Beautifully Unexpected by Lily Morton

Chapter Eight

Mags

I’ve been waitingfor the knock on the door, and so I’m already standing up when Laurie pops his messy head around it.

He blinks. “You’re not in a suit.”

I look down at my outfit of khaki shorts and a navy, short-sleeved T-shirt. “No. It was dress-down day in court today.”

“Really?”

I scoff. “No. The trial finished. The jury came back quicker than we thought.”

“Did you win?”

“What do you think?”

He taps his chin in a typically piss-taking manner and makes a sad face. “No, but don’t get despondent, Mags. You’ll find a job that suits you one day.”

“Maybe I could take up painting,” I say silkily. “It doesn’t seem to take a lot of talent these days.”

He laughs, and the merry sound makes my lips twitch. “You’re so right. Any Tom, Dick, and Harry could do it.”

“You know I’ve lived in this country for many years, but sometimes your phrases still trip me up. What does that mean? Whose dick were Harry and Tom using?”

He sighs dramatically. “We haven’t got time for one of your grown-up conversations now, Mags. There’s fun to be had.”

I slide my wallet into my back pocket. “I’m not sure if those words should strike fear into a man’s heart the way they do mine.”

He steps back towards the door. “Gird your loins.”

“Another ridiculous phrase,” I cry, but he’s vanished, and I follow him out, trying not to ogle his fine backside in those grey shorts. Summer has finally arrived in England, and it’s hot, so he’s paired the shorts with a plum-coloured T-shirt and grubby white Converse. I can’t help noticing the bulge of his biceps. Where does an artist get those muscles?

I revert to staring at his arse, which is why, when he comes to an abrupt stop, I flail slightly, trying not to trip over him. His mouth opens as if to say something, but he must realise where my eyes just were, because his expression heats. It’s subtle, and I might have missed it a few weeks ago, but I’ve learnt enough about him to catch the moods as they flit across his thin face.

Seconds stretch like treacle as we stare at each other, and I swallow hard. Shit. I don’t need this. He moves almost imperceptibly towards me, and my hands rise to grab his arms.

I’m not sure whether I was going to kiss him or shove him away, but luckily, one of the clerks comes around the corner and nearly bumps into us.

“Sorry, Mr Carlsen,” the clerk says quickly. “Didn’t see you there.”

“It’s not a problem, Edwin, and I’ve told you before to call me Magnus,” I say. My voice is hoarse, and Laurie shoots a quick look at me but I keep my focus on the clerk. “Mr Carlsen was my grandfather.”

“Not your father?” Edwin asks and immediately looks mortified at the personal question.

“No. My father’s surname was Frederick. He was the poet of the family, and I don’t think I’d be suited to spouting poetry.”

“God forbid,” Laurie says cheerfully. “You’d still be looking for a word that rhymes with clitoris.”

I can’t help my laugh, and on that note, we’re off. After nodding goodbye to Edwin, who looks scandalised, we make our way out of the building.

“Where are we going?” I ask as we begin to walk. The sun is low in the sky, but it’s still warm, and the pavement is hot beneath my feet. “God, I hope it involves alcohol,” I say fervently.

Laurie holds a hand up to summon a taxi. “I don’t think God spends a lot of time listening to you, and it’s a good job. We don’t need his mental health suffering.”

We climb into the taxi, and Laurie gives directions to the driver before he settles next to me. “So, what’s next for you at work, Mags?” he asks.

I breathe in, smelling lemony soap but no turps. Strange. “You haven’t painted today?” I ask, ignoring his question.

A complicated expression crosses his face, but it’s gone before I can identify it. “Not today, Sherlock,” he says. “I’ve finished.”

“Really? How did the judge’s picture go? Did you manage to adequately convey the po-faced expression of superiority he wears?” I’m unable to keep the acid from my voice.

He laughs. “Oh, dear. Someone sounds bitter.”

“I had him for a trial yesterday. He told me I talked too much.”

“Well, he’s not wrong.” I roll my eyes, but he happily ignores me. “Anyway, I finished his portrait last week. The painting I concentrated on this week was something else.” He pauses. “Something special.”

His expression tells me he doesn’t intend to say more, so I keep my questions to myself and settle more comfortably on the seat.

His shoulders ease, and I know he’s relieved I’ve kept quiet. “You never answered me, Mags.”

“Oh, the irony,” I say dryly, enjoying the flush that appears on his cheeks.

He continues doggedly. “What’s next for you?”

“A couple of cases this week. Then I’ve got a trial starting the following week in Nottingham.”

“You don’t just work in London, then?”

“I go all over the place.”

“Like a grumpy Danish delivery driver.” I glare, and he laughs, his humour restored. “Is this the one you had all those files for?”

I nod. “It’s a complicated case. A charge of murder that’s based on some rather dodgy physical evidence. Those files you saw have doubled since then.”

“How do you get through them all and retain all that information?”

“I’m a speed reader. Most barristers are. It’s easy for me to retain information.”

“Well, it’s not as if your brain is full of scintillating conversation.”

I bite my lip to stop the smile. “It’s certainly not when I’m talking to you.”

“Ouch, Mags. Touché Turtle.”

That startles a laugh out of me. “Good grief. That’s very ageing.”

He nudges me. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember that cartoon.”

I sigh. “Sadly, I do.”

“I always fancied him a bit,” he says musingly.

I chuckle. “You were attracted to a turtle with a musketeer hat?”

“That’s not the disturbing bit. That comes when you realise the hat was all he was wearing.”

I laugh. “A naked flasher reptile. It sounds so you.”

“Who’s the weirdest character you’ve been attracted to?”

“I think it might be Robin from the Disney film Robin Hood. He was a fox and disturbingly charismatic.” He snorts, and I shove him. “Tell me where we’re going, Laurie.”

He looks out of the window. “No need. We’re here.”

He pays the fare, and I follow him out of the taxi, gazing up at the building. “A bookshop? You’ve brought me to a bookshop. Why?”

“For books.” I roll my eyes, and he elaborates. “This is one of the oldest bookshops in England. It apparently looks like something from a Harry Potter film. People are always Instagramming it.”

“Ah, Instagram. What a joy.”

He smiles. “Not for you, Dinosaur Dave?”

I grimace. “I don’t have any particular desire to photograph my breakfast.”

“Is it because it’s usually a dick?”

I choke on my own spit, and he laughs loudly. He looks up at the exterior of the shop. “I’ve always fancied coming here, but I never made the time before.” A complicated look crosses his face.

I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn’t. “Okay,” I say. “So, we go in and look, and then we come out and find somewhere to get a drink, yes?”

“It’s like taking Oliver Reed out for the day,” he observes. “We will be taking our time in there.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a bookshop, you cultural desert. And I have a challenge for you.”

“Is it to beat you at drinking vodka? Because I’ve already done that.”

“I wasn’t on my game.” He points at me. “Don’t distract me. Your challenge is to go in and pick ten books.”

He opens the door, and I follow him into the shop. I can instantly see why he’d be attracted to the place. It’s wood-panelled, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a mezzanine level. Three huge stained-glass skylights are set into the ceiling, and the sun shines through them, laying lazy stripes of colour over the shelves and floor. There are leather chairs and sofas dotted about and a smell of fresh coffee in the air. I smile because I’ve already spotted four people taking selfies.

I return to our conversation. “Why will I be picking ten books?”

“To read. And you have to read them. That is the rule, Mags.”

“Why do so many people put rules in games? These limitations spoil all the fun.”

He bites his lip but doesn’t quite conceal his smile. “Oh, I’m seeing a lot of your father in you today. Well, at least the bits I remember from that article about his private life in The Sun.”

I grimace. “Please don’t. That was published while I was at school. I was called the Son of Spanker for a whole term.” I look around. “So, I have to choose ten books, and then we can get out of here and get a drink, yes? Easy.”

I walk away and stop when he calls me. “Where are you going, Mags?”

I wink at him. “I am going to Paris for a croissant. What does it look like I’m doing?”

“I’m pretty sure you’re heading for the law section.”

“I am.”

“No, you’re not. You have to pick fiction.”

“Why?”

“You need to change it up a bit. It’s the rule.”

“You bear a real resemblance to your stepfather at the moment, Laurie.”

“Don’t be rude. You don’t read fiction, and you should.”

“It’s obvious you’ve never read some of my clients’ statements.”

His laugh is loud enough to make several people look over at us. He pulls my arm, guides me over to the fiction shelves, and gestures to them. “Ten fiction books need to be picked before we can leave.”

I head over to the thriller section. “Why the emphasis on fiction, anyway?” I ask, taking a book down to examine it. “I thought any reading was good for you.”

“It is, but I’ve decided that you need shaking up a bit.”

“Oh joy.”

“You seem to live without rules, but it’s all a sham,” he says consideringly as he leans against the shelf next to me.

I feel suddenly uneasy. “What do you mean?”

“You might ignore all of society’s expectations and go your own way, but you still have your own rules, and you don’t step outside them.” He eyes me. “Rules like no getting involved, never eating in the same place too often, and no overnight visitors. You’re fifty percent Danish and a hundred percent anti-relationships. You should wear a label.”

“And I suppose you’re looking for the one,” I say scornfully.

“I wouldn’t look for the one if he was the last oil paint supplier in the world. I have zero intentions of ever having a relationship.”

I gaze at him, the book in my hand forgotten. “That’s not the way you appear.”

He raises his eyebrows. “How do I appear?”

I shrug, feeling awkward. “You just seem like you would be good at a relationship.” I recover my composure and continue to peruse the bookshelf. “You’re certainly filled with the conviction that you know everything. I see that characteristic a lot in other people’s relationships.” I glance at him. “Why don’t you want one?”

He stares into space, his eyes looking very green in the shop’s varied light. “It’s always interfered with my career in the past, and now it’s too late.”

I jerk. “What? Why is it too late?” I’m far too loud, and someone shushes me even as he jumps in surprise.

“What?” Laurie asks.

“You said it was too late for a relationship.”

“I’m pretty sure I didn’t. You have to stop making things up, Walter Mitty.”

I narrow my eyes at him, and a flush rises on his cheeks as he pretends an absorption in the bookshelf next to us. I consider prodding him—he’s acting as though I’ve got him cornered—but I haven’t the heart for it. Instead, I proffer the book I’m holding.

“What about this one?” I ask meekly.

He takes it from me and looks down at it. He brings the cover up until it’s about two inches away from his face and squints even though he’s wearing his glasses.

“What’s the matter with you?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says abruptly. “My eyes are sore today. I worked late last night.”

It’s obviously a blatant lie, but I let it go. “So, can I have that one, Laurie?”

“It’s a legal thriller.”

I take the book back. “It’s fiction. I’ve already spotted three errors in the blurb.”

He shakes his head. “How happy this book will make you. I told you fiction was fun.”

I laugh, but even as we wander the shelves and exchange banter, I’m watching him closely. His mood seems to have deteriorated. He’s tense now and seems restless and almost cross, staring into space and tapping his fingers on a table.

I consider his bitten nails and his closed-off expression. He doesn’t seem to have taken any pleasure in looking around the shop that he claimed to have wanted to see. And even though I know he enjoys reading because his conversation is peppered with book references, today, he hasn’t spared a glance at the shelves. That’s rather odd, because I’m sure that any book lover couldn’t resist a shelf full of books.

I choose the last of my books and add it to the pile in his arms. Then, seeing the tight expression on his face, I take them back. “I’ll carry these,” I say.

He blinks, almost as if he’s forgotten I’m here, and it stings a little. I’m not used to behaviour like this. People are usually either glad to see me or detest me. There aren’t usually any half measures.

I continue to analyse his expression as we get into the queue to pay for the books. “Have you got a headache?” I ask softly.

For a second, I think he’ll respond sharply, but then he sighs and rubs his forehead. “A little. I’ll take my tablets, and I’ll be fine.” I go to hand my card to the woman behind the counter, and he exclaims, “No, I’m buying those, Mags.”

“Why?”

He smiles at me, his earlier mood easing slightly. “It was my idea, so it’s my treat.”

He says something to the woman behind the counter, who giggles, gazing at him in appreciation. I can’t blame her. I can’t believe that I ever thought him easy to overlook. Every time I see him now, I’m struck by the broadness of his shoulders and the long length of his legs, the cheeky smile, and that angular face.

“Ready?” he asks, handing me the bag of books. “You alright, Mags? You look deep in thought.”

“Just contemplating booking the next few weeks off work so I can read these and have fun.”

He chuckles and I follow him out of the shop. He stops on the pavement and rubs his temples. “Now a drink,” he says briskly.

I watch him for a second, thoughts tumbling in my head. “No,” I say, making up my mind. “It’s my turn to decide the evening’s entertainment.”

“I’m not going to a brothel.”

“Not in those clothes, no.”

That startles a laugh out of him that eases the shadows in his eyes. “Where are we going, then?” he asks with his usual easy-going manner.

“Do you trust me?”

“Not at all.” We gaze at each other for a long moment. A slow smile spreads across his face, pulling out a dimple in his left cheek. “But then that’s half the fun, Mags.”