Beautifully Unexpected by Lily Morton

Chapter Two

Magnus

Later that evening,I stand outside the door of the opposite flat. I clear my throat and run my finger around the collar of my shirt. Shit.

I reach up and resolutely ring the doorbell. I wait, but nothing happens, so I ring it again. I hear faltering footsteps and the sound of the latch being lifted before the door swings open.

“You,” he says.

I eye him. He’s wearing a pair of battered jeans that cling to his long legs and are worn white in places, teamed with a black jumper which saw better days many years ago. It’s ripped at the neck and has holes on the hem. He’s barefoot, and his hair is a mess, and I inhale the scent of linseed oil and paint.

He clears his throat, and I hastily drag my attention back to his face to find him staring at me.

“How lovely to see you again. Have you come to insult my father for a second time? Maybe you’d like to meet my mother and punch her in the face. I think I might even have a spare aunt for you to maim.”

I groan. “Ack, I’m so sorry. I am here to apologise.” I brandish the bottle I’m holding. “I bring a sorry gift.”

He whistles. “That’s an expensive apology. That whisky is about sixty quid.”

I shrug. “It’s a very big apology.”

He eyes me, and then to my astonishment, he grins, displaying a dimple in his left cheek. “Nah, it’s fine,” he says. “He’s my stepfather, and you weren’t wrong. He’s extremely fond of the sound of his own voice. You should try spending a day with him.”

“No, thank you,” I say quickly, in case he’s thinking of forcing me to do it. I tap my fingers against my leg restlessly. “So, you are Laurie Gentry.”

“You say it as though you’re announcing the queen.”

“Probably because it should have the same effect. Your sister Lennie might have mentioned you to me once or twice.”

He bites his lip. “What a very small world we live in.”

I shake my head. “Did you know who I was this morning?” I gesture towards the corridor.

“Not at first.” He smiles. “I was a teeny bit distracted by the man with the exposed genitals, but then I rallied and realised that you were the Magnus who was at uni with Chris and Lennie, and who I’ve heard so much about.”

“Probably only extremely good things,” I say. “And yes, I was at university with Chris and then later, Lennie, when she came into his life. For my sins,” I add sourly and he starts to laugh. “Ack, I should have guessed when I saw you. You even look like Luke.”

“Now there’s no need to get nasty,” he says happily and swings the door fully open. “Come in.” He takes the bottle from me. “You can help me drink it,” he calls as he turns and walks away.

I follow him, noticing that he walks with a slight limp, which explains the uneven footsteps I’d heard earlier.

He glances back and sees where my gaze is. “Sorry,” I say. “You’re limping.”

“Car accident a few months ago,” he says cheerfully.

“Good grief, are you alright?”

He blinks. “I’m fine. The limp will go.”

The flat is a mirror image of my flat, but while mine is all clean lines and minimal furnishing, this is… This is chaos. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases spill books onto every available surface. Piles of them adorn the floor. Paintings are stacked up against the wall, and dirty cups are dotted about everywhere.

He must catch my expression because he starts to laugh. “Have you been in here before?”

“Once.” I shake my head, unable to drag my appalled gaze from the table full of dirty cups. One of them has a chocolate bar sticking out of it. “We keep very different hours. We tend to just say hello and goodbye in the corridor.”

“Ah, the scene of some of your most memorable farewells.”

I ignore that. “Your brother is a hoarder,” I announce.

“Luke is definitely that.”

“So, what are you doing here?”

“I’m housesitting for him while he’s in California for work.”

I chuckle. “I thought he was an English professor when I first met him.”

He scratches his scruffy chin. “Why? Because he has books?”

I look around the living area. “He doesn’t just have books. He has many books.”

He skirts a table where a huge tower of books is teetering and heads into the kitchen. “He loves them. Always has done. He can’t throw them away or sell them. He doesn’t even like lending them to people.” I wrinkle my brow in incomprehension, and he grins at me as his long fingers unseal the wax at the top of the bottle. “You don’t understand that?”

“Well, no. I don’t keep books. I don’t like clutter.”

He attempts to look shocked, but his expression is plainly mocking. “You don’t like books?”

“No. I like reading, but I do that on my tablet. That way, the books don’t mess up my living space.”

He gets the bottle open, extracts a couple of tumblers from the kitchen cupboard, and pours a healthy splash into both of them. He hands me one and raises his own glass. “Slainte.”

“Skål,” I say.

“Is that Danish for ‘pass me the bacon’?”

I roll my eyes. “I should apologise for the scene this morning too, yes?”

He throws his head back and breaks into peals of laughter. It’s a rich, warm sound, and I find myself smiling too. Finally, when he’s reduced to chuckling, he wipes his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says. “But that was so funny.”

I grimace. “It makes me very uncomfortable when my bed partners leave and come back.”

He shakes his head. “Oh dear. That one definitely came back. I’m stunned you’re not moving him in.”

“I’d rather pickle my eyeballs,” I say gloomily.

We move out into the main area and I look around in an attempt to change the subject. “I didn’t see that the last time I was here,” I say, pointing to an ancient-looking easel set up in the corner of the room. “Has Luke taken up painting?”

“Let’s hope not for the sake of the world of art. We used to chalk on the patio stones as kids, and some of his drawings were the subject of nightmares. My mother always hovered by us with a bucket of water to wash them away before we needed therapy.”

I chuckle and move away.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

I throw him a smile. “I just wanted to look out of the window. Your brother has a different view than me.”

I walk over to the floor-to-ceiling windows and gaze out at a side view of the river.

“Well?” he says, slipping into a seat at the breakfast bar.

“It’s definitely not as good a view as mine.”

“I bet you’re so relieved.”

“I am.” I peer out of the window again and then focus downwards and whistle. “Come and look at this,” I say, gesturing to him.

“What is it?”

“You’ll see if you look. A man is fucking a woman on his balcony on the third floor.”

“Lovely,” he says faintly.

I’m puzzled. “You are not coming to look?”

He waves a hand. “I’ll take a pass.”

“Why?”

He rolls his eyes and turns back to his whisky. “I’m afraid of heights.”

I stare at him and start to laugh. “You’re afraid of heights and your brother has you housesitting one of the penthouse flats. The smaller one,” I add.

He sips his whisky. “Oh, the irony of it all. But alas, even the less imposing penthouse flat has windows.”

“Your loss, I suppose.” I take another look. “Not that you’re missing much. His technique is woeful.”

He chokes on his drink, and I throw him a smile. I wander around the room, touching the book spines and examining their titles.

“Did you come here to apologise or just to have a nosy?” he asks. He doesn’t look bothered, sprawled in his seat and watching me.

I come back towards him. “You can tell a lot about people from their homes, no?”

“I suppose so. What does this place tell you about my brother?”

“He probably died in a tragic hoarding accident in a former life.” I shake my head in disbelief as I look around.

“I’m taking it that you don’t like clutter, Mags.”

I cock my head to one side. I don’t think anyone has ever abbreviated my name. Even Jane calls me Magnus. “My name is actually Magnus.”

“I think Mags suits you better.”

I wrinkle my nose. “How terrible. That worries me.” He grins. “So, what are you doing here apart from housesitting, Laurie Gentry, brother of Lennie and Luke?”

His eyes sparkle as if he’s secretly mocking me, but he answers the question seriously. “I’m doing a job for my mother and stepfather.”

I have a dim recollection of Lennie saying that her twin brother was a painter. I wonder if his mother and the judge are doing a house renovation and Laurie is helping them. I suppose he’s short of money which explains his raggedy clothes, wild hair, and the housesitting. Maybe his mother took pity on him.

I give him a smile and move away to examine a large painting on the wall near me. It’s of an old man sitting on a bench in a patch of sunlight. A simple painting, but it’s absolutely stunning. It’s also somewhat familiar. I have a dim memory of attending an exhibition in Knightsbridge a few months ago for a famous portrait artist. The style is the same, but I can’t remember the artist’s name.

“This is absolutely stunning,” I say. “The technique is beautifully simple.”

He watches me still with that sparkle in his eyes. “You know art?”

“I know about paintings,” I say over my shoulder. “My mother was a renowned artist and spoke about her work for ninety percent of the day.”

“What did she do for the remaining ten percent?”

I wink. “Drank and shagged younger men.”

“Ah, the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.” I throw my head back and laugh. When I recover, he’s watching me with a smile on his face. “I thought I recognised the surname,” he says. “Your mother was Frida Carlsen, wasn’t she?”

I nod. “She painted the queen.”

“That must have been terribly ticklish for the poor woman,” he says solemnly and startles another laugh out of me.

I look at him curiously. I value people who can make me laugh or entertain me. Jane says I view the population as if I were a bored Roman emperor, but she’s completely wrong, of course.

I wander back and lift my glass to take a slug of the whisky. “Nice,” I say. I look at the bottles on the counter and whistle at one. “But not as nice as that. Your brother’s?”

“Could it not be mine?” he finally asks.

I have the strange sense that I’m amusing him. “Maybe,” I say, eyeing his disreputable clothes. When I look up, he’s suppressing a smile.

“Ah,” he says.

When nothing else is forthcoming, I wander away again to poke my head around a door at the far end of the room. As I suspected, it’s his bedroom. I’m glad to see it’s smaller than mine and it has a dreadful view.

“Do help yourself,” he calls, that laughter still in his voice. “Would you like to sleep in his bed?”

“Not with that view,” I answer, turning back.

He eyes me. “So, if your mother was Frida Carlsen, then your father must be Maxwell Frederick, the poet.”

“He is. He moved back to England when he and my mother divorced.”

“Is he still writing? I studied him at school. Beautiful imagery.”

“That’s what happens when you’re stoned every day.”

“Good heavens, no one ever told me that. I should have been a poet laureate by the time I was seventeen.”

I laugh. “So, what about you?” I ask, leaning against the counter and sipping my drink. I’m surprised to find myself asking questions and being genuinely interested in the answers. But then I have no intention of shagging him. He’s too old for me. I like them young and casual.

He shrugs. “What’s to tell?”

“Well, your name. It’s unusual. From Little Women?”

“My mother was an actress and played Beth in a West End production of Little Women. I bet she died far more dramatically than Louisa May Alcott ever intended, though.” He grins. “Anyway, my name starts with ‘L’. All six of us have names beginning with that letter. You probably know that from Lennie.”

“I think there is a lot I have missed when listening to your sister.” I shrug. “It’s probably better for my mental health.”

He chuckles. “I think my stepfather is rather embarrassed by the naming business.”

“I can’t believe there were six of you. Good heavens. That’s a zoo.”

He throws his head back and laughs. It’s a merry sound that makes me smile. “You’d have definitely said that if you’d known us as children. The Gentry mob. How many of us have you met?”

“Not all of you. I’ve managed to avoid the family parties for years.”

“Very astute of you.”

“I’ve met Lennie, obviously, Luke, and now you.”

“Well, allow me to enlighten you. There are my two older brothers—Lorcan and Luke. Then there are my younger sisters, Leia and Lucy. And my twin sister Lennie whose actual name is Leonora. She insists on being called Lennie. Her version of a rebellion without any actual bloodshed.”

“Why the letter ‘L’? I’m sure your sister never mentioned that. It seems as if it would be memorable.”

He waves an airy hand. “Probably because it all seems entirely normal to us. It was actually my mother’s idea.”

“I was going to say she was mad, but I think that’s evidenced by the fact that she’s married to the reincarnation of Judge Jeffreys.”

He shakes his head. “He does like his brandy.” He claps his hands together and stands up. “Well, I must be getting on.”

I’m taken aback. I never outstay my welcome. In fact, people usually want me to stay longer. Laurie’s dismissal amuses me, which means I must be very bored at the moment. Then I think of his clothes. Maybe he needs to finish the painting so he can get paid.

“Of course,” I say, wandering to the door. “You have work to do. I hope your painting goes well. But then I’m sure that your mother will love it regardless,” I finish rather awkwardly.

Mirth fills his eyes as he opens the door, making me wonder whether I should embark on a comedy career, such is his amusement with me.

“Thank you for your kind words,” he says solemnly.

“Well, goodbye,” I say. “My apologies again.”

“Goodbye,” he says and shuts the door cheerfully in my face.

I stand gaping at it for a second. It’s only the thought that he might be watching me through the peephole as I stand here like an idiot that gets me moving.

I step toward my flat. He’s probably forgotten me already.

I stop dead in my tracks. “Laurie,” I say out loud. “Where have I heard that name before?” Realisation floods me as the memory of that gallery showing, his name, and the picture in the flat all intersect. I remember the way I’d judged the painting, and I actually feel myself flush. Something I haven’t done since I was a child.

Two seconds later, I ring his doorbell.

The same faltering footsteps sound, and he throws open the door looking completely unsurprised to find me on his doorstep again.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I demand.

“Hmm. What should I have told you, Mags? That your flies are open?”

I look down automatically and groan. “Ack, you had me there.” He chuckles, and I glare at him. “You’re Laurie Adnet, aren’t you? The Laurie Adnet who painted that picture in there. The man who happens to be a very famous portrait artist.”

He sketches a bow. “That’s me. I go by my grandmother’s name when working. My way of honouring her.” He bites his lip to hide a smile. “Should I have told you?” he says innocently.

“I think you probably should have done so,” I inform him. “I thought your mother was paying you to decorate her house so you could eat a good meal.”

He loses his battle with the smile and laughs loudly, his eyes creased in amusement.

“Were you feeling sorry for me, Mags?”

I roll my eyes. “Of course not. I merely observe things.” His laughter increases.

“That easel in the flat is yours, yes?” He nods. “What are you painting?”

“My stepfather.”

I blink. “Why?”

He shrugs. “That was my question too. But my mother commissioned it as a wedding anniversary gift.”

“Ack, I spend my days being looked down on by him in a courtroom. I wouldn’t fancy having him on my wall as well.” He grins at me and I suppress the urge to linger in the corridor and talk more. “Well, nice to meet you, Laurie Gentry,” I call over my shoulder as I walk back to my flat. “Du er en fjollet fjols.”

“What does that mean?” he says through his chuckles.

“You are a silly fool,” I inform him and shut my door on his renewed laughter.

I lean back against my door and finally allow my smile to break through. Then I put the thought of him away and head back to the kitchen to find the dinner that Mrs Sinclair will have left for me.

A pleasant interlude, but I doubt I will talk to him again.