HUGO FELT LIKE a teenager about to go on his first date with a new girlfriend. Given that he was meeting a lepidopterist, how ironic it was that he had butterflies in his stomach.
Today was supposed to be about his great-aunt’s legacy. But his heart still felt as if it had done a somersault when he walked through Bloomsbury and peered through the railings around the British Museum to see Alice standing on the steps beneath the famous pediment, waiting for him. As she’d done the previous day, she was wearing faded skinny jeans; when he drew nearer, he saw that today’s T-shirt bore the slogan ‘Butterflies do it with pheromones’.
‘Nice T-shirt,’ he said.
She grinned. ‘Here’s your fun fact for the day: a male butterfly can sense female butterfly pheromones from ten miles away.’
‘Ten miles?’ Was she teasing him?
His confusion must’ve shown on his face, because she smiled. ‘Really. I’m full of facts like that.’
‘They must have amazing noses.’
‘Butterflies don’t actually have noses, the way we do,’ she said. ‘They smell with their antennae and taste with their feet. If you’d said you wanted an anatomy lesson, Mr Grey, I would’ve brought one of my presentations with me.’
Anatomy lesson. Why did that suddenly make him feel hot all over? For pity’s sake. The last woman Hugo had dated was his late wife. He’d closed down his emotions and his libido since Emma’s death—at least, he’d thought he had. But, since he’d met Alice, that part of him seemed to have woken up again. She’d shown him things on their field trip that had enchanted him, and now the woman herself was enchanting him. Everything from that sassy slogan on her T-shirt, to the sparkle in her grey eyes and the way she smiled when she’d spotted something that interested her.
‘I don’t need an anatomy lesson, Dr Walters,’ he said—a little more brusquely than he’d intended, because she really flustered him. ‘Besides, today is about glass.’
‘Indeed. Time to strut your stuff, Mr Glass Expert.’
But there was no mockery in her eyes. She actually looked interested.
Interested in glass, or—his heart skipped another beat—interested in him? He wasn’t sure whether the idea scared him or thrilled him more.
Keep it professional, he reminded himself, and ushered her into the Great Court. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is one of my favourite buildings in London.’ That was it. Talk about his passion for architecture. Don’t think about emotions. Keep it focused on the abstract. Something safe. ‘I love the way the shadows of the steel beams change as you walk round.’
* * *
Hugo’s gorgeous blue eyes were suddenly all lit up as he talked about the roof, and he’d lost that slight grouchiness. Clearly he felt the same way about glass as she did about butterflies, Alice thought. And seeing him in love with his subject made him so much easier to deal with.
Though, at the same time, it made him dangerous. Mesmerising.
She needed to get a grip; she’d been burned too often by men she’d been attracted to and then it had all gone wrong. That wasn’t going to happen again. ‘Tell me about the glass,’ she said.
‘There are three thousand, two hundred and twelve panes in that roof,’ he said. ‘And no two are identical.’
‘Seriously?’ She couldn’t understand how you’d build a roof from what seemed to be a jigsaw puzzle. Besides, to her most of the panes looked identical.
‘Seriously. It’s because the roof undulates,’ he said. He took his phone from his pocket, flicked into the Internet and brought up a photograph. ‘This is it from above.’
It was nothing like she’d expected. ‘It looks like a turquoise cushion, with an ancient brooch in the centre—but, from down here, the glass seems clear. And what’s that in the centre?’
‘It’s the dome of the old Reading Room,’ he said. ‘And, actually, it’s not very much smaller than the dome of the Pantheon in Rome.’
She stared at him, as amazed by the statistic as he’d seemed when she’d explained about butterfly pheromones. ‘Seriously? But it looks tiny! I’ve been to Rome, with my best friend, and the Pantheon’s enormous.’
‘Which shows you just how huge this courtyard is—it’s the biggest covered square in Europe,’ he said. ‘I would’ve loved to work on something like this, merging the old and the new.’
Just as he had with the Scottish country house and its dome, she thought. Could he be tempted to build something new—the butterfly house—that would fit into the garden of Rosemary’s old house?
Together, they walked around the Great Court; just as Hugo had said, the light and the pattern of shadows changed as they moved round the area.
‘This is pretty stunning,’ she said. ‘Though I’m not sure we could make a design like this work for a butterfly house.’
‘It wouldn’t.’ He smiled. ‘You wanted to show me an amazing butterfly yesterday, before you showed me the wildflower site. I wanted to show you my favourite bit of new architectural glass before we go and see the other stuff.’
‘It’s spectacular,’ she said. ‘Obviously I’ve been here before, but I never really noticed it. You’ve shown it to me in a very different way.’
‘Like your Iron Age hill fort yesterday,’ he said. ‘I know this is going to make me sound a complete heathen, given the treasures within these walls, but I’d really like to skip the rest of the building now and go to the second bit of our field trip.’
Field trip. Of course that was what it was. They were going to Kew together because of the butterfly house project, not because he wanted to spend time with her, she reminded herself. Part of her wanted it to be a date; but at the same time part of her was scared she’d be sucked into trusting someone again and end up being let down. Pushing away the mingled disappointment and wariness, she said brightly, ‘Sure.’
At Kew, they grabbed a quick coffee and a sandwich, then wandered through some of the formal gardens; Alice laid her palm against Hugo’s upper arm to direct his attention to some butterflies, and instantly regretted the impulse when her fingertips started tingling where she touched him.
‘Butterfly,’ she said, knowing how stupid she sounded. For pity’s sake, she should be speaking to him in full sentences, not mumbling single words at him. What was wrong with her? Why was she being so inarticulate?
‘What is it?’
Focus on the science, she told herself. Take your hand off his arm. Stop being flustered. Focus. ‘It’s a Polygonia c-album—more commonly known as a Comma.’
‘Because of the shape of its wing-edges?’ he asked.
She liked the fact he’d tried to be logical. ‘No, because of the white mark on its underwing.’
‘I love the colour. Especially the contrast with the purple flowers.’
‘It’s not necessarily purple to a butterfly,’ she said.
His eyes widened. ‘It’s not?’
‘They don’t see colour and resolution in the way that humans do—even though they have eyes in the back of their head and near three-hundred-and-sixty-degree vision, they can’t see the fine detail,’ she explained. ‘And they can see the ultraviolet patterns on flower petals that we can’t.’
‘What ultraviolet patterns?’ he asked.
‘The nectar guides.’ She gestured to one of the plants in the lawn. ‘To a butterfly, this yellow dandelion looks white at the edges, but red at the centre where the nectar is. And a horse-chestnut flower is yellow to them when it’s producing nectar, and red when it’s not.’
‘That’s amazing,’ he said, smiling. And that smile made her heart feel as if it had done a backflip. He actually listened to what she said. So far, he hadn’t tried to change her.
Could she take a risk?
Or should she be sensible, and find a way of putting some distance between them?
Yet she couldn’t. As they walked through the gardens together, their hands brushed against each other. Once. Twice. And then their fingers interlocked, just one at first, and then another, and another, until they were actually holding hands.
She could barely breathe.
This wasn’t supposed to be happening.
They were absolutely not a couple.
Yet here they were, holding hands, as if they were on a proper date. It was thrilling and terrifying, all at the same time.
‘This is what I wanted to show you. The Palm House,’ he said. ‘Victorian glass and iron.’
Was it her imagination, or did his voice sound a bit funny? As if he was just as flustered by this thing happening between them as she was, and he was trying really hard to keep it businesslike…and failing, the same way she was.
‘It’s like an upside-down ship,’ she said.
‘Well spotted. It was the first glasshouse built on this scale,’ he said, ‘so they used techniques from shipbuilding. And here you see sixteen thousand panes of glass.’
He let her hand go when he opened the door for her—but within moments they were back to holding hands. Neither of them said a word about it or even looked at their hands to draw attention to what was happening. But it was there. A fact. They liked each other enough to hold hands. And Alice wondered if Hugo, too, was feeling the little fizzy bubbles of pleasure that seemed to be filling her own veins.
The fact that Hugo really seemed to be considering building the butterfly house made her heart feel light with hope.
She had no idea how long they spent wandering through Kew, exploring the glasshouses and the gardens, with Hugo pointing out his favourite bits of various buildings and herself pointing out the butterflies flitting over the plants. All she could really concentrate on was the warmth of his fingers curled round hers, and how good it made her feel.
Time blurred, seeming to go in the blink of an eye and yet stretch for a week at the same time. But finally the gardens were closing and all the tourists appeared to be heading for the exits.
‘Time to leave, I guess,’ Hugo said, sounding regretful.
‘I guess,’ she said.
They walked back to the Tube station together. Alice knew they’d be taking completely different trains—Hugo to Battersea and herself to Shadwell. He’d sounded wistful earlier; would he want to prolong the time with her and maybe suggest dinner? Should she suggest it, maybe? Or were they back in the real world again, now they’d left the glasshouse behind? Would he want to put some distance between them?
‘Thank you for a nice day,’ Hugo said, which pretty much sealed it for her.
Distance it was.
Separate trains and separate lives.
She could ask him if he’d like to have dinner with her; but perhaps it would be better to spare them both the embarrassment of him refusing. Instead, she smiled. ‘I enjoyed it, too. Thank you for showing me the glass.’
He looked awkward, as if debating something in his head; and then he bent forward and kissed her swiftly on the cheek.
Warmth spread through her, along with some courage. ‘Maybe we can go to see a butterfly house, next.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Wednesday afternoons are usually free for me.’
He took his phone from his pocket and checked something. ‘I can do Wednesday, this week.’
They were talking as if this was a business appointment, but it felt like a date. And she was shocked to realise how much she wanted it to be a date.
Forcing herself to sound calm, she said, ‘We could meet at Canary Wharf station at, say, one o’clock?’
‘I’ll put it in my diary,’ he said. ‘See you then.’
‘See you then.’ She held her breath, just in case he decided to lean forward and kiss her other cheek—or, even, her mouth.
But he didn’t.
He just smiled at her and walked away.
Was she about to make a colossal fool of herself? Should she back off?
But all the same Alice found herself touching her cheek when she sat down on the train, remembering how his lips had felt against her skin.
Would he kiss her again, the next time they met?
Would it be a proper kiss?
And, if so, what was she going to do about it?
* * *
Butterfly fact of the day: a butterfly’s body temperature needs to be thirty degrees C before it can fly.
Alice regretted the impulse, the second she’d sent the email.
Supposing Hugo thought she was trying to flirt with him?
Well, she was trying to flirt with him. Even though her head knew it was dangerous and reckless and a very bad idea, that flare of attraction was strong enough to make her ignore her common sense. She couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d held her hand all afternoon, and that kiss on the cheek, and wondering just how his mouth would feel against hers.
He didn’t reply. Which served her right, and she forced herself to concentrate on her students and stop mooning over him. But, at the end of the day, there was an email waiting in her inbox.
Glass fact of the day: when glass breaks, the cracks move at three thousand miles an hour.
Flirting by nerdiness?
It was delicious. And addictive. She sent him a nerdy fact by text on Tuesday morning; he replied in kind, later in the day. By Wednesday lunchtime, Alice was practically effervescent with excitement. She couldn’t wait to see him.
Just as they’d arranged, Hugo was waiting for her at Canary Wharf station. He was wearing his sharp suit and posh shoes, and she wished she’d thought to dress up a bit, too, instead of being her usual scruffy scientist self.
‘Hi,’ she said, suddenly shy now she was with him.
‘Hi.’ And now he looked equally ill-at-ease.
What now? They weren’t officially dating, so she could hardly greet him with a kiss. But this wasn’t just business any more, either. There was definitely something personal.
‘Shall we, um…?’ She gestured to the platform, where the train was waiting.
He didn’t hold her hand on the train. He didn’t hold her hand on the way to the butterfly house, either. And he didn’t look that impressed as they walked up to the very ordinary glasshouse. Well, he was an architect who specialised in glass. Of course a square building with a gable roof would be dull and functional, in his view.
Then again, this was the man who’d built a removable glass wall between his house and his garden, and yet his garden was the dullest and most minimalist in the universe. So, the way she saw it, he really didn’t have the right to be picky about this place.
‘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 only 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.
He drained his coffee and said, ‘I’d better let you get on with your evening.’
‘Of course,’ she said, all calm and professional; but Hugo had seen the hurt in her eyes before she’d masked it, and felt guilty.
He didn’t mean to make her feel bad. But he couldn’t explain, either, not without things getting a whole lot more awkward.
‘Thank you for dinner,’ he said. ‘I’ll, um, catch you later.’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Thanks for coming to the butterfly house.’
And all the way home Hugo kicked himself. Why hadn’t he just opened up to her, admitted that he liked her and wanted to see her but he was scared about things going wrong? Why hadn’t he been honest about Emma? Alice had made him feel amazing, that afternoon. And the moment when he’d kissed her and she’d kissed him back…
He was an idiot for not kissing her again. For not asking her out properly. For not taking the risk. Life was too short to spend all your time hiding.
He’d call her tomorrow, he decided. Apologise for being rude. Explain.
And he’d just have to hope that she’d listen.
* * *
Alice scrubbed the coffee pot clean. And then she scrubbed it again, because it gave her something to do.
What a fool she was. Why on earth had she thought it was a good idea to cook dinner for Hugo? Just because he’d kissed her in the butterfly house and made her feel amazing?
Then again, maybe it was better that he’d realised this early on that she didn’t fit into his world. He’d seen her for who she was: and she simply didn’t measure up. Further proof that Barney and his cronies had been right all along and it was what you looked like, what you sounded like, that was most important.
She’d just have to hope that she hadn’t jeopardised the butterfly house project with her stupidity.