah,” I say while frantically trying to remember his name. “How we met. Lovely.” I have a dim memory of a club and him sucking my cock like he was a human hoover.

The man observing us snorts softly and cranes his neck to see more. I glare at him and turn back to my intruder.

“Well, that was very nice of you, Paul.”

“Paul?” he says in an affronted manner. “My name is Micky.”

“Ah yes. Paul is Danish for ‘comely one’,” I say, lying through my teeth.

He’s instantly diverted. “Is it? How lovely. Well, I’m sure I’ll learn so much about your culture when we travel together.”

“Travel together? When are we travelling together?”

“I’m sure we will at some point,” he says. His smile has a wild edge to it. “Now we’re a couple.”

“And when you say that, you mean as strangers who fucked and have now moved completely on to other things and other people, yes?” I say hopefully.

“No, silly,” he says, patting my arm like I’m a dog. “I mean, now we’re in a relationship.”

There’s a very protracted silence which, in the end, I’m forced to break. “Ah well, I’m afraid the only commitment I’m making today is to drink my coffee. In peace,” I add. “Alone.” In case that didn’t get through.

His smile falls away. “You said last night we were meant to be.”

My memory starts to return. “No, you said that. I said we were meant to fuck, and I wanted to do that immediately.”

“But we’re on the same wavelength,” he says in an affronted tone.

“We are not,” I say, revolted. “You said you were a skiing expert, and yet you didn’t even know who Graham Bell is.”

He cocks his head. “And I’m sure you’re wrong about that. I’m telling you he was the dancing boy in Billy Elliott.”

A snort of laughter sounds from behind my naked admirer. Micky immediately spins around. “Can we help you?” he says sharply.

“No, I don’t think so,” the stranger says. His voice is low and pleasant-sounding and still has a smile in it. “And I have to agree it’s Graham Bell who’s the skier. Not known for his dancing, I’m afraid. Those skis get in the way of the steps.”

Unbidden, my lips twitch, but I clear my expression as Micky wheels back round to me.

He puts his hands on his hips, and we all try to ignore the ribbon flapping perkily around his genitals.

“Well, Magnus. Last chance to get all of this perfection to yourself.”

“I think I’ll pass,” I inform him briskly.

“Really?” he says in blatant incomprehension. “Why?”

“Because I picked you up in a bar, you blew me in the toilets, and then I brought you back here for a fuck. I was quite clear through that process that I did not hear wedding bells. I don’t like the sound of them. In fact, I think I am dangerously allergic.”

He exhales through his nose, his eyes narrowing rather ominously.

“I suppose it’s for the best. You’re far too old for me,” he finally says, bending to pick up his coat.

“Oh, quite ancient,” I say cheerfully. “You need someone young who can appreciate naked accessorising. I’m far too stuck in the mud.”

“I wish you were. So stuck that you drowned in it.” With that, he twirls around dramatically and strides towards the lift.

A silence falls after the lift doors shut on my erstwhile suitor. Finally, I look towards the other man.

“Shame,” he says. “It’s not too late to change your mind. I bet he’s not moving too quickly with that ribbon constricting his blood flow.”

I stare at him incredulously. “Have we met?”

“Just now,” he says. Then he over-loudly enunciates, “Five minutes ago, but don’t worry if your memory isn’t what it was. You’ve had a very long life.”

My lip twitches, and I eye him. “Are you breaking into that flat?”

He studies me. “What would you do if I was?”

I consider it and then shrug. “Probably nothing. I’ve got a hectic morning ahead of me.”

He bursts out laughing and rifles through his pockets once more before finally exclaiming in triumph and withdrawing a set of keys. He inserts one into the lock, and the door swings open. “Well, it was nice to meet you. Or at least memorable.”

I cock my head to one side. “Wait. What is your name?”

“Heffalump. It’s Danish for beloved.”

I shake my head, and his laughter fades as the door shuts behind him, leaving me standing in the sun-filled corridor.

“Hmm,” I say contemplatively, and then, dismissing him from my mind, I walk back into my flat to finish my breakfast.

* * *

The sun streamsthrough the high window in court ten of the Old Bailey. I lean casually against the table next to the jury box, ready to present my closing argument. The jurors’ faces are turned to me. Some look eager, some look resigned, and the odd one just looks bored.

“We all have duties in life, whatever our age and whatever our occupation,” I say slowly. “They weigh on our shoulders, and sometimes we stumble. You are jurors. The task may have irritated you when the jury summons fell through your letterbox. You may have tried to think of excuses because serving would interfere with your life and the job that puts food on your table. However, that is easier said than done, as getting out of juror service isn’t intended to be easy, because it’s an important job.”

It’s the truth. It’s fucking terrible trying to get out of jury duty. “You are the ones who are tasked with examining the evidence put before you,” I continue. “You are the last port of call before a prison sentence. It’s a job that needs keen eyes, a strong nerve, and it’s a duty that should weigh heavily because it’s the weight of a man’s freedom.” A couple of the jurors’ expressions have changed from boredom to self-importance. “I’ve presented you with a great deal of evidence showing the truth of the night that PC Tomlinson died. My client, Mr Simpson, isn’t an upstanding member of society. He was a drug-taker who illegally occupied a house and dealt drugs from there. He has a temper which is hardly the mark of a good character and diametrically opposed to PC Tomlinson, who had an important job and raised a family.”

I pause to get their full attention. “However,” I say, “We are not trying my client for being an unpleasant person. That happens on Twitter and not in a British court. The truth is that on the night of the sixteenth of August, PC Tomlinson stepped outside the law. Whether it was in anger or frustration, he set in motion a chain of events that ended with his death. My client is not responsible for that, nor is he responsible for the brutality he suffered at the hands of PC Tomlinson and his fellow officers.” I tap the rail in front of the first row of jurors. “Do your duty. That is why you are here.”

The jurors stare at me, and I nod before turning and striding back to the table where my client is waiting. Dressed in an ill-fitting suit and with his hair scraped back in a ponytail, he looks a far cry from the police mugshots when he’d been a strung-out mess. Time in prison has detoxed him. Whether he stays that way is unsure.

“Your turn,” I mutter to my opponent, Simon Fields. “Do try and keep it under five hours this time.”

He glares at me, and then hastily rearranges his face when he realises the jury is watching him.

I settle back into my chair, and my client leans in anxiously. “What do you think?” he whispers.

I eye Simon, who is striding up and down in front of the jury. “I think the odds are that he’s going to bore them silly within twenty seconds. He never knows when to stop.” I pat my client’s hand. “We’ll know soon enough.”

Three hours later, I’m at the back of the law courts in an area where the delivery wagons unload. Leaning against a pillar, I raise my cigarette and take a long drag, feeling the smoke fill my lungs. I exhale, watching the smoke rise and disappear. A door opening behind me makes me turn around.

A court runner stands there. “Jury’s coming back, sir,” he says.

I drop the cigarette to the floor and grind it out before throwing the butt in the bin. “Thanks, Brian.”

He looks at me disapprovingly. “Thought you’d packed that game in.”

“I have. I just have the one now while the jury’s out.” I wink at him. “It’s my only vice.”

He rolls his eyes. “I heartily doubt that, sir.”

Laughing, I follow him back into the bowels of the Bailey and the labyrinthine corridors that run everywhere. “Showtime,” I mutter.

When I stride back into the court, my robes flapping behind me, I find my client sitting there.

“Sit up straight,” I say quietly.

My junior barrister, Darryl, pats his hand. “Soon be over,” he says.

I turn to Sean, my pupil, who is sitting in the first row behind me. He’s a tall, thin, anxious-looking young man. “What do you think, Sean?”

He leans forward eagerly. “I think you’ll win, sir. That was a brilliant defence.”

“Which bit was brilliant?”

He blinks. “Well, all of it.”

I shake my head. “I don’t need you blowing smoke up my backside. I know I’m good.” Darryl rolls his eyes as I continue. “You should be analysing everything and be prepared to tell me the good and the bad. How can you learn, otherwise? I’ll speak to you this afternoon, and hopefully, you will have a more comprehensive answer.”

I turn back to the table. “Have you sorted out the rehab for Mr Simpson?” I ask his solicitor.

“Yes, Magnus. It’s all arranged for if he’s acquitted.”

I clap his back in thanks, and then we all look up as the jury is announced. They file back into the jury box, looking resolute.

I look over at Simon to find him glaring at me. I shoot him a wink and he grimaces.

“Have you reached a verdict?” Judge Bannister asks. He’s a good old sort for a judge even if he can bore for Britain. A bit big-headed, but name me one who isn’t. At least he isn’t a dyed-in-the-wool spokesman for the return of flogging and capital punishment on every street corner.

The jury foreman stands up. He’s thin and earnest. “We have, my lord.”

“And what is it?”

“Not guilty.”

A wave of emotion flows over the courtroom—some of it hostile and some of it relieved—and my client slumps in his chair.

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 given 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.