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  Beautifully Unexpected

  Lily Morton

  Text Copyright© Lily Morton 2021

  Book cover design by Natasha Snow Designs

  www.natashasnowdesigns.com

  Professional beta reading by Leslie Copeland www.lescourtauthorservices.com

  Editing by Edie Danford

  Proofreading by Lori Parks

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.

  References to real people, events, organizations, establishments or locations are intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Please purchase only authorized editions

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following products mentioned in this work of fiction: Converse, Nike, Ralph Lauren, Ray Bans, Hugo Boss, Bang and Olufsen, Horlicks, Scrabble, Dior, Valium, Instagram, Vauxhall Corsa, Spotify

  All songs, song titles and lyrics mentioned in the novel are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.

  Warning

  This book contains material that is intended for a mature, adult audience. It contains graphic language, explicit sexual content and adult situations.

  Synopsis

  Sometimes love comes when you least expect or want it.

  Magnus Carlsen is determined to grow old disgracefully. At fifty-two, he doesn’t believe in keeping anything. Men, sofas, books—everything gets jettisoned, eventually. He’s divided his life into happy compartments. A successful trial lawyer, he spends his days lecturing jurors, exasperating judges, and striding arrogantly around courtrooms. He fills his nights with a parade of handsome young men who want to make him happy. Why date someone his own age to discuss back pain, retirement-planning, and corns, when he can date men who don’t care to discuss anything at all?

  However, when one of these sunny young men shows an inclination for dramatic scenes, Magnus meets his new neighbour. And his whole world implodes.

  Laurie Gentry is nearly the same age as Magnus, but that’s where the similarity ends. He’s messy and creative and nosy and mysterious. He’s everything that Magnus has spent a lifetime avoiding. So, why can’t he get Laurie out of his head?

  Luckily, Laurie is only in London for the summer. Magnus can uncover Laurie’s mysteries and indulge their annoyingly hot attraction, and Laurie will be gone before complications arise. A few months isn’t long enough to lose his heart. Is it?

  From bestselling author Lily Morton comes a romantic comedy about two footloose older men and how one summer in London brings something quite beautifully unexpected into their lives.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Newsletter

  Thank You

  Contact Lily

  Also by Lily Morton

  For my darling Nat.

  For showing me the true meaning of the words, ‘grace under pressure’.

  I love you more than Kipper loved snow!

  “For which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?”

  Much Ado About Nothing

  William Shakespeare

  Chapter One

  Magnus

  My morning starts when the alarm sounds, and the blinds glide smoothly back from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Rolling over in my soft sheets, I look out at where the River Thames moves past, early sunbeams trapped in its wake. In the distance, the imposing bulk of Tower Bridge stands tall and wreathed in early morning mist. Stretching out, I relish the caress of the cold sheets and the fact that I’m not sharing them with anyone. The only sign of my bedmate from last night is an indent on the other pillow and the empty condom wrapper on the bedside table. Just the way it should be.

  The next hour passes precisely as I like it. I run on the treadmill for forty-five minutes with the news playing and shower afterwards, enjoying the powerful spray on my body. By the time I’m buttoning the cuffs on my shirt, the apartment is filled with the scent of fresh coffee. When I stride out into the open plan of my flat, it’s to find my housekeeper standing at the breakfast counter.

  “Coffee’s on the table, Mr Carlsen.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Sinclair.”

  “An egg-white omelette? Or would you like something different?”

  “The omelette will be lovely,” I say, heading over to the dining table and draping my black suit jacket over a chair back. I grab my cup, and, humming happily, I take a sip as I open the newspaper waiting by my place setting. Then I pause as the doorbell rings.

  I check my watch. It’s six in the morning. Mrs Sinclair sets her spatula down. “No need,” I call. “I’ll get it.”

  The doorbell sounds again, and I huff indignantly as I throw the door open. And stop dead.

  It appears that my bedmate of the previous night has not gone away. Instead, he is standing on my doorstep in a long coat and with a slightly maniacal look on his face. I blink.

  “Hello, er–?” I falter, his name escaping me.

  His smile grows wider. “Ta-dah!” he says loudly.

  The lift door bings and a man emerges. He walks down the corridor towards us, pulling a wheeled suitcase. He stops at my neighbour’s door and starts to rifle through his pockets. Hopefully, it’s for his keys. I don’t have time to deal with a burglar this morning. Not when I have my own problems.

  At the thought of the most predominant one, I turn back to the young man and my mouth falls open. It appears that the minutes when my attention was diverted were crucial ones, because his coat is now lying in a heap on the floor, and he’s completely naked.

  For a moment that seems to stretch into eternity, I stare at him. The stranger, meanwhile, seems to have entirely abandoned looking for his keys, or whatever he was searching for, in favour of leaning against the door and watching us in fascination.

  “What is happening at the moment?” I say faintly, trying not to look at my former bedmate’s penis. It has a small blue bow attached to it.

  He gives a wide smile. “I wrapped myself up in a ribbon for you.”

  “Well, not all of you,” honesty compels me to admit. “It’s mainly just your penis.”

  His brow furrows. “That’s to celebrate how we met.”

  “Ah,” I say while frantically trying to remember his name. “How we met. Lovely.” I have a dim memory of a club and him sucking my cock like he was a human hoover.

  The man observing us snorts softly and cranes his neck to see more. I glare at him and turn back to my intruder.

  “Well, that was very nice of you, Paul.”

  “Paul?” he says in an affronted manner. “My name is Micky.”

  “Ah yes. Paul is Danish for ‘comely one’,” I say, lying through my teeth.

  He’s instantly diverted. “Is it? How lovely. Well, I’m sure I’ll learn so much about your culture when we travel together.”

  “Travel together? When are we travelling together?”

  “I�
��m sure we will at some point,” he says. His smile has a wild edge to it. “Now we’re a couple.”

  “And when you say that, you mean as strangers who fucked and have now moved completely on to other things and other people, yes?” I say hopefully.

  “No, silly,” he says, patting my arm like I’m a dog. “I mean, now we’re in a relationship.”

  There’s a very protracted silence which, in the end, I’m forced to break. “Ah well, I’m afraid the only commitment I’m making today is to drink my coffee. In peace,” I add. “Alone.” In case that didn’t get through.

  His smile falls away. “You said last night we were meant to be.”

  My memory starts to return. “No, you said that. I said we were meant to fuck, and I wanted to do that immediately.”

  “But we’re on the same wavelength,” he says in an affronted tone.

  “We are not,” I say, revolted. “You said you were a skiing expert, and yet you didn’t even know who Graham Bell is.”

  He cocks his head. “And I’m sure you’re wrong about that. I’m telling you he was the dancing boy in Billy Elliott.”

  A snort of laughter sounds from behind my naked admirer. Micky immediately spins around. “Can we help you?” he says sharply.

  “No, I don’t think so,” the stranger says. His voice is low and pleasant-sounding and still has a smile in it. “And I have to agree it’s Graham Bell who’s the skier. Not known for his dancing, I’m afraid. Those skis get in the way of the steps.”

  Unbidden, my lips twitch, but I clear my expression as Micky wheels back round to me.

  He puts his hands on his hips, and we all try to ignore the ribbon flapping perkily around his genitals.

  “Well, Magnus. Last chance to get all of this perfection to yourself.”

  “I think I’ll pass,” I inform him briskly.

  “Really?” he says in blatant incomprehension. “Why?”

  “Because I picked you up in a bar, you blew me in the toilets, and then I brought you back here for a fuck. I was quite clear through that process that I did not hear wedding bells. I don’t like the sound of them. In fact, I think I am dangerously allergic.”

  He exhales through his nose, his eyes narrowing rather ominously.

  “I suppose it’s for the best. You’re far too old for me,” he finally says, bending to pick up his coat.

  “Oh, quite ancient,” I say cheerfully. “You need someone young who can appreciate naked accessorising. I’m far too stuck in the mud.”

  “I wish you were. So stuck that you drowned in it.” With that, he twirls around dramatically and strides towards the lift.

  A silence falls after the lift doors shut on my erstwhile suitor. Finally, I look towards the other man.

  “Shame,” he says. “It’s not too late to change your mind. I bet he’s not moving too quickly with that ribbon constricting his blood flow.”

  I stare at him incredulously. “Have we met?”

  “Just now,” he says. Then he over-loudly enunciates, “Five minutes ago, but don’t worry if your memory isn’t what it was. You’ve had a very long life.”

  My lip twitches, and I eye him. “Are you breaking into that flat?”

  He studies me. “What would you do if I was?”

  I consider it and then shrug. “Probably nothing. I’ve got a hectic morning ahead of me.”

  He bursts out laughing and rifles through his pockets once more before finally exclaiming in triumph and withdrawing a set of keys. He inserts one into the lock, and the door swings open. “Well, it was nice to meet you. Or at least memorable.”

  I cock my head to one side. “Wait. What is your name?”

  “Heffalump. It’s Danish for beloved.”

  I shake my head, and his laughter fades as the door shuts behind him, leaving me standing in the sun-filled corridor.

  “Hmm,” I say contemplatively, and then, dismissing him from my mind, I walk back into my flat to finish my breakfast.

  The sun streams through the high window in court ten of the Old Bailey. I lean casually against the table next to the jury box, ready to present my closing argument. The jurors’ faces are turned to me. Some look eager, some look resigned, and the odd one just looks bored.

  “We all have duties in life, whatever our age and whatever our occupation,” I say slowly. “They weigh on our shoulders, and sometimes we stumble. You are jurors. The task may have irritated you when the jury summons fell through your letterbox. You may have tried to think of excuses because serving would interfere with your life and the job that puts food on your table. However, that is easier said than done, as getting out of juror service isn’t intended to be easy, because it’s an important job.”

  It’s the truth. It’s fucking terrible trying to get out of jury duty. “You are the ones who are tasked with examining the evidence put before you,” I continue. “You are the last port of call before a prison sentence. It’s a job that needs keen eyes, a strong nerve, and it’s a duty that should weigh heavily because it’s the weight of a man’s freedom.” A couple of the jurors’ expressions have changed from boredom to self-importance. “I’ve presented you with a great deal of evidence showing the truth of the night that PC Tomlinson died. My client, Mr Simpson, isn’t an upstanding member of society. He was a drug-taker who illegally occupied a house and dealt drugs from there. He has a temper which is hardly the mark of a good character and diametrically opposed to PC Tomlinson, who had an important job and raised a family.”

  I pause to get their full attention. “However,” I say, “We are not trying my client for being an unpleasant person. That happens on Twitter and not in a British court. The truth is that on the night of the sixteenth of August, PC Tomlinson stepped outside the law. Whether it was in anger or frustration, he set in motion a chain of events that ended with his death. My client is not responsible for that, nor is he responsible for the brutality he suffered at the hands of PC Tomlinson and his fellow officers.” I tap the rail in front of the first row of jurors. “Do your duty. That is why you are here.”

  The jurors stare at me, and I nod before turning and striding back to the table where my client is waiting. Dressed in an ill-fitting suit and with his hair scraped back in a ponytail, he looks a far cry from the police mugshots when he’d been a strung-out mess. Time in prison has detoxed him. Whether he stays that way is unsure.

  “Your turn,” I mutter to my opponent, Simon Fields. “Do try and keep it under five hours this time.”

  He glares at me, and then hastily rearranges his face when he realises the jury is watching him.

  I settle back into my chair, and my client leans in anxiously. “What do you think?” he whispers.

  I eye Simon, who is striding up and down in front of the jury. “I think the odds are that he’s going to bore them silly within twenty seconds. He never knows when to stop.” I pat my client’s hand. “We’ll know soon enough.”

  Three hours later, I’m at the back of the law courts in an area where the delivery wagons unload. Leaning against a pillar, I raise my cigarette and take a long drag, feeling the smoke fill my lungs. I exhale, watching the smoke rise and disappear. A door opening behind me makes me turn around.

  A court runner stands there. “Jury’s coming back, sir,” he says.

  I drop the cigarette to the floor and grind it out before throwing the butt in the bin. “Thanks, Brian.”

  He looks at me disapprovingly. “Thought you’d packed that game in.”

  “I have. I just have the one now while the jury’s out.” I wink at him. “It’s my only vice.”

  He rolls his eyes. “I heartily doubt that, sir.”

  Laughing, I follow him back into the bowels of the Bailey and the labyrinthine corridors that run everywhere. “Showtime,” I mutter.

  When I stride back into the court, my robes flapping behind me, I find my client sitting there.

  “Sit up straight,” I say quietly.

  My junior barrister, Darryl, pats his
hand. “Soon be over,” he says.

  I turn to Sean, my pupil, who is sitting in the first row behind me. He’s a tall, thin, anxious-looking young man. “What do you think, Sean?”

  He leans forward eagerly. “I think you’ll win, sir. That was a brilliant defence.”

  “Which bit was brilliant?”

  He blinks. “Well, all of it.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t need you blowing smoke up my backside. I know I’m good.” Darryl rolls his eyes as I continue. “You should be analysing everything and be prepared to tell me the good and the bad. How can you learn, otherwise? I’ll speak to you this afternoon, and hopefully, you will have a more comprehensive answer.”

  I turn back to the table. “Have you sorted out the rehab for Mr Simpson?” I ask his solicitor.

  “Yes, Magnus. It’s all arranged for if he’s acquitted.”

  I clap his back in thanks, and then we all look up as the jury is announced. They file back into the jury box, looking resolute.

  I look over at Simon to find him glaring at me. I shoot him a wink and he grimaces.

  “Have you reached a verdict?” Judge Bannister asks. He’s a good old sort for a judge even if he can bore for Britain. A bit big-headed, but name me one who isn’t. At least he isn’t a dyed-in-the-wool spokesman for the return of flogging and capital punishment on every street corner.

  The jury foreman stands up. He’s thin and earnest. “We have, my lord.”

  “And what is it?”

  “Not guilty.”

  A wave of emotion flows over the courtroom—some of it hostile and some of it relieved—and my client slumps in his chair.