by Kate Hardy
‘Don’t judge it from the outside,’ she said.
‘Uh-huh.’ His expression and the tone of his voice were both firmly neutral.
She’d just have to hope that the inside of the building would work the same magic on him as it did on her. Without comment, she opened the first set of doors and ushered him inside, before closing the doors behind them. And then she opened the inner doors.
She’d timed it deliberately: this was the afternoon lull, when the younger children had gone home for a nap and the older children were still at school, so she and Hugo had the whole building to themselves. The glasshouse was filled with large ferns and tropical plants; dozens of butterflies flitted through the air, a mix of sizes and shapes and glorious colours.
She stopped by one of the feeding stations, primed with slices of banana and pineapple and melon; huge owl butterflies had settled on the fruit and were feeding on the sugar.
‘That’s impressive,’ he said.
Yes, but it wasn’t the bit she hoped would really attract him. ‘Come this way,’ she said, taking his hand.
They passed several Zebra Longwing butterflies that were settled on the greenery, idly flapping their long, black-and-white-striped wings.
‘I didn’t realise that butterflies could be that shape,’ he said. ‘They’re more like a dragonfly than a butterfly.’
‘They’re the Heliconius type,’ she said. ‘You’ll see other butterflies in here that are the same shape, but with splashes of red on their wings; they’re the Postman.’
‘Postman because they’re red, like a post box?’ he guessed.
‘No, because they do a daily “round” of their flowers—like a postman delivering letters.’
His eyes lit up. ‘That’s brilliant. And that one over there’s really vivid. I had no idea that butterflies could be lime green.’
‘That’s a Malachite,’ she said. ‘Siproeta stelenes.’
She knew she was babbling, just naming things for him, but it was the only way she could cope. Hugo Grey made her head feel all mixed up.
She took a video on her phone of one of the butterflies hovering above a flower, switching the recording to slow motion mode so she could show him something later that she hoped would amaze him, then continued to walk through the butterfly house with him.
His fingers suddenly tightened round hers. ‘The big blue butterflies I remember Rosemary showing me: there’s one flying over there in the corner.’
‘A Morpho.’ The thing she thought—hoped—might make the difference. ‘Stand still,’ she said, ‘because they’re really curious and they’ll come over to have a closer look at you.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously.’
He did as she suggested, and she watched his expression as one of the butterflies flapped lazily over to them, its wings bright iridescent blue, then landed on his arm. His eyes were full of wonder; all the cynicism had gone from his face. At that moment, it felt as if he lit up the whole butterfly house for her. It was the sweetest, sweetest feeling. As if they were sharing something special. Something private. Their own little world.
‘You can breathe, you know,’ she said softly. ‘You won’t hurt it.’
‘That’s just...’ He shook his head, clearly lost for words.
She couldn’t resist standing on tiptoe and brushing her mouth against his.
He froze for a moment; and then, as the Morpho flew away again, he wrapped his arms around her waist, returning the kiss. She slid her arms round his shoulders, drawing him closer. And then he really kissed her, teasing her lips with his until she leaned against him and opened her mouth, letting him deepen the kiss. All around them, butterflies flapped their iridescent wings, and she closed her eyes, letting all her senses focus on the feel of Hugo’s mouth against hers.
When he finally broke the kiss, she opened her eyes, startled.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Blame it on the butterflies—the excitement of seeing the blue Morpho.’
‘Absolutely,’ he said.
She was lying; and she was pretty sure he knew it. She was pretty sure he was lying, too. But she had no idea what they were going to do about this. She hadn’t felt this attracted to someone for years; but at the same time she didn’t want to put the butterfly house project in jeopardy. How did she deal with this, without making a huge mess of things?
‘Come and see the pupae,’ she said, and slid her hand through the crook of his elbow—just to steer him towards the right place in the butterfly house. It had absolutely nothing to do with wanting to touch him. Though, when he drew her a tiny bit closer, it made tingles run down her spine.
‘They’re in a box?’ He stared at the wooden box with its lines of horizontal canes.
‘It’s a puparium—the safest place for them to hatch.’
‘And they’re stuck to the canes?’
She nodded. ‘So, once they’ve wiggled out of the chrysalis, they can hang freely to let their wings dry and fill with blood, ready for flying. In a set-up like this, they might hatch overnight and they’ll be let out in the mornings when they’re ready to fly. Then they look for a mate and start the courtship ritual...’
Just as she and Hugo were doing. Of sorts. Holding hands. Kissing. Making eye contact, and shying away again, because both of them were so unsure about this whole thing. She felt the colour seep through her cheeks and she couldn’t quite look him in the eye. ‘The females lay the eggs, and the cycle starts all over again: egg, caterpillar, pupa, butterfly.’
He looked thoughtful. ‘It’s hotter than I expected in here.’
Did he mean literally or figuratively? It felt hot in here for her, too. Especially when he kissed her. She pulled herself together. Literally, she reminded herself. ‘It’s the right temperature and humidity for the plants and the butterflies.’
‘And it’s noisier than I expected, too.’
‘That’s the air heating,’ she explained.
‘Maybe we could look at different ways of heating,’ he suggested.
Which sounded as if he was thinking seriously about the possibilities of building the butterfly house. Maybe she hadn’t ruined everything with that kiss, after all.
‘This place is magical. It’s a bit like walking through a summery snow globe crossed with a rain forest,’ he said.
Did he have a picture of that in his head? Something perhaps that he could do with her project? ‘I know a dome wouldn’t work, but have you any other thoughts?’
He shook his head. ‘Maybe we could have a domed roof. A cylindrical building, with arched windows.’
‘Like the ones in the Palm House?’
‘That could work.’
If she put the butterfly house first, maybe afterwards she and Hugo could explore what was happening between them.
* * *
What was it about this place? Hugo wondered. He’d mused earlier that it was like walking through a summery snow globe. But it wasn’t just the brightly coloured butterflies that made it feel so magical; it was Alice, too. There was something special about her. The way she made him feel—with her, for the first time in so very long, it felt as if there was a point to life. As if he was doing more than just existing and trudging from minute to minute. As if her warmth and sweetness had melted the permafrost where he’d buried his heart.
He’d been the one to break the kiss and call a halt. She’d backed off too, blaming it on the butterflies. But it wasn’t the real butterflies that had caused that kiss: it was the metaphorical ones in his stomach. The way she made him feel, that swooping excitement of attraction and desire.
What would happen if he kissed her again? Would she back away, skittish as one of her butterflies?
Then he realised that she was speaking.
‘Sorry.
Wool-gathering,’ he said. ‘You were saying?’
She was all pink and flustered, and he wanted to draw her into his arms.
‘If you’re not busy, I could cook dinner tonight. Show you some more butterfly things.’
Was this Alice’s way of acknowledging this thing between them and admitting that she’d like to get closer, but was wary at the same time?
That was exactly how he was feeling, too. Wanting to get closer, but scared.
Baby steps.
Starting with dinner.
‘I’d like that,’ he said.
The pink-and-flusteredness went up a notch. Good. Because she made him feel that way, too.
The Tube was too crowded for them to talk on the way back to her place. Then she went quiet on him during the walk from the station to her flat in Shadwell, which turned out to be in a modern development overlooking a quayside.
‘It’s a fair bit smaller than your place,’ she said, ‘but it’s home.’ She gave him a wry smile. ‘Though I do envy you your garden. The nearest I have is a window box of herbs.’
‘But you get a view of the water,’ he pointed out.
‘I guess.’
He realised that her assessment was right when she opened the front door and ushered him inside; her flat really was compact. ‘The bathroom’s there if you need it,’ she said, indicating a door off the hallway, then led him into the living room.
There was a bay window with space for her desk and a small filing cabinet; the rest of the room was taken up by a small sofa, a bistro-style table and two chairs, and a floor-to-ceiling bookcase stuffed with books. The walls were all painted cream, but there were strategically placed framed artworks; some were old-fashioned botanical prints of butterflies, and others were small jewel-like modern pieces. And how very different it was from his own stark and monochromatic home; her flat was full of colour and beauty.
‘Is that Van Gogh?’ he asked, gesturing to a framed poster.
She nodded. ‘It’s his Butterflies and Poppies. They’re Clouded Yellows. I saw the original with my best friend—she’s an art historian, and she wanted to go to the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam to see their collection because he’s her favourite painter.’ She smiled. ‘Ruth also took me to the gardens at Giverny, because she’s a huge Monet fan. She was waxing lyrical over the bridge and the lily pond, and there I was on the hunt for butterflies. I guess we’re as nerdy as each other.’
‘My best friend’s nerdy, too. He’s got this passion for Regency doors, and whenever we go anywhere he’s always darting off to take a photograph. His Instagram’s full of shots of fanlights and door knockers.’ Kit was one of the few people Hugo saw regularly—but a couple of months back Kit and Jenny had invited one of her single friends over to dinner to make up a foursome, and it had annoyed Hugo to the point where he’d pleaded a headache and left early. Things had been a bit strained between them since then; he knew Kit meant well, but he really didn’t want to be set up with a suitable woman.
Yes, he was lonely and miserable. Stuck. Things weren’t getting better; the more time passed, the lonelier he felt, and the more aware he was of things he and Emma hadn’t had the time to do together. All that stuff about time being a great healer was utter rubbish. He was just stuck.
Emma would be furious with him.
He was furious with himself.
But he didn’t know how to get unstuck again.
Alice was the first person in a long time who’d made him feel connected with someone. He’d probably spent as much time in her company during the last week or so as he’d spent with anyone else outside the office in the previous six months, apart from his parents and Rosemary. But he couldn’t expect her to help push him out of his rut. That was too much to ask from someone who’d known him for less than a month—especially as he’d been at odds with her for more than half that time.
‘Can I help with dinner?’ he asked instead.
‘No, you’re fine,’ she said with a smile. ‘My kitchen’s a bit on the small side.’
He could see that for himself from the doorway. It was practically a galley kitchen, with just enough room for a cooker, fridge, and washing machine. He noticed that there was a large cork board on the wall with photographs and postcards pinned to it; it was perfectly neat and tidy, but the personal touches made her flat feel like a home rather than just a place to live, as his own house was.
‘Let me grab you a glass of wine,’ she said. ‘Red or white?’
‘I ought to provide the wine, as you’re making dinner,’ he said. And then he was cross with himself. Why hadn’t he thought of that earlier?
She flapped a dismissive hand. ‘It’s fine. Red or white?’
‘What goes better with dinner?’
She tipped her head on one side as she considered it; yet again, he was struck by how cute she was. ‘White,’ she said. ‘Though, before I start cooking, do you have any food allergies or are there any particular things you hate?’
‘No allergies and I eat most things,’ he confirmed.
The kitchen was definitely too small for two people to work in, because she accidentally brushed against him when she took the wine out of the fridge. He almost wrapped his arms round her and kissed her again, but he held himself back. Just.
‘Can I do anything? Lay the table?’ he asked instead.
She took cutlery from a drawer. ‘You can lay the table and then come back for the salad, if you like. Then feel free to amuse yourself with the TV or whatever.’
He laid the bistro table; when he came back to collect the bowl of salad and his glass of wine, she was busy chopping mushrooms and boiling water in a pan. He could smell something delicious; funny, it had been so long since he’d noticed food. He’d seen it as nothing more than fuel ever since Emma had died.
Rather than bothering with the television, he glanced through the books on Alice’s shelves; there were some very academic tomes on ecology and butterflies, and a few glossy coffee-table-type books with gorgeous shots of butterflies, mixed in with a smattering of crime novels. There were also photographs on the shelves; the young child was recognisable as her, with an elderly couple he assumed were her grandparents. The graduation photos of Alice were at Oxford and London, with a couple who were obviously her parents. There was another picture of her wearing a bridesmaid’s dress, with her arm wrapped around the bride: obviously a close friend, maybe the one she’d mentioned going with to Rome and Amsterdam and France.
And how very different this was from his own house; he didn’t have any photographs on display at all. They were tucked away for safekeeping, along with his memories. Where they didn’t hurt.
A few minutes later, Alice came in carrying two bowls of pasta. ‘Fettuccine Alfredo,’ she said. ‘I hope that’s OK with you.’
He joined her at the table. ‘This is lovely,’ he said after his first taste.
She inclined her head in acknowledgement of the compliment. ‘Thank you, but it’s just a very simple pasta dish, not something I’ve slaved over for hours and hours.’
‘It’s still lovely,’ he said.
Strangely, given that they were in her flat, her space, she’d gone all quiet and shy on him. Hugo had the feeling that, even though Alice had fought like a tigress for Rosemary’s butterfly house and she teased him, there was also something about her that was as fragile as the butterflies she studied. A vulnerability that she kept hidden.
‘Who are the people in the photographs?’ he asked, hoping to draw her out a bit more.
‘The one of me when I’m small is with my grandparents, the graduation photos are with my parents, and the wedding is when my best friend Ruth got married last year,’ she said, confirming his guesses.
‘Nice pictures,’ he said.
‘Thank you.’ She looked at him. ‘You didn’t have any art or photos in your house. Have you onl
y just finished the renovations?’
‘No. I’ve been there for just over two years,’ he admitted. ‘I finished the renovations last summer.’ He just couldn’t face putting up photographs which underscored the hole in his life, or the pictures Emma had chosen, because just looking at them made him miss her.
To his relief, she didn’t push him to explain; she merely topped up his glass of wine and then turned the conversation to something much lighter.
And how good it was to spend time with someone else. It made him realise he should’ve made more of an effort with the people around him instead of trying to hide away from the world and lick his wounds in silence.
After dinner, she let him help with the washing up, then offered him a coffee. ‘Though I don’t have a fancy machine or fancy glass cups like yours,’ she said. ‘The best I can do is a cafetière and a mug.’
‘A mug with butterflies on it, I presume,’ he said, trying for lightness.
‘Of course,’ she said, and proceeded to make a cafetière of coffee. ‘Oh, and I meant to show you the film I took earlier.’ She put the mugs on the table, found the film on her phone, and handed it to him.
A black and red butterfly was flapping its wings frantically; and then suddenly it went into slow motion. The two upper wings flapped completely separately from the bottom pair of wings, he realised. ‘It looks like a swimmer.’
‘Doing the butterfly stroke,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it incredible?’
‘When it’s at normal speed, you just see the mad flapping. But this—it’s really amazing.’
She looked pleased. ‘I thought you’d enjoy it.’
And there it was: the warmth and sweetness that had been missing from his life for so long. He wanted more of this in his life, but he was so out of practice at dating. He wasn’t sure how to reach out to her. Then again, even if he did reach out to her, and even if Alice responded—could he take the risk of falling in love again, and losing her? Intellectually, he knew that the chances of losing her in the same way he’d lost Emma were tiny; but emotionally the fear of going through all the pain and loss again thudded through him, making him want to back away and keep what was left of his heart safe.
