Chapters (25)
- Synopsis
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Epilogue
- Newsletter
- Thank You
- Contact Lily
- Also by Lily Morton
He never got around to writing his fictional legal epic, but instead, he settled down and penned the first part of his memoirs. The first part, because apparently, his life has been much too full to confine it to one book. His memoirs are frank and at times painfully honest when he sums up the current UK judicial system, but they’re also warm and incredibly funny like the man himself. There was a bidding war over the rights, which Mags accepted as if it was his due, and the winning publishers tell us they’re going to be a massive hit. I can well believe it, but my biggest joy was the inscription.
To my darling Laurie.
For all the years of unsolicited advice.
My mother was horrified, declaring that it wasn’t at all romantic, but I laugh every time I think of it.
He still works hard after taking time off for the books, but he takes on fewer legal cases than he did before, and we split our time happily between London and France. If he’s away, I always follow him and take on a commission somewhere nearby. I find that I don’t want to be without him, and he seems just as happy embracing our funny little co-dependency.
All this has led to my work being even more in demand than before, and that’s been helped by Mags organising me. Left to my own devices, I’ll float along in a haze of paint fumes, but Mags’s assistant deals with both of our diaries, and she’s as scarily organised as him. So now I have a bulging appointments book, and I don’t miss seeing my Mags.
We argue, of course. Nothing in life is ever plain sailing, and sometimes I’ll announce my intention of retiring to my studio to get away from him. He treats this with patent disbelief, but even in there, he surrounds me. It’s a huge room at the bottom of the garden converted from a garage and stocked with everything he knew I needed because he’s an artist’s son. His years with his mother are only a footnote in the story of his life, but they allow him to better understand me and my sometimes incoherent ramblings about my art. I like that it’s just me who knows this about him.