Beautifully Unexpected

by Lily Morton

  “So many children,” he says wonderingly. “No wonder he came to court so often. Murder and manslaughter must have seemed so easy to deal with after that.”

  I laugh and hand my glass to him for a refill. He sloshes the liquid in, missing some of the glass and spilling vodka onto the floor. “Oops,” he says lazily, smiling at me and lying back on his own end of the sofa.

  “My dad ran off,” I say finally. “Not sure why, but off he toddled, leaving my mother with six children.”

  “That’s probably why.”

  I snort and then curse. “Vodka went up my nose,” I explain.

  “Try putting it in your mouth. It makes everything so much easier.” He chuckles as I reach over and shove him again. I seem to be moving slowly, which is a good indication that I should stop drinking right about now. But if I do, I’ll sober up, and my thoughts will crowd into my head again, going round and round like a Ferris wheel. So, I slam the shot down.

  “Crap,” I say with feeling.

  He grins. “Was the judge a good stepfather?”

  I consider that. “I suppose so. He’s not close to any of us, but he’s done his best. He sort of tolerates our presence. Probably because we’re all loud and opinionated.”

  “You’re not loud.”

  “Not at the moment,” I say. “You’re not exactly meeting me at the right time.” His eyes sharpen with curiosity, and I immediately seek a diversion. “You need a dog,” I say, my words slurring. “Shit, I’m pissed.”

  The intensity of his gaze diminishes with a quick blink, and he maintains his relaxed sprawl. I wonder if he learned that insouciance at his job or if it’s a result of his childhood.

  “What?” he asks. “A dog?”

  I nod. “It’s a fantastic idea, and I know I’d say so even if I hadn’t just emptied half a bottle of vodka that I’d need a mortgage to buy.” He snorts, and I notice that he’s listing slightly to one side. “You don’t want an actual person in the flat, Mags, but you could have a dog.”

  “Aren’t they very demanding?”

  “Not really.” I wave my glass around in my enthusiasm, and both of us look blearily at the liquid that arcs from the glass and spills on the carpet. Then he looks back at me, so I carry on. “They’re loyal and loving to everyone. You don’t have to have a good personality for a dog to love you. Just a pulse.”

  “Why are you saying such things to me? You sound as if my personality is a minus point on the dog chart.”

  “They’re very loving,” I say again, and he starts to laugh. “You have to feed them and give them the odd cuddle and take them for walks,” I continue earnestly. “And then they leave you alone. No demanding that you take them to a restaurant, no tying ribbons to themselves, and practising signing their name as Mr Carlsen.” I nod. “You need a dog.”

  “I need to clone myself,” he says idly. “I’m far too important to be just one body.”

  “What a truly horrifying thought,” I say, mainly to see him laugh. “I’ll look for a dog for you,” I promise him.

  “I’d rather you check me for piles,” he says acerbically. He reaches out to refill my glass. “Now enough of that shit. Let’s get some decent music on.”

  After lighting a cigarette, he wanders over to the stereo, and I’m gratified to see him stagger slightly. A few seconds later, Primal Scream’s “Loaded” comes on, and he cheers and does a funny, jerky dance to it with his arms raised in joy. His shirt is untucked and unbuttoned halfway down his chest, his cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and he grins at me drunkenly. “I love this song,” he exclaims.

  Getting to know this carefree man might be the best thing I’ve ever done, I think. I throw my shot back and get up to join him in dancing.

  Chapter Seven

  Mags

  The knock on my office door startles me from the depths of the case file I’m reading. I raise my head and stare at the door as if it’s going to answer itself. When it doesn’t, I call out, “Come in.”

  I’m amazed to see Laurie pop his head around the door.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask and then groan when his lips quirk. “Ack, that was rude. Come in.” I wave him toward a chair.

  He rounds the door and settles into the leather chair opposite my desk. He’s dressed in a creased blue-and-white striped shirt which he’s teamed for some godforsaken reason with blue polka-dot shorts. The whole ensemble makes my eyes hurt.

  “I came to see if I left some of my brains in your flat,” he says cheerfully.

  I roll my eyes and immediately wish I hadn’t when the headache that’s been edging my temples all day flares. “Shit,” I sigh, massaging my forehead.

  He starts to laugh. “How much did we have to drink last night, Mags?”

  “The whole bottle,” I say gloomily. “It’s meant to be savoured.”

  “We did that,” he says, settling back in his chair. “We just savoured it at top speed.”

  “Don’t make me laugh,” I warn him. “My back is killing me after passing out on the sofa.”

  “Well, it’s probably better than mine. I woke up under the coffee table, which is where I gather I fell.”

  “I can’t remember,” I confide and then laugh. “Shit. I feel terrible.”

  “Have you been in court today?”

  “This morning. Luckily, I was able to come back here afterwards.”

  “Did you sleep?” He leans forward. “I’d have locked the door and had a kip.”

  I gesture at my desk and the surrounding floor, where twenty lever arch case files are stacked. “Not much room for that.”

  “Are those the testimonial files from your twinks?” he says, biting his lip and startling a belly laugh out of me.

  “No, but that is a genius idea. They’d be excellent reports, though,” I advise him.

  “Of course.”

  I eye him. “Not that this visit isn’t lovely, but why are you here?”

  “Don’t you remember?”

  “Laurie, I don’t remember much beyond putting the Pink Floyd album on.”

  “That’ll have done it. They’d bore anyone into submission.”

  I put a hand on my chest. “I’m horrified,” I say in a stern voice. “I’m unsure we can continue to be friends.”

  “Power through it,” he advises me. “I came about the dog.”

  I look blankly at him. “What dog?”

  He tsks disapprovingly. “The dog you agreed to get.”

  “Laurie, I may have consumed over half a bottle of vodka. It was over half,” I say before he can protest. “You’re very much a lightweight with vodka. I can barely remember my name today, but I’m pretty sure I’d recall getting a dog. Why on earth would I want one of those?”

  “It’ll be company for you.”

  “I get plenty of that already,” I say, picking up my pen and attempting to dismiss him. “And I don’t have to feed or take them out for a shit.”

  “I somehow know you’re classifying that as low-maintenance behaviour.” He leans back and sticks his feet on the edge of my desk.

  I eye the offending pair of tatty trainers and glare at him. “What are you doing?”

  “Waiting,” he says with an air of surprise that’s belied by the glint in his eyes.

  “Is it for death? Because I do wish you’d do it somewhere else.”

  “No, I’m waiting for you to finish work so we can go and get the dog.”

  “Do you listen to anything I say?”

  “Not really unless it’s, ‘Oh, Laurie, what a smashing artist you are.’”

  I struggle against laughter. “I know very well that I’ve never said that to you.”

  He grins at me, his face alight with laughter, and I catch my breath, taken aback again by how stunning he is. It’s a quiet beauty not seen immediately, but once you notice, you can’t stop looking at those eyes and the sharp face, the tumble of hair and the lithe length of his body.

  “Are you alright?” he asks. “Earth to
Mags.”

  I come back to reality and shut my mouth with a snap. I am not thinking about how pretty he is, I tell myself sternly. “That is not my name.” I sigh. “You’re not going away, are you?”

  “Nope.”

  “And you’re determined that I have a dog?”

  His expression becomes serious. “Not really. Not if you don’t want one. It’s a big commitment, and you should only do it if you want one. Otherwise, we’ll do something else. I just thought it’d be good for you.”

  I was set on refusing him, but somehow by him letting me off the hook, he’s made me want to do the opposite. “I had a dog once,” I say, startling myself. I fight the impulse to look around the room to find the man who is divulging childhood memories.

  Laurie looks at me, his eyes intent.

  “She was a fat Labrador called Grace,” I admit. “I loved her.”

  He smiles. “That’s lovely.”

  “Bah, far too sentimental. I had to leave her with my mother in Denmark because my father didn’t like dogs.”

  His eyes turn sad. “What happened to her?”

  I look blankly at him. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  He gapes at me. “What?”

  I shrug. “I’m not a particularly nice person, Laurie. I couldn’t keep her, so I forgot about her.”

  “Did you?” he says slyly. “Doesn’t look like you did.” I eye him, and he smiles. “I think you try to forget people who aren’t going to stay, but sometimes one sneaks through.”

  I’m nonplussed, both at the fond note in his voice and the sense that he’s telling the truth. He grins at me. “Shall we go, then?”

  I wave my hand at the files. “Have you missed the work around you?”

  “Not really, but you need to sort out these files, Mags. It’s dreadfully messy in here.” He reaches over the desk and pokes me. “Come on,” he wheedles. “It’s six o’clock at night. You’ve been here for hours with a hangover. Let’s get some dinner and then go to the dog shelter.”

  I open my mouth to rebuff him, to tell him I make my own hours. And so it’s slightly astonishing to find myself standing and pulling my jacket on. “Okay,” I hear myself say. “Let’s go.”

  An hour later, I stand in front of a line of cages filled with dogs of all shapes and sizes. The noise is incredible.

  I glare at Laurie. “And this is your suggestion for a hangover? To endure it in this cacophony?”

  I’m gratified to see him wince as a puppy yaps loudly nearby. “Christ, I feel terrible,” he mutters.

  “Good.” I sigh heavily. “So, am I able to pick a dog or not?”

  His lip twitches. “Did they not give you that information?”

  “It was lost in the haze of questioning,” I say sourly. “I haven’t been interrogated that thoroughly since my law finals.”

  He laughs. “You can pick a dog, but you won’t be able to take him home yet until they’ve checked your flat to make sure it’s suitable.”

  “I’d have had less problem picking up Brad Pitt.”

  He nudges me. “Look mature. They’re watching.”

  “I am mature,” I say indignantly to his back as he walks along the rows of cages.

  He shakes his head as I come up next to him. “So many dogs not wanted. It’s a fucking crying shame. I’d love to take all of them.”

  Some of the cages look a little old, but there are signs of love and care everywhere. I pull out my phone and take a snap of the board asking for donations.

  Laurie bites his lip, amusement shining in his eyes. “Why are you doing that, Mags?”

  “No reason,” I say repressively.

  “Oh, right. It wouldn’t be because you’re going to donate to them?”

  “Maybe,” I say and stride on ahead, biting my lip to stop smiling at him. I pass rows of puppies. They are bright-eyed and eager, but still, I walk by.

  “Don’t you want a puppy?” Laurie says curiously. “I thought you’d go for one.”

  I keep moving. “I haven’t seen the one I want yet.”

  “You’re very discerning. My first impressions about you were obviously so wrong.”

  I ignore him and keep walking. Some dogs gambol up to us. Others stay at the back, silent and wary. I make a mental note to raise the amount of money I intend to donate.

  Near the end of the row, I come to a stop. This dog isn’t making any attempt to acknowledge our presence. Instead, he’s intent on making his mark on his cage.

  Laurie comes up next to me. “Jesus,” he says, eyeing the devastation of the cage. “What the hell is happening here?”

  “Ask him,” I say, pointing to the young red setter who is currently occupied with tearing his bedding into pieces. I look closer at the label over the cage. “Sammy,” I read and laugh. “Should be Don.”

  “Don?”

  “Armageddon,” I say and laugh harder at my own joke.

  The dog pauses in his destructive occupation and side-eyes us for a few seconds. Then he gives a wild head toss and starts shaking his bedding to death.

  I beckon the kennel woman over. “This one,” I say. “I want him.”

  The woman and Laurie turn slowly to face me with identical expressions of incredulity written over their faces.

  “This one?” she asks cautiously, as if I’ve somehow taken leave of my senses. “You want this one?”

  “Yes,” I say patiently. “I like this creature.”

  Laurie looks over at the dog, who has moved on to kicking over his water bowl and spreading the contents all over the mess of bedding.

  Laurie turns back to me and grins, displaying that curiously enticing dimple. “It figures. He’s obviously your spirit animal.”

  I ignore the fool and follow the woman, who is making great haste to get me into the office, probably before I can change my mind.

  An hour later, we step out of the shelter and turn to look at each other. Laurie has a smile that is begging to escape the tight control he has over his mouth at the moment. I raise my eyebrows, and he gives in and lets loose with a peal of laughter. It lasts for a long time and ends with him bent double, holding on to his knees.

  I stand patiently, checking my watch and trying not to smile. Eventually, he straightens. He takes one look at me and goes off into another fit of laughter.

  I roll my eyes. “I should obviously have considered a career on the comedy circuit, yes? It would have been a much cheaper alternative to the law.”

  He brushes his fingers under his eyes to catch the tears. “Please promise me one thing.”

  “Probably not.”

  That sets him off again, and I can’t help my smile as he clutches at my arm. “Promise me I can be there when you introduce that dog to your flat,” he gasps. “Please. I’m begging you.”

  “I’m disinclined to grant that request,” I say loftily. “On the grounds that you are a certified imbecile.”

  More laughter follows, and I start off walking along the pavement. I look around for a taxi, and he comes up next to me. “Where are you going, Mags?”

  “Home. I’ve had rather a busy day in case you missed it.”

  “I couldn’t do your job,” he says. “All that standing up and talking endlessly.”

  “That’s the prosecution,” I say sourly. “He was wordier than Shakespeare today.”

  He snorts and puts an imploring hand on my arm to stay my progress. “Ignore the taxi. Let’s go and get a drink.”

  “Did you not have enough last night?”

  “I said a drink. I never mentioned a bottle.”

  I bite my lip to stop a grin. “Where are you thinking?” I ask. “Make it nice, or I’m taking myself home.”

  He gazes at me, thoughts running through those pellucid eyes. They’re concealed by his glasses again today, and I wonder how his head is. A shiver of unease runs through me. I’m becoming far too interested in him.

  As if sensing my incipient panic, he turns and starts walking briskly along the pav
ement. “I know just the place,” he assures me as I hurry to keep up. “It’s very highbrow and very you. You’ll love it.”

  Ten minutes later, I’m glaring at him. He’s leaning against the bar, looking studiously ahead.

  “This is me,” I say. “This is highbrow. Were you using that word in the correct sense or implying that I’m going bald?”

  He eyes my hair. “No chance,” he says. “This is you.” He bites his lip. “Dark and dour and smelling of beer.”

  I shove him. “You are a complete idiot,” I inform him. I look around again. “If you think—”

  He shushes me. “We’ll never get served if you start airing your opinions. This place is wonderful. A little piece of England’s history. Charles Dickens and Mark Twain drank in here.”

  “They’re probably still waiting to get served,” I say. “The barman isn’t exactly speedy.”

  He nudges me. “Admit it. It’s lovely.” He looks around. “I do miss English pubs. There’s no place like them.”

  “It is very atmospheric,” I admit reluctantly. The small pub is wood-panelled with low beams and comfortable chairs. “My problem isn’t the decor.”

  “What is it, then?” He’s trying very hard not to smirk.

  “There is a fucking dead parrot over the bar,” I hiss.

  He starts to laugh, and the merry sound finally attracts the barman’s attention. Laurie orders a couple of pints and turns to me, leaning back against the bar and smiling. “That parrot is very famous,” he says.

  I take the pint he hands me and follow him to a small table beneath an even smaller window. The light does nothing to dispel the gloom from the low ceiling with its heavy dark beams. “Did he die from lack of sunlight?”

  He chuckles. “No. Although he did faint once after he imitated the popping of four hundred champagne corks at the end of World War One.” I laugh, and he continues. “Polly was rather abusive to customers he didn’t like, and people came from everywhere to be insulted by him.”

  “Like an avian Basil Fawlty.”