Page 19

Chapter 1

Surrey

Laurie

I come out of the en-suite bathroom with my toothbrush in my mouth. Mags is already in bed, resting against the headboard and reading a book. The sheet is pulled up to his waist, and the white cotton shows off the golden tan he got from a couple of weeks we spent in Corfu last month.

“I like your glasses,” I say through my mouthful of foam.

“I cannot understand a word you say,” he replies airily without looking up. “Maybe you should keep the toothbrush in your mouth for eternity and do the world a favour.”

I traipse back into the bathroom, spit out the foam, and dry my mouth. We’re in the country spending the weekend with Mags’s father and stepmother so he can introduce me to them for the first time.

They live in a grand old Georgian house where, whenever I turn a corner, I half expect to find young ladies in regency dress doing watercolours and gossiping.

Our guest room is beautiful, with high ceilings and a huge, sashed window. It’s decorated in soothing tones of mint and lemon, which is a welcome oasis of calm compared to the rest of the house, where it’s apparent that Mags’s stepmother never met a William Morris pattern she didn’t like.

I detour to the open window and look out. It’s very quiet. The house sits on a couple of acres of land, so the only sounds are the rustle of the trees in the breeze and, in the distance, the lonely hoot of an owl. The harvest moon washes the fields around the house a silvery grey like they’ve had a magical spell put upon them, and I mentally frame the sight as if taking a snapshot so I can paint it later.

“Did you take your eye drops?” Mags’s charmingly accented voice comes from behind me.

I turn and wink at him. “Yes, Daddy.”

“I think I would make an admirable daddy. I am strong, handsome, intelligent, compassionate, and caring.”

“You’ve overegged that pudding so much it’s virtually an omelette.”

“And also capable of dealing with the most aggravating of personalities.”

I climb into bed, inhaling the scent of lemon on the sheets, and settle into the pillows, lying on my side so I can watch him. Only a slight twitch of his mouth shows he’s aware of my observation and that it amuses him. No one else would notice that twitch, but I do. I spend a lot of time looking at this new possession of mine. My Mags. He’s endlessly interesting.

“So?” I finally say. “What do you think?”

He turns a page. “About what? The current banking system, the state of world politics, or the decline of the bee population?”

“No, your dad and stepmum. What did they think of me?”

He turns his head. “Were you worried ?” he says in a tone of astonishment.

I huff. “Well, I do want them to like me. It’s important.”

“Why?”

I stare at him. “Because he’s your dad.”

“That’s just an accident of genetics.”

“Tell that to your mother’s womb.”

He grimaces. “Ack. I have dedicated my life to avoiding thinking about her womb, which has proved rather difficult since the momentous day my father wrote an ode to it and had that published.” I start to laugh, and he watches me, his eyes twinkling. “I have always been completely unbothered as to whether your stepfather likes me or not. Of course, it would be a rarity for someone to dislike me.”

“Not as rare as you’re thinking.”

“It seems that if he disliked me, it would provide me with immeasurable benefits.”

“Like what?”

“He wouldn’t speak to me again.” He gives a dramatic sigh. “How would I cope? Oh, woe is me at the thought of never again listening to him innumerate the ways in which his intellect is superior to everyone else’s.”

“Did you get frustrated because you were waiting to talk about yourself?” I say in a mock sympathetic tone.

His eyes continue to twinkle. “In answer to your original question, they did like you. I believe they were astonished, actually.”

“At my startling good looks?”

“No.”

“Ah, it must have been my towering intellect, then.”

“It would only tower if everyone else’s intellect lay on the floor.”

“Well, it must be the glad tidings of my sexual prowess.”

“Ah, I believe you failed to keep that a secret,” he says in a prim voice. “The whole world knows about that.”

“Are you calling me a ho?”

He makes a moue of distaste. “Such a dreadful word.”

“Alright, Samuel Johnson. So, they liked me?”

“Enormously. My stepmother thinks you are handsome and clever.”

“I knew she was an intelligent woman.”

“My father does not understand us. His perplexity pleases me. Well done, Laurie.”

“I’m not sure I did much, but you’re welcome.”

I think back to the dinner. It had been odd to meet his father — like moving forward in time and seeing what Mags will eventually look like. News flash — he’ll still be gorgeous. His dad blatantly adores his son but seems oddly incapable of expressing it. He’d been extremely garrulous at first, which appeared to confuse Mags, and then he’d gone quiet, and I’d caught him studying us a few times over the meal, his forehead pleated in concentration. It had been a bit like eating a roast dinner in an enclosure at the zoo.

“Why doesn’t he understand us?” I ask. “He doesn’t seem homophobic.”

“Of course not. He has had male lovers himself.”

I sit up in bed. “Your father ?”

He stares at me. “Yes. Surely, I have spoken to you of this.”

“No. Believe me, I’d have remembered that one.”

“Ah. Well, he shared some lovers with me.”

I blanch. “Together?”

He snorts. “Good grief, Laurie. Your mind is a veritable sewer. Not together. He took them as lovers after me.”

I vibrate slightly in my excitement. “Did he steal them away from you?”

He gives an aggrieved sigh. “Nothing so dramatic. That would imply that I wanted to keep them. You know my past, Laurie.”

“Ah, more ribbon wearers.”

He ignores that comment. It’s a talent he possesses that always amuses me — the way he sorts through people’s words and chooses the ones he wishes to reply to. “My father always set a time limit on his relationships.”

“Pot and kettle. How long was the limit?”

“Usually half an hour.” I start to laugh, and he smiles. “So, he doesn’t understand us. He cannot comprehend why I have settled with one person and will not look at another for the rest of my life.”

The casual way he says it makes me feel warm inside. “But he’s married.”

“Pah. For how long? Marriage is a hundred-metre sprint to him rather than a marathon. He has had four other wives.”

“Like a little Henry the Eighth.”

“The Tudor times would have been peaceful for my father. Their way of dealing with marital disharmony was a lot cheaper than his divorces.”

“I must say your stepmother doesn’t seem to fit with these wild tales of debauchery,” I say, thinking of her quiet demeanour, her headband, and demure string of pearls.

“Ah, you’d be surprised.”

“Dorothy is a wild thing?”

“I pray to God that you never find out, Laurie.”

Silence falls, and he turns another page, his face full of disgust at whatever he’s reading.

I stir. “Anyway, returning to my original statement, I like your glasses. They make you look almost intelligent.”

He looks at me over the top of them, and it’s sexier than it should be. “It is infinitely sad to me, in that case, that you do not wear yours more often.”

I snort and wait until his attention returns to his book. Then I tap it hard and smirk as it falls onto his chest, making him curse. “What are you reading?”

“Another of your ridiculous choices.”

We visited our bookshop last week. Whenever we’re in London, we always pay it a visit for sentimental reasons that are fully understood between us. Equally understood is the fact that we’ll never speak about those reasons. We choose titles for each other, and it’s an endless delight to watch him plod through the books, his huge, clever brain racing like an expensive car engine.

He adjusts his glasses on his long nose again. “This mystery is trite and cliched, and the murderer’s identity is very apparent from the first page.”

“The first page, eh? You’re like my very own Miss Marple.”

He grimaces at the book. “I could swear you pick these books to vex me.”

“I like vexing you. It amuses me.”

“And the writing is dreadful. Never take a job judging the Booker Prize. Your shortlist would be full of turgid prose and plots that wouldn’t have confused Noddy.”

“I think the Booker Prize is already turgid, so someone obviously got there before me. And don’t diss Noddy. His intelligence was always tragically overshadowed by that bell on his hat.” I fall back into the sheets. “Anyway, you can talk. What on earth made you think I wanted a book about the different architectural styles of churches?”

“Maybe to help your tarnished soul.” He shrugs. “You would need more than a book for that. Even holy water would struggle.”

I snort and then roll over to straddle him, knocking his book into the mess of sheets.

“Oh dear, my book might be lost for good. What a tragedy,” he says, his eyes twinkling. “Too bad, so sad. Let us not look for it again. It can be lost for eternity, yes?”

“Or until your stepmother does the laundry.”

“Ah. Maybe I will make a present of the book to my father and praise the author’s use of language. It will drive his competitive nature wild, and I will be happy thinking of him trying to read that mess.”

“You’re a very hard man.”

He bucks his hips under me, so I feel his cock against my backside. “As it should be, yes?”

I curl my fingers into his broad shoulders, feeling the rough silk of his skin stretched tight over the bones and muscles of his strong body. Then I rock back against his dick, feeling it kiss my hole and hearing his hiss of arousal with satisfaction. His eyes have narrowed, their gaze molten.

“Are you actually considering having sex with me under your father’s roof?” I enquire conversationally.

He purses his lips. “Would you be shocked if I said yes?”

“Good heavens, no. I’m just mourning the fact that I left my ribbon bag at home. I had a nice Campbell tartan. It’s such a shame to waste that.”

He rolls his eyes. “Well, I will close my eyes and think of England. Every man must do his duty.”

“Thank you, Admiral Nelson.”

I take his lips in a hard kiss. I’m gratified when I pull back to see those clever eyes are now clouded with lust.

I’m just bending back to him when the screaming starts.

I jackknife up, looking around wildly. “What the fuck is that?”

He stretches under me. “Ignore it.”

“Ignore what? The fact that a banshee is apparently in residence in the room next to us?”

“It is just my stepmother.”

“What? That’s Dorothy ? Dorothy of the hairband who quoted Anne of Green Gables at the dinner table?”

“She and my father have a rather temperamental marriage.”

The screaming extends in volume. “I don’t think temperamental is the word you’re looking for.”

He rests his big hands on my hips, holding me still. “Oh, what is?”

“Why don’t you shut up?” his dad’s voice shouts.

Something smashes in the next room, and Mags makes a moue of displeasure as I climb off him but then immediately rolls into me, resting his head on my chest. I stroke his hair back, feeling him push into my hand. I would never have guessed that Magnus Carlsen, the scourge of the Old Bailey, is a cuddler. It makes me warm all over that this big man is so vulnerable with me.

“You flirted with her!” comes the scream from next door. “I want to kill you.”

I lick my lips. “Oh my. This is like Dynasty .”

“I would happily spend time on that set if I didn’t have to listen to this again.”

“ Again ?”

“They had this argument last month. The names may have changed in that scenario, but the scene remains the same.”

“Should we be worried? Will they be okay?”

“They do not like interruptions to their disputes. You can take my word for that . I used to try to calm things down but was roundly attacked by both of them for interfering. They like to scream and throw things, and I am convinced by now that they both enjoy it. Tomorrow, they will be as happy as clams. My father once confided in me that their arguments made the sex afterwards feel almost transcendental.”

“I’m trying to imagine the judge having that conversation with me, but my mind shies away from the very thought.”

Something smashes against the wall, and we both flinch instinctively and look up.

“You absolute cunt. I hope your shrivelled little prick rots and drops off!” Dorothy shrieks.

Mags and I immediately wince as if synchronised.

“It’s hard to believe that the lady I met tonight with the frilly collar on her blouse has the vocabulary of a drunken sailor on shore leave,” I muse, and he laughs.

“Maybe that is why my father married her. I must confess, Laurie, it has always puzzled me, but you may have inadvertently put your finger on the answer.”

“Well, you know what I can do with my little finger.”

“Wind me around it?”

“I was thinking of the way I massage your prostate.”

He grins. “That is a good thing, my love. Never let anyone tell you that you lack talent.”

“I wish I’d never married you,” his father roars. “You have the brainpower of a dormouse and the conversational ability of an incontinent parrot.”

A door slams nearby, and the pictures on our wall rattle. Mags groans, rolling onto his back and pulling the sheet over his head. “He is only doing this so he can write a poem about it,” he says in a glum voice through the cotton barrier.

I pull the sheet back, looking at his ruffled hair with affection. “If you were writing me a poem, what would it be?”

“What rhymes with aggravating?”

“Please don’t give up your day job.”

“And I suppose you’re so intellectual!” Dorothy screams. “Your poetry is boring. I’ve read better on a limerick in a fucking cracker.”

“ Bam !” I mime a tennis swing. “Game, set, and marital match.”

Mags pokes his head out of the covers. His hair is standing up in a very endearing way. “You are enjoying this, yes?”

“Is it wrong to say yes? I’m asking for a friend.”

His dad’s voice booms, “I’d only be bothered about that if you didn’t think reading gives you wrinkles. News flash — you’ve already got them. Even your vagina has crease marks.”

“ Bastard ! You couldn’t satisfy a dead person.”

“Well, I’ve had plenty of experience bedding you, Dorothy.”

Mags groans. “Speaking from experience, this is only going to get more graphic. Could you possibly drown them out?”

I pat his head sympathetically. “Where’s my phone? I’ll put some music on.”

“Ah, there is no Wi-Fi in the house.”

I gape at him. “What?”

His lip twitches. “My father believes that the internet interferes with his creative muse. You have to go to the bottom of the garden to pick up their neighbour’s signal. My father’s muse is apparently okay with piggybacking on other people’s Wi-Fi signals.”

“What the hell?”

“I believe you are more stunned about that than the fact that my stepmother has just been critiquing the size of my father’s manhood.”

I settle back into the sheets and cuddle close to him, loving how his arms come around me. “I shall sing to you.”

“And that will help me, how?”

“It’ll certainly take your mind off things.”

We hear thundering footsteps, the bang of the window going up in the room next door, and then a tinkle of glass followed by more shouting.

“What shall I sing?” I say quickly. “Oh, decisions, decisions. Ooh, I know.” I sing a few words, and he stares at me.

“Is that “Gloria” by Laura Branigan?”

I glare at him. “I can’t help it. It was on the radio earlier, and it’s stuck in my head.”

“And now it is in mine. You must love me very much.”

“It’s getting less by the second.”

That makes my contrary man laugh like I’m a stage comedian. “Well, it’s certainly taking my mind off things. Sing some more, Laurie.”

So, I do. I sing loudly as his father and stepmother continue their very noisy argument. Occasionally, I raise my voice to compete with the sound of breaking crockery, and at one point, I break off to say, “Surely there can’t be any more furniture to smash?”

He makes a superior moue, his eyes twinkling. “Laurie, we are very rich. There is always more furniture.”

Finally, after two rounds of “Gloria” and a rather inspired rendition of “Rosanna” by Toto, if I do say so myself, I fall silent and stare at him.

He shifts uneasily. “What?” he asks.

“I’m waiting for the praise about my voice.”

“I think you may be waiting a very long time, yes?”

“Everyone’s a critic.”

“In the case of your voice, that is a very true sentiment.”

The shouting stops so suddenly that it makes my ears ring.

“Goodness, your voice has created a time-space vacuum,” my beloved remarks.

I roll my eyes. “The closest you’ve ever come to a vacuum is Mrs Sinclair wielding the hoover.”

We both blink as a loud moan sounds suddenly from the other side of the wall, followed by the rhythmic creaking of bedsprings.

“Good god ,” Mags says in a revolted voice.

I snort, lying next to him and pulling the covers over us. “We’ll hide here together,” I inform him.

“My hero.”

“Well, it’s not the Battle of Waterloo, but it’ll have to suffice.”

“Have you been watching Sharpe again?”

After a minute, I stir. “What’s your most outstanding parental memory?”

He considers the question for a moment and says, “When my mother and father fucked in the room next to where I was having my piano lesson.” I bite my lip, and he nudges me. “Laurie, don’t laugh. It is the reason I’m not a concert pianist.”

“Well, that and you couldn’t carry a tune in someone else’s bucket.”

He drills a long finger into my ribs, and I shout, contorting to get away. “Enough,” I cry until he takes pity on me and pulls me back into his arms.

“There is one good thing about this weekend,” he muses.

“Is it that your family could give Johnny Depp and Amber Heard a good run for their money?”

His lip twitches. “No, it is that I shared it with you. Everything is better when that happens, yes?”

I swallow hard. “Yes,” I say softly.