Beautifully Unexpected by Lily Morton

Chapter Four

One Week Later

Mags

The knockon the front door disturbs my concentration, and for a second I just stare in the door’s direction, my head still deep in the work that’s spread all over the desk in my study.

While I’ve been wool gathering, the person at my door has obviously become impatient because the knock comes again. Louder this time.

Cursing, I throw my pen down and storm out of the room, wincing as my back twangs. When I had a bike accident in my twenties, I’d moved blithely on from it, thinking my injuries were behind me. I never realised they were just in hiding, waiting to ambush me in my fifties with strange aches and pains.

I swing the front door open, intending to send whoever it is off with a flea in their ear, but stop dead in surprise. Laurie is standing there. His wavy hair is a mess and there are dark circles under those stunning eyes of his. He’s dressed in ancient-looking jeans and another disreputable top. This one is an orange T-shirt that is so old it’s the colour of marmalade. Faded yellow Converse complete his hobo look.

He smiles cheerfully at me. “Are you ready?”

I blink. “I beg your pardon?”

“Are you ready for our walk?”

I rack my brain, trying to remember making plans. Then I realise that I didn’t. “Why would I be ready for a walk, Laurie?”

His expression is sympathetic but still somehow manages to look like he’s taking the piss. It seems to be a character trait of his. “For fresh air,” he says, slowly enunciating every word.

I roll my eyes. “I’ll open a window if I require that,” I inform him. Normally, I’d shut the door in his face. I have no problem with being rude. Today, for some unknown reason, I just stand here looking at him.

His mouth quirks and he claps his hands together. “Come on then, Mags. The day’s a wasting.”

“I’m not sure that my day was wasting in any form.”

“Were you working?”

I nod.

“It’s a Saturday. Your day was definitely being wasted. Come on,” he says. “Grab a jacket and your pension book and let’s go for a walk. It’s a lovely day.”

“I do not possess a pension book,” I state. “Because I am only a few years older than you.”

“It’s not the age. It’s the mileage,” he says happily. “And those twinks of yours look like they could take a lot out of a person’s tank.”

I want to be angry, and indeed I open my mouth to blast him, but what comes out, to my amazement, is a huge laugh. He watches me, smiling, and when I’ve finished chuckling, I wink at him. “I have a tank with a great capacity,” I inform him.

“Those who don’t, brag. Get your stuff and hurry up.”

Grumbling, I stride into my bedroom to grab a thin olive-coloured jacket. I look down at myself, realising my outfit of jeans and a navy Ralph Lauren polo shirt will look immeasurably different from Laurie’s. It lacks holes for a start.

I come back out to find him examining a picture on the wall. It’s a six-foot landscape of the Danish coast done in sepia tones. “This is so good,” he says. “Your mum?”

I nod. “She gave it to me when I was twenty-one.”

He whistles. “Nice present.”

“I’d have preferred a motorbike,” I inform him. He gapes at me and I wave my hand. “Shall we?”

He peeps through the open door of my study at the mess of papers on the desk. “We definitely should.”

We leave the flat, and, as I lock the door, he leans against the wall watching me. “You seem busy,” he observes.

“I have a trial starting on Monday. I’m just getting a few things straight in my head.”

“Are you nervous?”

I look at him incredulously. “No.”

We walk towards the lift. “You thrive on your job, don’t you?” he says.

I shrug. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

“Even living in such an artistic world? Your dad was a poet laureate and your mum a painter. Being a barrister is such a departure.”

“I was the shame of the family,” I say solemnly. “My mother was so embarrassed when I got my law degree that she wouldn’t tell anyone what I did for ages. She thought I should be doing something creative, so she’d tell people rather vaguely that I did something with paper. Half of her circle were convinced I was an origami expert.” He laughs. “It is true. I still get handed paper and asked to make a swan.” I consider that. “The only thing worse would have been if I became a policeman. But then I’d have had to arrest half of her boyfriends.”

“Did she have many?”

We walk out of the building into the sunshine, and I slide my Ray-Bans down over my eyes. “Define many.”

He starts to laugh. “Ouch!”

“Usually at this point, a man would be full of sympathy for me.”

“I’m not most men,” he informs me truthfully. “Anyway, that’s a lie. Your young men would probably be pretending to listen to you while wondering which knot to tie on their genital decorations.”

“You could be right,” I say slowly. “Good grief, I always thought they were interested.”

“Probably just bored into submission,” he says in a comforting tone.

I laugh, and then look around. “Where are we going?”

“For a walk.”

“The river is just over there. We’re going towards the city.”

“Best place in my opinion.”

I eye him. “You are a very strange man.”

“It has been said.”

The next few minutes are silent as we walk along with me following his lead. He seems to know where he’s going.

“You know the area?” I finally ask.

He looks startled for a second, and I get the strangest sense that he’d forgotten I was even here. Which doesn’t make sense, as he was the one who asked me to come with him. My curiosity stirs.

“I do know it,” he finally says. “My brother’s lived in the area for years. He likes being near water.”

“You’ve visited him?” I’m startled and I don’t know why.

He smiles at me. “Of course. I visit him whenever I’m in England.”

“Where do you live?” My question surprises me. I don’t usually get interested in men beyond a discussion of sexual preferences. Nevertheless, I wait eagerly for his answer.

He takes a left turn, walking down a narrow side street that’s lined on both sides with elegant houses. “I live in Saint-Paul-de-Vence.”

I whistle, thinking of the hilltop village in the South of France. “Beautiful place.”

“You know it?”

“I backpacked around Europe when I was sixteen. That was one of my favourite places. We reached it in the early evening and the smell from the flowers was incredible. It was less incredible when we had to sleep on a bench outside because someone stole our wallets and I realised that I got hay fever.”

He chuckles but a soft expression crosses his face. “It’s home,” he says simply.

I eye him curiously. I don’t think I’ve ever felt that about anywhere apart from my chambers.

“How did you come to live there? Did you have family over there?” I ask, manoeuvring around a woman who seems to feel her pushchair gives her the right to take over the entire pavement.

He takes a right and leads me into a small park—one of those you find dotted about London. People are everywhere, walking dogs or playing with children. A group of teenagers linger around a bench talking loudly. The scent of doughnuts being fried in a small kiosk infuses the air.

“No family now,” he says. “My grandmere was French. She was an artist, and I was very close to her. I used to spend my summers there painting with her. She taught me more than all my art professors together.”

“What was her name?”

“Marie Adnet.”

A memory flares. “Marie-Jeanette?”

“You knew her?”

“I’m the son of an artist,” I remind him. “And she is still very famous. It’s just that she’s only known by her first name.”

“Like Prince,” he says and I chuckle.

“I never knew her surname was Adnet or I’d have made the connection with you more quickly. I think she came to Denmark for a few weeks to spend time with my mother when I was a child.”

“Really?”

I nod. “Small world. I remember a thin, dark-haired lady. She had the loudest laugh I’ve ever heard. It seemed too big for her tiny body.”

“That was her,” he says affectionately. He blanches. “Oh God, tell me she didn’t sleep with your father?”

“I don’t think so,” I say. He relaxes and I wink at him. “The same cannot be said for my mother.”

“Oh God,” he groans.

I start to laugh. “Does that make us brothers, Laurie?”

“Very dysfunctional ones.”

I laugh again. “So, how did you end up living in Saint-Paul-de-Vence?”

“She died and left me the house.”

“I’m sorry. She was a very nice woman.”

He gives a wry smile. “Not as sorry as my eldest brother. He was banking on selling the house to fund his wife’s shopping habit.”

“Oh dear. Not a problem that I’m used to. I am an only child and don’t intend to ever marry. Did he recover from the loss?”

“He had to. For a while, I toyed with the idea of selling it myself, but then I went over for the funeral and to sort through the place, and I knew I couldn’t do it. It was home before I even realised.”

“Sneaky things, possessions,” I observe.

We take a path that leads under trees, and the dappled light sends shadows over his face. It’s a funny face, I realise. Not immediately beautiful, but there’s something vivid in his expression that catches and holds the attention. As if your gaze would pass over him easily the first time but then, on a second or third glance, be caught and held.

His clothes seem to be worn for the express aim of comfort and ease. His jeans are well worn, and his T-shirt doesn’t bear discussion. But the denim clings to his long legs, and the T-shirt shows off his broad shoulders and the lean length of his torso.

But noticing that also brings my attention to how thin he is and the hollows in his cheeks that weren’t there last week. He’s also limping quite badly and his full mouth is drawn tight at the corners, making his face look older.

“Let’s turn back,” I say.

“Really?” he says in a dismayed tone. “You want to go home?”

I shoot him a sharp look. There’s a slightly frenetic air about him today underneath his easy-going humour. As if he’s using our trip to stop himself thinking. I throw off that peculiar notion and open my mouth to say yes to going home.

“No, of course not,” I say for some strange reason instead. I should be going home. I’ll be working until the early hours, as it is, to catch up on the hours lost to this trip. But I don’t say that. Instead, I point back the way we came. “There is a nice bistro a few streets over, and I’m starving.”

“Really?”

I nod. And you need to eat, I think.

I turn back and walk at a slower pace. He looks at me suspiciously, and I adopt an innocent expression. “Ack, I’m tired,” I say. “Let’s walk a little slower.”

Despite his scepticism, he adopts my pace, and I don’t miss his sigh of relief.

The bistro is emptying when we arrive, as it’s nearing the end of lunch. I catch the waiter’s eye, and he comes over smiling. “Mr Carlsen. Pleasure to see you again. Table for two?”

I nod. “If that is okay. I know you are probably at the end of lunch. Will Lorenzo come running after me with a carving knife?”

He smiles. “Any time for you. You know that. Lorenzo is always pleased to cook for you.”

He shows us to a small table on the patio and set back from the road. The scent from a nearby basket of flowers fills the air along with a faint whiff of exhaust fumes.

“You’re known here?” Laurie asks. He gives me a startled look as I pull his chair out for him.

My cheeks flush. What the hell am I doing? “I defended the owner Lorenzo’s brother,” I say in a low voice. I catch a drift of his scent as he sits. The men I spend time with typically smell of expensive cologne or hair products. Laurie is completely different. He doesn’t appear to wear any cologne. Instead, he smells of turps with a faint hint of lemony soap. It’s surprisingly refreshing and reminds me of home when I was a child and the whole house smelt of my mother’s art.

I walk around to my seat, and he watches me. “Did you get him off?”

I hide my smile. “Laurie, that’s astonishingly personal.” I lean towards him. “Impossible as it seems, I was not Lorenzo’s type.”

He laughs, and I savour the way it lights up his face. I realise suddenly that his face has worn a shadow throughout the walk. “You know what I mean,” he says.

“Laurie, it’s me,” I say, holding my hand to my chest. “Of course I got him off.”

“Of course,” he says mockingly. He holds up his menu and squints at it before reaching into his pocket and bringing out a pair of glasses.

The tortoiseshell frames suit his face, making the green in his eyes look deeper. “You wear glasses?”

He looks up over the top of them. “Not very often. I can’t wear my contact lenses at the moment, and it’s giving me headaches.”

Why not? I open my mouth to ask more ridiculous questions, but he looks studiously down at the menu in a way that suggests he won’t answer me. I detest being pushed for answers, myself, so I leave it alone and pick up my own menu.

“What do you fancy?” I ask.

“How about the minestrone soup and the tear-and-share rosemary focaccia bread?”

“Tear and share?” I echo.

“Yes. We can eat it together.”

I eye him in disbelief. “Why would I want that?”

He raises his head to look at me. “It’s a light lunch. We tear off the bread and share it.”

“I don’t like sharing my food. When I order a meal, I expect to eat all of it. We are not living in a commune, Laurie.”

“The tearing makes it sociable,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Putting your hands on my food is unhygienic. Not sociable,” I inform him.

“I give up,” he says, laughter ringing in his voice. “Order your own food, you miserable bastard.”

“Thank you.”

We place our orders, and when the waiter has gone, I lean back in my chair. “So, you live full-time in France, yes?” The thought is a niggle in my brain, telling me our time together is limited. It saddens me for some reason. He has a pull to him, and I like him. We could be friends.

He nods. “I like it over there.”

“I presume you speak French?”

“Of course. What about you?”

“Danish, French, Spanish, and Russian. Although my Russian is a little rusty. I haven’t been over there for a while.”

“When was the last time?”

He sits back as the waiter delivers our drinks. Water for him and a limoncello for me.

I consider his question. “Ten years ago. I was defending a man accused of war crimes. I had to go over there to do some research.”

He looks startled. “You do your own research?”

I take a sip of my drink. It’s tart and refreshing. “Of course. I like control, and I detest being blindsided.” He’s watching me interestedly, so I relent and give him more than my standard answer. “I always research my client and the evidence against him. I like to start that process by looking at the prosecution’s case.”

“Why?”

“Because I cannot defend if I do not know the angle of attack.”

“And did you get your war criminal off?”

“He died before it came to court. He wasn’t a nice man, though.”

He picks up a breadstick and bites into it. His teeth are white and even. “And that doesn’t bother you?”

I sit back in my chair. “Are we now at the stage where you castigate me for defending the scum of the earth?”

“I save my castigating for the weekdays, Mags. Come find me Monday to Friday. My office hours are nine to five.” I laugh and he smiles. “Okay, tell me how you can defend someone who’s guilty of murder?”

“Well, for a start, I can’t.”

“What do you mean?”

I take another sip of my drink. “By law I cannot defend anyone in court who I know is guilty. They can be creative in that they can ask me hypothetically what they’d get if they actually did the crime, but if they say the words ‘I did it,’ then I couldn’t stand in court and claim that they were innocent.”

“I didn’t know that.”

Our meal arrives, and I sit back to allow the waiter to put the plates on the table. My vegetarian lasagne smells wonderful, and my stomach rumbles. This was a good idea. I already feel lighter and less stiff, and I’ll go back to my work with a clearer head.

When the waiter leaves, Laurie rips off a hank of his bread and dips it into his soup. He makes a throaty sound of pleasure when he takes a bite, and I shift awkwardly in my seat, feeling a tingle in my groin.

He finishes his mouthful and looks over at me. “What about if you hate the client? How do you defend someone you can’t stand? Someone who is quite simply a bad person. Has that happened?”

I fork up a bit of my food. “Of course, it has. Many times. I’ve been doing this for many years. I’ve had a lot of success in my career, and I’ve fought cases where there have been terrible miscarriages of justice. I’ve kept innocent people out of prison. But equally, I have probably kept a lot of guilty people out of there too.”

“How do you square that with your conscience?”

I smile. “I find I don’t have much of that. Fortunately.” His expression is engaged and not at all judgemental, and so I elaborate. “I know the prosecution is seen to be more glamorous. They’re putting away murderers and rapists so the general public are safe. They are superheroes. However, to have a balanced system of justice we must have someone who’s prepared to defend these people and ensure that they get a fair trial. Without a defence, there can be no justice.”

“Do you win a lot?”

“I’ve won a lot, but I’ve also lost a fair few.”

“Do you get upset?”

“At the start of my career maybe. Not so much now. I dislike losing, but it doesn’t go any deeper. I can’t afford to be emotionally invested in clients. It might make me miss something. I have to be cool and collected and accept the fact that most criminal cases end up in a conviction. It’s the nature of the beast.”

He falls silent, and I finish eating my food. I note him rubbing at his eyes a couple of times before he gives a sound of disgust, and standing up, he reaches into his pocket and brings out a red packet. He sits back and squeezes out two tablets, before swallowing them and grimacing.

“Headache?” I ask in a mild tone.

He hesitates for a long second and then concedes reluctantly, “A migraine.” He rubs his eyes again.

“Have you got spots in front of your eyes?” I ask, signalling the waiter for the bill.

Laurie looks surprised. “How did you know?”

“My mother used to suffer from them. Don’t rub your eyes. It will make it worse.”

The waiter brings over the bill and Laurie immediately protests, “We don’t have to leave. It’s just a headache.”

“It’s a migraine,” I say, sliding my card into the leather billfold and handing it back to the waiter.

“I can pay,” he protests. “It was my idea to go for a walk.”

“Next time,” I say smoothly and to my astonishment, I mean it. I’d like to do this again. So many people bore me, but he isn’t one of them. He’s lively, and he makes me laugh. Probably because I’m not fucking him. He’d be a lot less interesting if I was doing that.

“You’re on,” he says and there’s a slight slur to his words.

I look at him sharply. Pain is etched on his face. “How quickly do those tablets work?”

He waggles his hand. “Depends if they actually do work.” I curse and he smiles at me. “I have to take them in plenty of time. Today I haven’t done that. I should have known when the floaters started in my eyes, but I thought it was just the sunshine.”

“How quickly does the pain come on?”

He winces. “It’s started already.”

The waiter returns my card, and I get out of my seat, pulling Laurie out of his. “We’ll take a taxi back.” He looks as if he wants to argue, and I roll my eyes. “You’ll be no use to anyone in half an hour.”

He gives a weak chuckle. “You sweet talker, Mags.”

“That’s not my name.” We walk out of the restaurant, and I flag down a passing taxi. “Put your sunglasses on,” I say quietly. “It’s bright out here.”

He smiles but after a few minutes the smile vanishes and he lies back against the taxi’s seat, his face pale and sweaty and his eyes closed.

“Is he sick?” the driver asks querulously. “If he throws up, you’ll pay for it.”

“Why would I want to buy his vomit?” I ask.

Laurie snorts, his eyes still closed, but the driver bristles. “It’s not funny. Vomit means I’ll lose money.”

“I would have thought your charming personality would have done that,” I say mildly. “But don’t worry. If he’s ill, I’ll pay to valet your car.”

“I’m not going to be sick,” Laurie mumbles.

I’m less sure of the fact when we walk into our building. His eyes are now narrow slits and his lips are drawn tight. He’s also swaying slightly.

I hold his arm and push him gently into the lift. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m terrible company.”

“Well, you were that before you had a headache.” He can’t help a chuckle and then makes a pained noise. I tut disapprovingly. “Don’t laugh. Stay quiet.” I tap his arm gently. “Lessons in life for you, Laurie.”

The lift doors open and we make our way down the corridor. I guide him after he stumbles. He can barely keep his eyes open. “Give me your keys,” I say, keeping my voice soft.

He makes a fumbling gesture and I stay his hand, reaching into the pocket of his jeans myself. He makes a startled sound, and I roll my eyes. “Please excuse me,” I say. “I’m not trying anything. Semi-conscious men don’t do it for me.”

“I would have thought that was your ideal man,” he mumbles, leaning against the wall as I open his door.

“You’re trying to be funny with a migraine,” I inform him. “Don’t.”

I guide him towards the bedroom. Once inside, I push him gently towards the unmade bed. The sheets are rumpled, and the room smells of his soapy scent. “Get undressed and under the covers,” I instruct him.

I open the window to bring in a breeze and then draw the blinds. The room immediately dims. I turn back and find him fumbling with his T-shirt.

“Ack, let me,” I say. I stride over and make quick work of drawing it over his head. I toss it onto a soft chair in the corner of the room, and it lands on a pile of what looks to be most of his clothes. Messy. I should have known.

I unzip his jeans and push them down his legs as he kicks off his Converse. I bend to manoeuvre them off his feet trying not to pay attention to his lean, wiry body and the sharp bones of his hips. Left in just a pair of green checked boxer shorts, he climbs into the bed as I draw the sheets back. He makes a sound of happiness. “God, that’s good.”

I pull the sheets over him and wander into the bathroom. I hold a hand towel under the water until it runs icy cold and wring it out before going back to the bedroom and placing it over his forehead.

He jumps but then sighs. “That’s good too,” he mumbles. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” I say softly. “Can I get you anything else?”

“Just need sleep,” he slurs, the words jumbling together. “It’ll be mostly gone when I wake up.” I go to move away and stop when he grabs my hand. “Sorry,” he says fretfully. “Sorry, you’ve had to play nursemaid.”

“My mother had them,” I say keeping my voice low. “I know how bad they can be. I’m going to get you some water. Try and drink it.”

He doesn’t let go. “Thank you.”

Before I know I’m going to do it, I reach out and brush his hair back from his face. The strands are silky and his expression eases a little.

“Sleep,” I whisper.

By the time I get back with his water, he’s done just that. I linger for a few seconds, looking down at his face still drawn tight with pain and brush his hair back from his face again. He looks younger and almost innocent in his slumber.

Realising that I’m stroking a sleeping man’s hair, I give an exclamation of disgust and leave the flat quickly, shutting the front door behind me with a decisive snap.