by Lily Morton
“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.
Chapter Three
Laurie
I shift position 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.”
