Beautifully Unexpected by Lily Morton
Chapter Three
Laurie
I shiftposition on the wooden bench and then do it again when it doesn’t relieve the ache in my arse. Court cases can go on for ages, so why they don’t make the seats comfortable has always been a mystery.
The prosecution QC drones on at the front of the courtroom, leaving the witness looking a little glazed.
“Uncomfortable, isn’t it?” the woman next to me whispers.
I shoot her a smile. “Awful.”
She leans closer. “I come here all the time, but I bring a cushion now.”
“You come here a lot?” I ask. She’s tiny, with lilac-coloured hair and faded blue eyes.
“Well, only for Mr Carlsen’s trials.”
I bite my lip. “And you like the way he defends a client?”
She winks. “And the way he fills out those robes. He’s a brilliant QC, though. It’s always worth watching him.”
The lady on my left leans forward. “Do you mind me asking what a QC is?” she asks with an American accent.
My lilac-haired neighbour inflates with importance. “It stands for Queen’s Counsel. They’re the top barristers who take the most important cases. It’s a huge honour to be one.”
“And what are barristers?”
I lean back farther so they can whisper over me, but they’re too intent on each other to notice. I hope we don’t get thrown out for talking.
“They’re lawyers but they’re the only ones who can come to court,” my original neighbour says. “If you’re going to be tried, you get yourself a solicitor, but they can’t act for you in court, so they pass your case on to a barrister. And if you’re really lucky, you get Mr Carlsen.”
I glance at Magnus. He’s leaning back in his chair and looking almost bored. As if the whole trial process is just too trite to hold his attention. Several jurors are watching him rather than the prosecution QC, and I can’t say I blame them.
He’s a stunning man. It’s not so much his looks, as the way he carries himself. Like he’s a downed wire full of crackling sparks and electricity. There’s an air of mischief about him and a palpable confidence that says he’s unconcerned by the way people view him.
“Mr Fitzpatrick,” my stepfather addresses the prosecution QC. “Could we proceed to the portion of the day where you actually ask a question?”
My companion giggles as a wave of laughter sweeps the benches. It’s hastily quelled by a glare from my stepfather. I take that as a reminder that I’m supposed to be working here, so I pull out my sketchbook and pencil from my satchel. It’s lain in there for the last few hours, as I’d been absorbed by the drama of the court process. And Magnus Carlsen. I have to admit he draws the eye and attention. And he knows it, I remind myself.
Opening the pad to a clean page, I start to sketch with sure movements of my fingers. The familiar motions are comforting, and I fall into a haze as I draw my stepfather’s stubborn jaw and rather pugnacious expression as he listens to the counsel for the prosecution.
I could’ve felt the old lady’s gaze from a mile away, and I’m not surprised when she leans in. “Blimey, that’s good,” she breathes. “You’ve got him down pat, love.”
I smile at her. “You think so?”
She nods. “Oh, definitely. Although why you’re drawing that old sort when you could be sketching Mr Carlsen, I don’t know. I’d pay for a picture of him.”
I smile at her and then look at Magnus. The prosecution QC is moving back to his seat, and Magnus is rising to his feet. He stretches almost idly and then prowls to the witness, who perks up visibly.
“Is it still May?” Magnus asks in a conversational tone, and several of the jury members laugh.
“Mr Carlsen,” my stepfather warns.
“My apologies.” Magnus’s voice clearly conveys no such thing. I can’t help my smile and watch him intently as he launches into his questions. Within minutes, he’s exposed a crucial flaw in the prosecution’s case that will probably turn the case on its head, but he still leans almost casually against the bench. His voice is rich and warm, his posture is relaxed and almost meditative, but his eyes belie the pose. They’re razor-sharp and focused on the witness.
Before I can stop myself, I turn to a clean page and start to sketch him. My pencil catches his craggy face with the high, broad cheekbones and the silky ash-brown hair that sometimes falls into brown eyes that are so clear they almost look see-through. I sketch his nose that’s obviously been broken once or twice and gives him a rakish charm. But it’s his mouth that fascinates me. It’s wide and curling and too soft for such a strong, harsh face.
He wears his life on that face, I realise as I continue to draw. It’s in the faint web of lines that run from his heavy-lidded eyes that speak of many years spent laughing, and the bags beneath that show he’s a man who enjoys life. It’s not a handsome face, but it’s stunning, full of vitality and sardonic amusement that are impossible to look away from.
His looks and his charisma make me wonder what it would be like to get to know him better. Dangerous, probably. The thought makes me smile. I’ve had chances to know him in the past, but never took them. My sister and her husband have mentioned Magnus many times over the years. It’s hard to believe he’s the same Magnus.
My companion’s voice breaks into my reverie. “That’s wonderful,” she breathes.
I look down at the paper, startled, and Mags’s face looks back at me. I’ve drawn him while absorbed in my thoughts, as if on autopilot. I often get absorbed this way. I shake my head, and after scrawling my signature at the bottom, I rip the paper from the pad and offer it to her.
“For you,” I say. “Something to remember him by.”
“Are you sure?” she says, her face soft. “It’s lovely. You could sell it.”
“Not to anyone who knows him,” I observe.
She looks curiously at me but takes the paper as delicately as if it’s one of the crown jewels. “Thank you so much,” she says.
“You’re welcome.” I look up as my stepfather announces the end of the day’s proceedings, and everyone around gets to their feet, stretching and probably trying to get the feeling back in their arses.
I wait in my seat after saying goodbye to my companion for the day and watch as the courtroom starts to empty, the accused being escorted by police back down into the bowels of the building and the van that’s waiting for him.
A headache pulses at my temples, and I sigh as black spots dance in my eyes. Shit. I’m fumbling for my tablets when footsteps approach me.
“Hello,” a voice says with that customary air of amusement dancing along the vowels. Mags has an absolutely beautiful voice. Rich and warm, with a charming hint of his Danish accent and the very faint hint of a lisp that probably comes from speaking in a language that isn’t his first one.
I shake out two of my tablets and swallow them with a quick gulp from my water bottle.
“Well, if it isn’t my neighbour,” I say. “The one with all the assumptions.”
I smile as I remember that he’d thought I was a house painter. I can’t wait to tell my sister.
He rolls his eyes. “What are you doing here?” He winks. “Observing me in my natural and wonderful habitat?”
“Hardly. I’m doing some sketches of my stepfather.”
He looks down at my sketchbook, and I bless the fact that I gave the sketch of him to the old lady. He gazes at the blank page, and his mouth twitches. “You have really captured his personality,” he whispers, and I have to bite my lip to contain my laughter.
“What are you doing now?” he asks.
I pack my sketchbook and pencil back into my satchel. “Why? Are you planning a verbal assault on any more of my relatives?”
He bursts into laughter that’s as robust and attractive as the rest of him. “Ack. I’ll never live that down, will I?”
I shrug into my jacket. “Probably not.” I eye him. “Why? Have you got something in mind?”
“A walk,” he offers. “I always walk back to my chambers.” He looks suddenly discomfited. “Just a walk,” he says quickly. “Not a…”
“Date?” I offer sympathetically as he seems to search for words. “Don’t worry. I’m not under the impression that it’s that. I haven’t put my genital ribbon on, for a start.”
He laughs again and nudges me. “That’s a deep shame.”
I’d roll my eyes if I didn’t think they were in danger of falling out from the headache pulsing there. The tablets will work quickly, but the idea of fresh air is appealing.
“Where are your chambers?” I ask.
“Lincoln’s Inn. It’s a fifteen-minute walk. Maybe half an hour if we take it easy.”
I bet he doesn’t take it easy when he walks on his own, but I appreciate the consideration. There’s no way I’m breaking the one-minute mile with my leg in its current condition. It’s a surprisingly sweet thought from him.
“Okay,” I say. “I’m meeting my stepfather and mother for dinner, but it’s in that direction, so it works. I’ll text him to tell him I don’t need a lift. He’ll appreciate that because I’m sure he’s dying to meet his cronies for a drink.”
“Excellent. I’ll meet you at the main entrance. I just need to get out of my robes and take this fucking wig off.”
I have a sudden vision of him removing his black robes to reveal his naked body, and heat stirs in me. I quickly pin an innocent smile on my face. A few months ago, I’d have met him, shagged him, and left us both with smiles on our faces as we walked away without any thoughts of reconnecting. It’s a dance I’ve done all my life. But I can’t do it now. I’ve got other things to think about.
Nevertheless, vanity makes me stay seated as he moves away. I don’t want him to see my creaking process as I get out of my seat. When he’s vanished from view, I stand up and groan as all my aches and pains surface in a sudden rush of agony. I stop still for a few seconds, letting the pain wash over me. Then, when it’s gone, I cautiously straighten up.
I don’t know whether it’s the fact that I’m in my late forties that’s making it hard to get over my car accident, or whether it was the severity of the accident itself, but it’s a fact that I hurt a lot at the moment. It’s no longer the bright clamour of pain ringing in my body like a peal of bells, but more a constant ache. The doctors assured me that the aches will pass too, but I avoid taking the muscle relaxants they recommended, because they leave my mind hazy.
I walk towards the foyer slowly. As is usual, I limp badly at first, but then the stiffness lessens, and I walk easier. It’d be even easier if I’d use the stick the hospital provided, but I’m an impatient person. I want to be well again, and the stick seems to be a symbol of a bad time.
I switch my phone on in the vast marble lobby. Messages and emails immediately sound out in a flurry of chirping, and I spend a few minutes checking anything for urgency.
Something makes me look up, and I watch as Magnus walks towards me with that elegant stride of his. He’s wearing a black pinstriped suit, the material clinging to his long legs and those broad shoulders. I’m amused to see that he’s swapped his shiny black shoes for a pair of pink Nike trainers.
A man calls to him, smiling widely, and he stops for a second to speak to him before walking over to me.
“Sorry I’ve been a while,” he says. “I needed to speak to my pupil.”
“How very Prime of Miss Jean Brodie,” I say and he laughs.
We exit the building into the warm May air. Fleet Street is busy with traffic and the afternoon exodus from work, so we don’t speak for a few minutes as we push our way through.
“Sweeney Todd’s barber shop was on this street,” he observes. “Just in case you are considering a haircut.”
“Should I be?”
He purses his lips. “It would be very ill-mannered of me to suggest that.”
“And yet I’m sure that won’t stop you.”
His chuckle makes me smile. The crowds slowly lessen as we move away from the main thoroughfare and take the back streets, passing delis and small shops. We pass a florist, and for a second, the air is full of the sharp scent of soil and flowers.
“So, you have a pupil, then?” I say, appreciating the fact that he’s set a slow pace. I don’t think my leg is up to anything else. Already it’s aching like a bitch. “What are you teaching him? Extreme sarcasm with a minor in Danish witticisms?”
He laughs. It’s a warm and rich sound that makes his eyes crinkle and lets me know my original guess was correct. “Not exactly.” He shoots me a look. “Do you know much about being a barrister?”
“Doesn’t come up much in the life of a poor portrait artist,” I say slyly.
He shakes his head. “Poor? Ridiculous. I looked you up, and you could definitely afford something better than that monstrosity of a jumper with the prices you charge.”
“What’s wrong with my jumper?” I look down at the offending object. It’s thin and navy, and… I curse as I notice the paint on my sleeve.
He rolls his eyes. “It would be easier to ask what is right with it.”
I laugh. “So, you’ve been looking me up, have you?” I nudge him and am fascinated to see a tinge of red on those wide, high cheekbones. “How intriguingly stalkerish of you.”
He clears his throat. “Out of idle interest,” he says quickly. His lip twitches. “I wouldn’t have to move too fast if I actually was stalking you.”
This time he startles a full laugh out of me. It echoes through the small square we’re crossing. “So, now you’re taking the piss out of my injury. You’re a terrible person, Mags.”
He sighs. “Is it worthwhile to tell you that my name is Magnus? It’s a perfectly serviceable name and one I’ve answered to for many years.”
“Nope,” I say cheerfully. “Mags suits you. It’s quirky. It says, ‘I am a strange Danish man who shags twinks who like to accessorise with penis decorations.’”
He grunts. “Hopefully, that will never happen again. Young people can be so alarmingly impetuous.”
“Alright, Grandad,” I say, nudging him again. He sighs long-sufferingly, and I shoot him a sidelong glance. “Is that what you like?”
He raises his eyebrows at me.
“Young men in their twenties?” I qualify.
“I like uncomplicated men,” he corrects me. “It just so happens that men in their twenties fit the bill perfectly. They don’t want any ties or a relationship.”
“Some of them obviously do,” I correct him.
He grimaces. “He was an anomaly.”
“Good job, really,” I say in a comforting tone. “You’d never have afforded his haberdashery bill.”
He shakes his head and then loses the battle with laughter. I fight the tug of my mouth at the sight of him. He has such enticing energy. He seems more alive than anyone I’ve ever met. I push the thought away. He could be a complication for me. One I don’t want. I’m relying on the fact that I’m a good twenty years over his shagging criteria to keep me safe. I’ve never needed a relationship, and that’s more true now than at any other time of my life. However, I can always use a friend, and he interests me enough to keep talking.
I turn to him. “So, tell me about your pupil. Is he a mini Mags?”
“He is not,” he says, revolted. “He has thought processes like tinned tomatoes at the moment. Soggy and mushy,” he clarifies.
“He must be in his twenties. Is it some sort of apprenticeship?”
He nods. “Anyone who passes their bar finals and wants to be a barrister must go through a pupillage with a senior barrister. For the first six months, they can’t represent anyone in court, so he shadows me and watches the process. He’ll spend a year with me, and I’ll show him the way to conduct himself in court and the way to behave as a barrister.”
“Is it with extreme sarcasm?” I ask.
He chuckles. “He could do with some of that. He’s alarmingly literal.” He shrugs. “He’ll get there.”
I eye him as we cross the road. I bet he’s a good teacher. He’s scarily bright and rather intimidating, but I’m sure that anyone who spends the year with him comes out a better lawyer. For all his laconic air, he’s a brilliant defence barrister, and you don’t enter that occupation unless you need to right a few wrongs.
We pass through some ornate cast-iron gates and onto a street lined with beautiful old regency buildings that are slumbering in the late afternoon sunshine.
I look around with interest. “So, this is Lincoln’s Inn?”
“Have you been here before?”
“No, but I love London’s history.”
“Well, this is the largest of the Inns of Court.”
“What are they? I’ve heard my stepfather talk about them before, but I’ve never wanted to ask. Mainly because I couldn’t spare the month needed for the answer.”
He laughs. “I’ll endeavour to be brief.”
“Much obliged.”
“Every barrister who wishes to practise in this country must belong to an Inn of Court. They’re Lincoln’s Inn, Gray’s Inn, Middle Temple, and Inner Temple.”
We pass a gorgeous building that looks early Tudor gothic and I look at it in interest.
“That’s Old Hall,” he says, following my gaze. “It’s the original dining hall that was built in the fifteenth century. In the old days if a barrister wanted to belong to an Inn of Court, they would have to eat twelve dinners in the dining hall.”
“Your profession isn’t exactly demanding.”
“Depends on the food,” he says glumly. I laugh and he smiles at me. “The tradition came about because the lawyers would be instructed in the law while they ate. We enjoy our traditions.”
We come out into a square of graceful buildings lining a small grassy park where a few people are sitting enjoying the sun.
“It’s extraordinarily photogenic and so quiet. You wouldn’t think we were in the middle of London,” I say.
He grimaces. “It isn’t always quiet. They’re forever filming around here because there isn’t any twentieth-century architecture. Last week I almost destroyed a shoot by trying to walk through a scene. They were excessively rude.”
I bite my lip to stop a smile. “What were they filming?”
He waves a dismissive hand. “Something called Downton Abbey. I have no idea what that is.”
“Maybe not, but I feel you have a lot in common with the Dowager Countess.”
He shakes his head. “I know somehow that is not complimentary.”
He stops talking and comes to a stop. I look up at the beautiful, tall Georgian building. “These are your chambers?”
He gazes at it affectionately. The wisteria climbing the building looks bright purple in this light and gives off a soft, sweet smell. “Home sweet home.”
I smile at him. “Then it’s time for me to go.”
“Where are you meeting your stepfather?” His brow furrows in what looks very much like concern. “Will you be okay walking?”
I become aware that I’m rubbing my leg where an ache is building. I pull my hand away. “I’ll be fine,” I say briskly. “I’ve only got to go a few streets over.”
For a long second, we look at each other and then he shakes his head as if clearing it.
“Well, thank you for the company, Laurie.”
“Any time, Mags.”
He winces, and I laugh and wave a hand in farewell. Turning away, I walk back across the road. My back itches and I’m pretty sure he’s watching me go, so I make an effort not to limp too badly. Once I turn the corner though, I slump and lean down to massage my leg where the muscle is starting to cramp. “Shit,” I mutter.
I look back the way I came. Magnus Carlsen is an unforeseen complication and one I don’t need.