Beautifully Unexpected by Lily Morton

Chapter Sixteen

Two Days Later

Mags

I sit moroselyon my sofa in the dark—the lights of the city twinkle in the background. The flat is empty. It’s been this way for the last two days. I cancelled Mrs Sinclair’s visits just after I rang in sick. Jane’s reaction had been stunned silence, which wasn’t surprising as I never miss work. I’d even turned up the time I’d had a grumbling appendix. Although I’d thought that had hurt, it was nothing compared to the way Laurie had casually gutted me.

It’s an unavoidable fact that I am not invulnerable anymore. My whole body hurts, and my eyes feel sore. I pull the throw around me and snuggle into the sofa, my temples pulsing from the alcohol I consumed last night. The empty bottle of whisky sits on the coffee table.

I’ve been here since I left Laurie’s flat apart from intervals to walk Endof. It’s where I was sitting when I heard his knock on the door on the first day and his plaintive call of my name. It happened seven times, and then he went silent.

I cannot bear to look at him at the moment. Everything I feel is too close to the surface. And the thing is, I know he is sorry. He was sorry as soon as he said it. And I know that he was just lashing out at me. I had done something unforgivable and read a secret that wasn’t mine, and I would have felt exactly the same.

I forgave him immediately for his anger. I’d been in the wrong too—making our argument all about myself. But what I cannot get over is the utter incredulity on his face when I said that I would be there for him. And that hurt, because I would have put him first, ahead of everything and everyone.

The root of the problem, though, is that I’ve done a ridiculous thing. I’ve fallen in love with Laurie, and he patently doesn’t feel the same. He doesn’t see the real me, and I thought he did. That is what I cannot forgive.

I rub my eyes. They’re sore from lack of sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I hear his words again, and snap back to being wide awake.

Coming to a decision, I stand up and shuffle towards the kitchen with the blanket held over my head and shoulders. I rummage around in the kitchen while Endof sits watching me, his head cocked to one side.

“I shall make silky milk with honey,” I inform him. “It can’t be that difficult, and it worked last time.”

It turns out that it is that difficult, because the coffee machine appears to need someone with an electrical engineering degree to operate it. Ten minutes later, after much swearing and cursing, I finally have silky milk, and I’m facing the prospect of murder at Mrs Sinclair’s hands for the state of the kitchen. Milk is everywhere, along with sticky patches of honey and sugar. Even as I watch, a syrupy dollop detaches itself from the cupboard and plops down over the coffee machine.

I slump on my barstool and look at the mug in front of me on the counter. It doesn’t look the same as when Laurie made it—it’s a strange grey colour. I take a cautious sip and wrinkle my nose. It doesn’t taste the same either. I take another sip and sigh. It’s horrible, but that’s mainly because he isn’t sitting next to me dipping his biscuits in my cup because he says he doesn’t want crumbs in his own.

I stand up and search in the cupboard to find the biscuits he liked, but one bite makes my stomach turn over and makes me miss him more, if that’s possible.

A knock on the door sounds, and despite all my best efforts, my heart picks up speed. Is it him? I waver, and the knock sounds again. Do I want to talk to him or not? I look pitiful. I’d rather have met him with a young man on my arm, looking confident and impervious in one of my nice suits rather than pyjama shorts and a wrinkled T-shirt.

I hear footsteps move away, and the thought that he might not try again galvanises me into furious action. I race for the door, banging my knee on the cabinet, and throw it open, cursing under my breath.

I look at the man in the corridor and slump. Not him. “Yes?” I say crossly, and his eyes widen.

I still have the blanket over my head. I growl and he takes another step back. Then I take a closer look at him. It’s Luke. Laurie’s brother. Even if I hadn’t seen him before, I would know he’s related to Laurie. He has the same dark, wavy hair and thin face that the Gentry siblings share.

Worry engulfs me. “Where is he? Is he okay?” I snap.

He hesitates, seemingly struck dumb.

“Well? Answer me. Is Laurie alright?”

Realisation dawns. “Oh. H-he’s fine,” he stammers. He bites his lip. “Well, maybe not. I know it’s very late, but is it okay if I come in? It’s Magnus, isn’t it?”

I sigh. “Call me Mags. Everyone else seems to do so lately.”

“Oh, that’s nice. Mags it is, then.” Luke takes a step towards me and then checks. “I almost forgot,” he mutters and reaches to the side of the door and pulls out a huge flat object covered in a drop cloth. “This is for you,” he says brightly. I stand open-mouthed, and he raises his eyebrow. “Shall I put it in your flat, then?”

I flush and stand back. “Yes, of course. Come in.”

He walks in, staggering under the weight of the object, and I gesture him into the lounge. He sets the object down with a sigh of relief. Then his gaze travels over the floor, where seemingly every record and CD I possess is strewn.

“Music lover, eh?” he says brightly. “I’m the same. Are you organising them?” His brow wrinkles at the thought, and I want to smile at the memory of his chaotic flat.

“I was making a mixtape,” I say somewhat reluctantly.

“Ah. Laurie had some of those from an old boyfriend. I remember him playing them over and over until I wanted to shoot whoever wrote ‘Careless Whisper.’”

“It was George Michael,” I say.

He continues to gaze down at the records, obviously coming to the undeniable and pathetic conclusion that I was making a tape for his brother. I want to fall through the floor. I’m sure he’s seeing the way I sat on the floor in the early hours of the morning, four sheets to the wind after drinking a bottle of whisky, and feverishly choosing music that would tell Laurie what I feel. I look at the cassette on the table and wonder whether it will fit down the waste disposal.

Inexplicably, however, Luke seems almost relieved. He gestures to the object under the drop cloth. “So, open it.”

“Now?”

His brow wrinkles. “Yes, of course.”

I sigh, and stepping forward, I grab one end of the cloth and tug. It falls to the floor, and I stare at what I’ve uncovered. It’s one of Laurie’s paintings. I’d recognise those confident brushstrokes and wonderful use of colour anywhere, but this picture is unlike anything I’ve seen before. It’s a fantastical view of London painted in almost psychedelic colours. At the centre is me at my desk with a frown of concentration on my face, but all around me are London’s landmarks in a crazy hodgepodge. I step closer. The bookshop is on there, as are the bingo hall, Lincoln’s Inn, the Old Bailey, and the Blue Bridge. It’s beautiful and whimsical and so like him that it makes my heart hurt.

“He said to tell you that you have a shit view, and he painted you a better one,” his brother says softly.

I turn to him. “Is he at the flat?”

He shakes his head and my spirits—which had risen at the sight of the painting—fall again. “No. He went home yesterday.”

We stand in silence, looking at the picture.

Eventually, Luke says, “We used to call him Mary, you know.”

I bristle at what seems to be a slur, but he smiles and says, “It’s because he’s like Mary Poppins. He lands in your life and tries to make it better, and then he’s gone again without ever allowing anyone into his own life.” He shoots me a look. “I know you’ve got in, though.”

I jerk. “How?”

He taps the picture. “Because of this. He doesn’t do this for anyone. We’ve all asked for pictures over the years. Christ, we have a famous artist in the family. Would it kill him to do a few doodles? I had to buy a bloody painting just to get one on my wall.” My mouth twitches. “But no. Nothing. Nada. Except for humouring Ma by painting the judge. But you. He doesn’t simply paint you a picture. It’s a complete one-off.” He taps it again meditatively before looking at me. “And it’s a labour of love, Mags.”

I think I stop breathing. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs. “That’s between the two of you.” He reaches into his pocket and produces a cream envelope. Written on it in Laurie’s elegant scrawl is my name. I snatch it from him, and he half-smiles. His expression sobers quickly.

“You know what’s wrong with my brother, don’t you?”

“I couldn’t tell you, if he hasn’t told you himself first,” I say levelly.

“He has.” He shakes his head. “It isn’t fair.”

“Life very rarely is. Much is wrong with this world, and sometimes it seems that only the good people suffer.”

“But if you have the chance to make something right, you should take it, right?” he says earnestly, staring at me.

I hesitate. “It’s not that easy. He left me. That was his choice, and who am I to force anything on him? We were just friends, after all.”

“Okay,” he says with a wealth of scepticism on his face. He looks at me sternly. “Is he worth the trouble, though?”

I nod fervently, even before the words finish coming from his mouth.

He smiles. “Then go and get him. He’s hurting, Mags, and he needs you. I know if this were a book, he’d come to you and apologise, and he did try that two days ago. I watched him traipse over here every hour, and each time he came back, his shoulders were a little lower, and he looked even more unhappy.” I wince. “I’m sure there’ll be times when it’s the other way around, and you’ll need him more, but that’s not now. He’s making life-changing decisions on his own, and that hurts my heart so much.”

It hurts mine, and I rub my chest. He tracks the gesture with sharp eyes very much like his brother’s, but he doesn’t say anything. He just says a subdued goodbye and leaves me in the silence of my empty flat with the knowledge that getting the last word is obviously a Gentry family trait.

I sit down on the sofa and lapse into thought. That must have segued into sleep because I jerk awake later to find Endof nudging my hand. A quick glance at the clock tells me I’ve been asleep for a few hours. I rub my gritty eyes and look down at him and sigh. “You are bored, my friend, yes? Shall we go out?” He whines excitedly at the magic word, and I hold up one finger. “I will shower first.” I retrieve the envelope from the arm of the sofa and set it down on my dining room table as gently as if it was a priceless artefact and head off to get clean.

When I come out dressed in navy shorts and a white T-shirt, the sky is brightening to pearly dawn, but I know I won’t sleep. I grab Endof’s lead and fix it on him before grabbing my wallet and going to the door. I stop and then curse under my breath and come back for the mysterious envelope. I put it carefully in my pocket.

“Just in case there’s a fire,” I tell Endof, who appears to be rolling his eyes. I look at the tape with Laurie’s name on the label and put that in my pocket for the same reason.

London is very quiet, with just a few milk wagons and early morning commuters about. I choose St James Park for some ridiculously sentimental reason, and as the gates have only just opened, it’s quiet. Seeing no one around, I let Endof off his lead. We stroll along the paths, watching the ornate lamps blink out as daylight approaches. Finally, I find a seat on a bench near the lake and look out over its stillness. The mist over the water seems to shimmer in the early morning light. It’s already hot, and the day promises more of the same.

Endof bustles about, sniffing at bushes before choosing the most worthy ones to anoint with a lift of his leg. I tap my fingers on my thighs and then give up and pull out the envelope. I smooth my fingers over Laurie’s writing, wishing I could touch his skin. That we were lying in bed, and I could trace the graceful arch of his spine as he lies amongst my sheets.

I tear the envelope open carefully and pull out the thin sheet of drafting paper inside.

Mags

I’m so sorry. I can’t believe that I said those words to you. I was worried and heartsick, and you were there, and so I took it out on you as if, for some stupid reason, it was your fault. It was utterly unforgivable of me.

I didn’t mean what I said. Actually, let me clarify that. When I first met you, I did believe that. I met you, and I saw the ideal companion for my time in London. Someone who was footloose and fancy-free. Someone who ran away from any ties. What better companion for a person who had a big decision to make and was making every effort not to do so? I could lose myself with you and know that you would never care enough to ask me questions.

I decided to draw up my list of all the places I wanted to see and things I wanted to do in case of the worst-case scenario. And you were perfect for doing them with. You made me laugh and drew me out of my terror. The fear was always there waiting in the wings, but you kept it at bay. You were like my knight in QC robes, and I seized on you as if you were a lifejacket.

But in the process, I found out you were so much more. You’re loyal and kind beneath the sharp sarcasm. You’re fiercely and unapologetically yourself, and you made me ashamed of the man I had become. A coward hiding from life in the company of someone who throws himself headfirst into it. Rather ironic.

You’ll never know how many times I opened my mouth to tell you, to ask your advice. But every time it happened, I closed my lips, and I still don’t know why. Maybe because if I told you, you would have forced me to address it. Perhaps because you would have looked at me differently. With pity. The irony is I’d decided to tell you, but I waited too long, and you found out. And then I hurt you. I could see it in your eyes, and it made me sick to my stomach. I never wanted that, Mags.

I know you don’t want to see or speak to me and I completely understand why. I won’t push it.

I would just like you to know that it has been one of the great honours of my life to get to know the real you. I hope you know that you got the same with me. I’m not much, really. Scared and stubborn and ferociously independent. I don’t let people in, but somehow, I did with you, and the result was a beautifully unexpected summer in London.

I hope in years to come you may look a little more fondly on me and our time together. I hope you forget my harsh words and remember instead the vodka and dancing, the Blue Bridge, and even the bingo. But most of all, the laughter. I’ve never laughed so much with anyone as I did with you.

I hope you like the picture. It made me smile when I painted it, and I think a large part of that was because I was thinking of you. Pet Endof for me. I know you will look after him because that’s who you are. You said it yourself once. You look after what is yours. I hope you find many more people to look after. You’re very good at it even though you think you aren’t.

Be well. I wish a lifetime of happiness and joy for you because you deserve that more than anyone I’ve ever met. I hope you find someone with whom you can be yourself and love how you do the law and your friends. He will be a very lucky man.

Laurie

I putthe letter down and swallow hard. My silly eyes are burning, and I have a wish to be with him right now. To be able to pull him into a hug, to smell his soapy scent, and hear his wicked chuckle. What has he done to me?

I wipe my eyes and stand up, suddenly consumed with this ferocious need. I look around for Endof and realise that I’m very near where Laurie’s mother lives. I went to a party there once. An idea stirs, and I whistle to Endof, who looks like he’s debating whether to ignore me. Thankfully, he decides to humour me and sidles over.

“We have work to do,” I inform him. “We have to go to Laurie, but we must make another stop beforehand.”

The first bang of my fist on the blue front door doesn’t produce a result, so I hammer on the surface again in a sustained tattoo.

I pause and listen hard. There is no sound, and I look down at Endof. “Where could they be?” I muse. “I will try one more time.”

I bang on the door again, and then luck is with me when I hear footsteps and the sound of locks turning and a muttered cursing. The door swings open, revealing the flushed face of Laurie’s stepfather. He’s wearing rather garish bronze-coloured pyjamas with a black towelling robe, and his hair is sticking up in silver tufts.

“Magnus?” He gapes at me in patent disbelief.

“Ah, good morning, sir,” I say brightly. “How are you?”

The silence lasts for a few seconds too long, and then he visibly recovers his poise.

“Well, I’m fine. A little tired.” He opens the door wider, revealing the figure of Laurie’s mother. She interests me more now than when I’d first met her, because of Laurie. It’s obvious where his looks come from. She’s stunning even with grey in her hair and has the same slim figure and angular face as him. It soothes me a little to look at her, but then I realise that I’m staring, and I try to pull myself together. I return to the judge’s comment.

“Tired? Are you not sleeping well, sir?”

He stares at me with his mouth slightly open, and Endof chooses that moment to slip away from me and make his way into the house. Laurie’s mother dashes after him.

“And of course, you’ve brought your dog,” the judge says faintly. “Lovely,” he continues as there’s a crashing sound from the front room and a feminine shriek. He turns back to me. “I can’t deny that this is a bit of a surprise, Magnus.”

“Why? Because we aren’t friends?”

“No. Because it’s five thirty in the morning.” He looks behind him when there’s another screech. “And your dog just pissed up our curtains.”

“Oh, dear. I do apologise. He’s new,” I say vaguely, hoping that will suffice. “Could I come in, sir?”

He blinks. “What? Now?” I nod. “Why?”

I search for a reason. I can’t shake him until he gives me his stepson’s address. I realise I should have just gone to Lennie’s house or asked Luke but I can’t now. Finally, a reason comes to me. “Oh, I wanted to see your portrait,” I say, smiling at him calmly.

“You came here at five thirty in the morning to see my portrait, Magnus?” he says, looking as if he’s considering ringing for a special ambulance for me.

I nod, giving him a cocky smile. “Real art doesn’t pay attention to time, sir.”

He looks as if he’s giving serious consideration to shutting the door in my face, but at that moment, Laurie’s mother appears again. “You’re Magnus?” she says. “Laurie’s Mags?”

I bite my lip. “I am,” I say, unsure which statement I’m replying to, but the answer is the same for either question.

She grins widely, and to my surprise, she reaches out, grabs my arm, and tows me into the house. “Come in,” she says loudly.

“Lucy?” the judge says. “What the hell is going on?”

“This is Laurie’s Mags.”

He shakes his head. “I have no idea what is going on, but I fully expect to be the last one to know as usual.” He kisses his wife’s cheek affectionately. “I’m going back to bed,” he announces. “Call me when you decide that you’re going to enlighten me.”

She smiles at him, and we watch as he climbs the stairs. Then she turns to me. “Come and have a cup of tea,” she says. She looks suddenly rather naughty. “Unless you’d like to see the portrait, of course. That is the reason you came, isn’t it?”

She looks so much like Laurie at the moment that it makes my heart hurt.

“You know why I came,” I say. She raises an eyebrow. “I came for Laurie’s address.”

“And why would I give that to a stranger?”

“I’m fairly sure that I ate canapes in your dining room once.”

She smiles at me. “Well, lucky for you, I’ve spoken to Lennie, so I know everything.”

“I sincerely hope not,” I say, alarmed.

She grins. “I know enough to recognise that you’re in love with my son, aren’t you, Magnus Carlsen?”

My stomach dips. “If I am, then I think he might be the first person I should tell that to, yes?”

She inclines her head approvingly. Her eyes are the same colour as Laurie’s and full of the same intelligence, wit, and kindness. “Well then, let’s just say that I know enough to recognise that my son might feel the same.”

She turns to search in the drawer of the walnut console table, leaving me feeling as if she’s just punched me in the stomach. She exclaims and turns with a piece of paper in her hand.

“Here it is,” she says and forces it into my hand. “His address. Lovely house. It was my mother’s. She was the same as him. A heart as big as the sky and no intention of ever using it properly,” she says affectionately and then looks closer at me. “Are you alright, Mags? Is it Mags?”

“I suppose it is,” I get out.

“You look like you’re going to be sick. Maybe you should pop into my lounge and throw up on my curtains. They’ll never be the same after your dog.”

“Did you say your son was in love with me?” I gasp.

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.”