ALICE SENT HUGO a text with a butterfly fact on Thursday morning, hoping that she could find some way back to the working relationship they’d established, but there was no reply.
Until her phone pinged almost at the end of the day.
Sorry. Tied up in meetings all day. Fact for you: glass isn’t a solid.
It wasn’t a liquid or a gas, either. And that statement was definitely an opening. She could ignore it; or she could give in to temptation and reply.
So what is it?
Amorphous solid—molecules can still move inside it, but too slowly for us to see.
He was still playing the nerdy facts game with her, then; but it didn’t feel quite as reassuring as she would’ve liked. Especially as he’d left her house so abruptly, the previous day.
OK, so he’d made it clear that he didn’t want to take their relationship further. But that didn’t necessarily mean he was giving up on the butterfly house project. She just needed to try and keep things light and easy between them.
* * *
Friday was Emma’s birthday and Hugo woke with a ball of misery in his stomach. He headed for his office early, but keeping busy didn’t help. If he was honest with himself, he wasn’t keeping busy, either; he was just staring out of the window at the river. Stuck. Miserable as hell.
Life moved on, so why couldn’t he?
Then his phone chimed to signal an incoming text. He knew before he looked at the screen who it would be from: Alice.
Your butterfly fun fact of the day: butterfly wings are transparent because they’re made of chitin, the same protein as an insect’s exoskeleton.
Funny, she was the one person he felt he could handle communicating with today. Probably because she didn’t know what had happened, so she wasn’t going to tread carefully round him and make things worse. And her text was a really welcome distraction.
She was telling him that butterflies were transparent, but the ones she’d shown him were all different colours. He called her on it.
So how come they look different colours?
Scales. As they get older, the scales fall off and leave transparent spots on their wings. Except for a Glasswing, which is transparent to start with.
He could just hear her saying that. And then she’d find a picture on the Internet to illustrate her point, and maybe she’d test him to see if he knew what the butterfly was and whether this was a male or female of the species. He really liked her nerdy streak; it intrigued him and delighted him in equal measure, and it made him feel as if the world was opening up around him again, as if he was stepping away from the oppression of his heartbreak. Just being with her made him want to smile.
Right at that moment he really, really wanted to see her. The only time he felt vaguely normal nowadays was when he was with her. How crazy was that? Before he could overanalyse things and talk himself out of it, he sent her a text.
Are you busy at lunchtime or do you want to come and see a staircase?
To his relief, she didn’t make him wait for a reply. Alice wasn’t a game-player. What you saw was what you got.
Staircase at lunchtime is doable. I need to be back for a seminar at three.
Meet at St Paul’s? When’s a good time?
Half-twelve?
OK. See you by the main entrance at half-twelve.
And how weird it was that, for the first time that day, Hugo felt as if he could actually breathe—that there wasn’t a huge weight on his chest, making every breath a shallow effort.
At half-past twelve, he was standing on the cathedral steps, looking out for Alice; it was easy to spot her in the crowd. He lifted a hand in acknowledgement, and his heart gave a little skip when she waved back.
‘Thanks for coming,’ he said when she reached him.
‘I’m looking forward to seeing this staircase,’ she said. ‘And I know it’s not glass, but I assume you’re going to tell me about that, too.’ She gestured up to Wren’s enormous dome.
What he really wanted to do was wrap his arms round her, feel her warmth melting the permafrost around his heart. But that would involve explanations he didn’t want to give right now, so he duly smiled and escorted her into the cathedral. ‘We’ve actually got a slightly different tour. Maybe we’ll come back another day and I’ll show you the dome. Today we’re focusing on a staircase.’
‘I owe you for my ticket,’ she said.
He shook his head. ‘My idea, my bill.’
‘Then I’m buying coffees and sandwiches after,’ she said firmly. ‘No arguments.’
They were just in time to join the tour, and when they got to the end of it—the bit he’d really been waiting for—Hugo watched Alice’s face, pleased to see how amazed she was by the Dean’s Stair.
‘It’s a spiral staircase, but it doesn’t have a column in the middle,’ she marvelled. ‘I don’t get how it just floats in the air like that, without falling over.’
‘It’s cantilevered,’ he said. ‘Each step is shaped so it can bear the weight of the next. And it’s not going to fall over—it’s been there for more than three hundred years.’
He held her hand all the way to the top, pleased that she seemed to enjoy the elegant stonework and wrought-iron railings as much as he did.
‘What a view,’ she said at the top, looking down at the elegant spiral with the eight-pointed star at its centre. ‘I need to take a picture of this for Ruth.’
‘The art historian,’ he remembered.
She nodded, and snapped the picture on her phone.
And then he heard the cathedral organist start to play. Something he knew well. Bach. A piece Emma had loved and had used to play on the piano he’d given back to her parents, knowing they’d find it comforting. The piece the organist had played at her funeral. And suddenly the weight was right back in the centre of his chest, along with sapping misery.
* * *
Something was wrong. Alice didn’t know what, but Hugo looked terrible. There were lines of pain etched round his mouth and smudges beneath his eyes. Once the guide had led them back out into the main part of the cathedral, she said gently, ‘I think we need coffee and a sandwich. And somewhere nice to eat it.’
‘Sure.’
His voice was flat, worrying her further. She quickly bought coffee, muffins and sandwiches at a shop nearby, then shepherded him to a quiet garden not far from St Paul’s.
‘I had no idea this place even existed,’ he said as they sat down. ‘Where are we?’
‘Christchurch Greyfriars garden,’ she said. ‘The church was pretty much lost to the Blitz, apart from the tower, but the authorities have kept the land as a garden. The pergolas are full of bird boxes for sparrows and finches. I love this place because it’s full of the most gorgeous blue, purple and white flowers.’
‘And butterflies.’
Even now, one was skimming past them. She inclined her head. ‘Indeed, because a lot of the plants here are nectar-rich.’
‘I’m guessing you know a lot of hidden gardens in London?’
She smiled. ‘It kind of goes with my job. I need to know where I can take my students on a field trip semi-locally at different times of the year. Here. Have your lunch.’ She handed him a cup of coffee and a sandwich.
‘Thank you.’
They ate in silence; it wasn’t completely awkward, but Alice could see that he was wrestling with something in his head. She had a feeling that talking about whatever was wrong didn’t come easily to him. So, when they’d both finished their sandwich and he was staring into his coffee, she reached out to take his free hand. ‘I’m probably speaking out of turn here,’ she said softly, ‘but you look like you did the very first day I met you—lost.’
‘It’s how I feel,’ he admitted. He looked at her and his eyes were full of misery. ‘It’s selfish of me, but I wanted to see you today because you don’t tread on eggshells round me. You stomp about and you tease me and you teach me things and you…’ He shook his head. ‘You make me see things in a different way.’
Which was an incredible compliment, but it wasn’t what had snagged her attention. ‘Why do people tread on eggshells round you?’
He took a deep breath. ‘Emma—my wife. It’s her birthday today.’
He was married?
But, before she had a chance to absorb that, he continued, ‘She died nearly three years ago.’
Widowed, then. And she was pretty sure he wasn’t that much older than she was. Her heart broke for him. ‘That’s rough, losing her so young.’
He nodded. ‘She had asthma. After she died, I found out there’s something called Peak Week—it’s a week in September when allergies and asthma just spike because there’s a big rise in pollen and mould, plus the kids have just gone back to school so there are loads of germs and what have you that compromise people’s breathing. Emma was a middle school teacher. I was in America giving a paper at a conference when she had a severe asthma attack.’
Obviously in that week in September, Alice realised.
‘She called the ambulance and they came straight away, but she collapsed before she even had a chance to unlock the front door. She had a cardiac arrest and she never regained consciousness.’ His expression grew bleaker. ‘I never got a chance to say goodbye to her.’
No wonder he’d looked so lost, that day at the solicitor’s. The meeting had been about his great-aunt’s estate, and it must have brought back all the memories of his wife’s death. She put her arms round him and just held him. ‘That,’ she said softly, ‘is so sad. I’ve never lost anyone near my own age—the only person I’ve lost is Grandad, and although he went a bit before his time it still felt in the natural order of things. Your wife was so young. It must’ve felt like the end of the world.’
‘It did. And then in the cathedral just now…the organ music. It was something she played on the piano at home. A piece—’ his breath caught ‘—played at her funeral.’
Music that had brought back everything he’d lost. ‘I didn’t know Emma,’ she said, ‘but she mattered to you, so she must’ve been special.’
‘Very.’
‘Do you have a photo of her?’
For a moment, Alice thought she’d gone too far; but eventually Hugo nodded and took out his phone. He skimmed through the photos, then handed the phone to her.
It was clearly their wedding photograph, with Hugo in a tailcoat and Emma in a frothy dress with her veil thrown back; they were both laughing, radiant with happiness, while confetti fluttered down around them. Emma was utterly beautiful.
‘She looks lovely, really warm and kind,’ Alice said.
* * *
‘She was,’ Hugo said. And, although Alice was a very different woman, she had that same warmth and kindness about her. The thing that had been missing from the centre of his life. The thing he’d tried so hard to live without. But he’d just been existing, not living. Putting one foot in front of the other, taking it step by step. It was all he could do, without Emma. On his own, nothing made sense.
‘Remember the love, not the loss,’ Alice said gently. ‘I know it’s hard when you’re missing someone and want them beside you, when you want to share things with them and you can’t—but you can still share things in spirit. When I see the first butterfly of spring, I think of Grandad and I kind of send him a mental phone call. I sit down wherever I am and I talk to him about it, remember times we’d seen that same species together, and it makes things not hurt quite so much. Maybe you need to give Emma a mental phone call. Talk to her. Tell her about your staircases and your glass.’
Hugo’s throat felt as if it were full of sand. He couldn’t speak, so he just nodded.
‘And you can still celebrate her birthday with cake, because that’s how birthdays should be celebrated.’ She produced two muffins from a bag. ‘It’s white chocolate and raspberry. I hope that’s OK. I’m sorry I don’t have a candle to put in it and light, but we can pretend we have candles and wish Emma happy birthday.’
Hugo’s eyes stung. He and Alice had kissed. They’d started to get close, taken the first tentative steps towards a relationship. Yet she still had a big enough heart to make room for his late wife and celebrate Emma’s birthday instead of putting herself first.
‘I’ll spare you the singing,’ she said. ‘But happy birthday, Emma.’ She raised her muffin in a toast.
‘Happy birthday, Emma,’ he said, his voice thick with unshed tears.
And how odd that eating cake and wishing his late wife happy birthday made him feel so much better, taking the weight of the misery off his heart. He really hadn’t expected this to work.
‘Emma used to make amazing cakes,’ he said. It was why he rarely ate cake nowadays; the memories were too much for him.
‘Then,’ she said, ‘if the butterfly house project goes ahead, maybe we can call the cafe after her. Emma’s Kitchen. And then she’ll be part of it, too, along with Viola and Rosemary.’
How on earth had he ever thought Alice was an ambitious gold-digger who didn’t care who she trampled on her path to the top? She was nothing of the sort. She was inclusive. Kind. Thoughtful. This was so much more than he deserved, given the way he’d misunderstood her.
And she still wasn’t taking for granted that the butterfly house would go ahead. She wasn’t seeing his feelings as a weakness and using them to pressure him into getting her own way. She was being kind.
It made him feel too emotional to speak again. He just took her hand and raised it to his mouth, pressing a kiss into her palm and folding her fingers over it. He hoped she understood what he was trying to say. How much he appreciated her being there. How he wanted things to be different.
She rested her palm against his cheek. ‘I have half a dozen students expecting me this afternoon, but I can call them now and reschedule our seminar.’
He shook his head. ‘That’s not fair.’
‘It’s not fair of me to leave you right now,’ she said.
‘I have meetings, in any case.’ Meetings that he’d force himself to get through, and he’d do his job well, the way he always did. He had his professional pride. He took a deep breath. ‘You’ve made me feel so much better today. Thank you.’
Her grey eyes were unsure. ‘Do you want me to walk you back to your office?’
‘No. But I’ll walk you back to the Tube.’
‘All right.’
She didn’t push him to speak on the way back to the station; she just let him be. No wrapping him in platitudes and pity, and he was grateful for that. How often did you find someone who’d just let you be you, with no pressure?
‘I’ll call you later,’ he said.
‘OK.’ She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. Just once. ‘Give that mental phone call a try. It always makes me feel better.’
And then the train pulled up at the station and she’d gone.
* * *
Hugo was thoughtful all afternoon, between meetings.
A mental phone call.
Better than that, he’d visit. Just as he always did on Emma’s birthday, his own birthday, their wedding anniversary and the anniversary of her death.
He took stocks, her favourite flowers, to the churchyard, and rinsed out the vase on her grave, filling it with fresh water before adding the new flowers.
‘Happy birthday, my love,’ he said, sitting down next to the grave. ‘I can’t believe it’s nearly three years, now. I miss you so much, still.’ He swallowed hard. ‘And I know you’d be furious with me for moping. I know I need to move on—to live life to its fullest, the way you used to do. But it’s just so hard without you, Em.’
He wrapped his arms round his knees. ‘I miss you. And this is incredibly crass of me to say this on your birthday—it’s wrong on so many, many levels—but I’ve been so lost and lonely without you. And I’ve met someone. She would’ve liked you, and I think you would’ve liked her.’
He sighed. ‘I’d like to ask her out. I think we could make each other happy. And she’s not replacing you—I’ll always love you, and I’ll always keep your memory alive. She doesn’t want to push you out of my life, either; she thinks we ought to call the cafe at the butterfly house after you. This whole thing makes me feel so mixed up. I want to move on, but I feel as if I’m letting you down all over again. If I hadn’t gone to that conference…’ Would Emma still have been here? Would he have managed to get help to her in time? Or would she still have collapsed and had that heart attack, and the medics still wouldn’t have been able to save her and he would still have felt guilty? He blew out a breath. ‘Is it selfish of me to want to find happiness again?’
A moment later, a white butterfly landed on the stocks and basked in the sunlight as it fed on the flowers.
Hugo stared at the butterfly. This felt like a sign. As if Emma was giving him her blessing to ask Alice out—and telling him to build the butterfly house.
Emma’s Kitchen it was, then.
‘I love you, Em,’ he said as the butterfly flittered away again.
And now he knew what to do.
* * *
‘You really do make the best Buddha bowl in the universe,’ Alice said, smiling at her best friend as she laid her fork down on the empty bowl. ‘Spicy chicken, wild rice and extra avocado. It doesn’t get better than that.’
Ruth laughed. ‘Indeed.’
And then Alice’s phone pinged. Normally she would’ve ignored a text during dinner, but she noticed Hugo’s name on the notification.
‘From the look on your face,’ Ruth said, ‘I’m guessing that’s something you need to deal with.’
‘I’ve come to have dinner with you, not be glued to my phone,’ Alice said.
‘I know, but I’m going to get the ice cream. I think you can be forgiven for reading a text while I’ve left the table.’
‘Thanks.’ Alice opened the message, and frowned.
Can I take you to dinner tomorrow night?
Did this mean that Hugo wanted to talk about the butterfly house?
Then her phone pinged again.
That’s a social invitation, not a butterfly/glass discussion. Keeping things separate.
Alice stared at the phone, not sure whether she was more thrilled or terrified.
Unless she was being very dense, Hugo Grey had just asked her on a date.
‘Everything OK?’ Ruth said, coming back with two dishes, a bowl of raspberries and a tub of caramel ice cream.
‘Yes. No.’ Alice dragged a hand through her hair. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Spill,’ Ruth said.
‘It’s Hugo.’
‘Rosemary’s great-nephew, the man you wanted to throttle?’ Ruth asked.
‘We’ve moved on a bit, since then,’ Alice said. ‘We’ve been talking about the project and having field trips.’
‘Field trips,’ Ruth said, with a knowing look.
‘Not dates,’ Alice corrected.
‘But?’
Alice squirmed. Trust her best friend to notice the invisible ‘but’. ‘There appears to have been some hand-holding.’ When Ruth didn’t say anything, just looked levelly at her, Alice caved further. ‘And some kissing.’
‘That, honey, doesn’t sound remotely like what a field trip should be. It sounds as if you’re dating.’
Which was what Hugo was proposing now. Something Alice wanted to say yes to—but she was scared that it would all go wrong.
‘It’s complicated,’ Alice said. ‘I send him nerdy facts about butterflies. He sends me nerdy facts about glass.’
‘Flirting by nerdiness. That sounds good,’ Ruth said. ‘It means he gets you. So do I take it that he’s just asked you out officially?’
Alice nodded.
‘Then say yes.’
‘You know how rubbish I am at relationships. I always pick someone who wants to change me. Robin, Ed, Henry—and Barney.’ She grimaced. ‘Hugo’s from the same kind of background as Barney, one where I don’t fit in.’
‘Maybe it’ll be different, this time,’ Ruth suggested.
‘Maybe it won’t.’ Alice sighed. ‘He’s a widower.’
Ruth raised her eyebrows. ‘He’s a lot older than you, then?’
‘No. His wife died tragically young—an asthma episode caused a heart attack.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I think I’m the first woman he’s asked out since she died. Nearly three years ago.’
‘And you haven’t dated in a year. It sounds to me as if you might be good for each other,’ Ruth said.
‘What if I get it wrong?’
‘Then you get it wrong. But if he’s as nerdy as you, in his own way, that’s a good thing. You’ll understand each other.’
‘I just don’t want to get it wrong,’ Alice repeated.
‘What if you get it right?’ Ruth asked. ‘Then, if you say no, you’ll miss out. I know Barney really hurt you, but you’re an amazing woman and I’m proud to call you my friend. If you back off from the chance of a relationship, you’re letting Barney win—and you’re worth more than that.’ Ruth squeezed her hand. ‘The only way you’ll find out is to date him. What have you got to lose?’
Alice bit her lip. ‘The whole of the butterfly house project. I can’t risk that.’
‘What did he say?’
Alice handed her phone over.
Ruth read the texts swiftly. ‘He’s pretty clear about wanting to keep things separate. He’s asking you out for dinner. As a date. Nothing to do with the butterfly house. I think you should say yes.’
Alice looked at her in an agony of indecision.
Ruth tapped in a reply. ‘OK. Done.’
‘What? Ruth! No! What did you say?’ Alice asked, horrified.
Ruth handed the phone back.
‘“I’d love to. Let me know where and when,”’ Alice read aloud, and groaned. ‘Oh, no.’
‘Ally, you’ve admitted that you’ve kissed him and you’ve held hands and you’ve been flirting by text. This is the next step, that’s all.’ Ruth leaned across the table and hugged her. ‘I just want you to be as happy as I am with Andy. I know you don’t need a partner to be a valid person, but I worry that you’re lonely.’
‘I’ve got good family and good friends—the best, when they don’t commandeer my phone and send texts under my name,’ Alice said pointedly, ‘and good colleagues.’
‘Which is not the same as sharing your life with someone.’
Alice’s phone pinged with another text.
Pick you up at seven tomorrow.
So it was a definite date. ‘Oh, help. What do I do now?’
Ruth had known her for long enough to be able to guess what the issue was. ‘Ask him where you’re going,’ Ruth said, ‘and I’ll tell you what to wear.’
Alice duly texted Hugo.
Surprise was the answer.
‘That doesn’t help at all.’ Alice bit her lip. ‘What if I wear completely the wrong thing?’ Just as she had in Oxford, and Barney’s set had all mocked her for it. ‘We’re talking about a man who wears handmade Italian shoes.’
Ruth smiled. ‘It sounds to me like a good excuse to go and buy a new dress.’
‘I hardly ever wear dresses.’
‘I wish,’ Ruth said, ‘you’d get over how Barney made you feel. What you wear isn’t as important as feeling comfortable in it.’
‘And I don’t feel comfortable in a dress.’
‘Because you can’t hide behind a T-shirt slogan, hiking boots and a camera?’ Ruth asked, raising one eyebrow.
‘The first time I met Hugo, I was wearing a business suit, and I…didn’t come across well.’
‘Neither did he, from what you told me. It’s got nothing to do with what you look like.’ Ruth frowned. ‘Ask him if a little black dress is appropriate or if he can suggest a dress code.’
‘I don’t have a little black dress.’
‘I do,’ Ruth said, ‘and you’re the same size as me, so there are no excuses. Text him.’
Alice knew if she didn’t, Ruth would simply steal her phone and do it for her, so she gave in and texted him. When her phone pinged, she read the text. ‘He says wear whatever I like, but a little black dress would be just fine.’
‘It’s you he’s dating, not your clothes,’ Ruth said. ‘I like the sound of that. It’s a good thing. Make that leap of faith, Ally. He’s not Barney.’
‘But I already told you, he’s from the same kind of background as Barney,’ Alice pointed out. ‘The kind of people who judge me and find me wanting.’
‘You’re a woman who has three degrees and a heart as big as the world: in what possible way can you be found wanting?’ Ruth asked.
The answer to that was burned into Alice’s heart. She’d learned that from Barney and his friends and their mocking laughter. ‘The wrong background. The wrong clothes. The wrong manners.’
‘Anyone who’s that shallow isn’t worth your time,’ Ruth said. ‘And not everyone from that background is like Barney. You’ve just always chosen Mr Wrong.’
‘So what makes Hugo any different?’
‘That,’ Ruth said, ‘is for you to answer. And the only way you’re going to find the answer is to date him.’
Alice couldn’t really reply to that.
‘Now stop fussing and eat your ice cream,’ Ruth said, ‘because we have a dress to sort out.’
* * *
Working on Viola’s journals, her current favourite part of her job, didn’t manage to calm Alice’s nerves, the next day.
Would dating Hugo Grey turn out to be a huge mistake?
Even if he didn’t hold her background against her or want to change her, there was the fact that he’d lost his wife in such tragic circumstances. How could she ever measure up to the love of his life?
With her borrowed dress, the shoes she’d worn the first time she’d met Hugo, and the butterfly necklace her parents had given her for her thirtieth birthday, she felt polished enough to cope with wherever he was taking her. Though, when the doorbell rang, she had butterflies in her stomach. Stampeding ones. A whole forestful of Monarchs in the middle of a long-distance migration.
‘Hi. You look lovely,’ he said.
‘Thank you. So do you.’ And her voice would have to go all squeaky, wouldn’t it?
Hugo looked gorgeous in a dark suit that she would just bet was custom-made, teamed with a crisp white shirt and an understated silk tie…and yet another pair of handmade Italian shoes. The man was a walking fashion-plate. And, although it would normally have made her worry that she wasn’t stylish enough, the way he looked at her—the heat in his eyes, the way he was smiling just for her—made her feel special. The fact that a man as gorgeous and talented as Hugo had called her ‘lovely’ made her feel as if she were walking on air.
‘For you,’ he said, handing her a bouquet of delicate flowers in shades of blue and cream—cornflowers, cream-and-pink-swirled Californian poppies, honeysuckle and columbines.
‘Thank you. They’re beautiful,’ she said.
‘I asked the florist for something different, because I didn’t think you’d enjoy hothouse blooms. And you said you liked blue flowers.’
‘I do.’ And she loved the fact he’d made such an effort, instead of grabbing the first bouquet he saw. There was real thought behind this. Substance, not just style. She breathed in the scent of the honeysuckle. ‘These are so lovely. I ought to put them in water before we go. Have we got time?’
‘Sure.’
‘Come in.’
The cornflowers were almost the same shade of blue as his eyes, and it made her smile. She put the flowers in water and stood the vase on the kitchen windowsill. ‘They’re perfect. Thank you.’
‘Pleasure.’ He smiled at her. ‘Are you OK to walk in those shoes?’
‘I didn’t think my hiking boots would quite go with this dress,’ she said, aiming for lightness.
‘Perhaps not. I thought we’d get the Tube to the restaurant, then maybe have a walk along the river and get a taxi back, if that’s OK with you?’
‘That’d be nice,’ she said, wondering just how flashy the restaurant was going to be and how out of her depth she was going to feel.
But, when they arrived at the restaurant, it was nothing like she was expecting. The waitress led them to the rooftop where there were several glass pods, all containing pots of enormous ferns decked with fairy lights as well as tables and chairs. Most of the pods were already full but there was one clearly waiting for them.
‘We’re eating in one of these glass pods?’ she checked.
‘I thought it might be nice to have a view of the sunset over the river,’ he said. ‘Is this OK with you?’
‘It’s more than OK,’ she said. A glass dome—his favourite thing—plus beautiful plants and a view of the sunset. It was the perfect first date.
Once they’d ordered and the waitress had brought them a bottle of wine, he said, ‘When I asked you to dinner, last night, I wasn’t sure if you’d say yes.’
‘I wasn’t sure, either,’ she admitted. ‘You’re still grieving for Emma.’
‘But I need to move on. And you’re the first woman I’ve really noticed since she died.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I took your advice.’
‘The mental phone call?’
He nodded. ‘I went to her grave. I talked to her about you, and about how I’d like to ask you to dinner. And I’d just finished talking when this white butterfly settled on the flowers I’d taken with me. It felt like a sign. So I texted you when I got home.’
‘I was at my best friend’s,’ Alice said. ‘Actually, this is her dress. I, um, don’t often wear dresses.’
‘Because of the ticks?’
So he remembered what she’d said. That made her feel a lot more confident. ‘Something like that. So what does an architect do in his spare time?’
‘Work,’ he said. ‘Make calculations.’
Which sounded very lonely, to her.
‘What does a lepidopterist do in her spare time?’ he asked.
‘Have dinner with friends, go to the cinema, and visit art exhibitions with my best friend—on condition she visits an SSSI with me.’
‘A Site of Special Scientific Interest?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘When I’m planning a field trip for my students, I scope it out first. So Ruth and I have a girly road trip.’
‘Like our field trips?’
‘Something like.’ She looked at him. ‘This is odd. Being here together, not talking about the butterfly house project.’ The thing that scared her. ‘Actually on a date.’
‘On a date.’ He met her gaze head-on. ‘You know why I haven’t dated since Emma died. You told me you’re married to your job. Why don’t you date?’
Oh, help.
She didn’t want to tell Hugo about Barney. About how pathetic and worthless she’d felt when she’d learned the truth about why Barney was really dating her. How pathetic and worthless she still felt, thanks to the men she’d dated since. ‘Let’s just say I’m not great at picking Mr Right.’
But he didn’t let her weasel out of answering his question.
‘What normally makes them Mr Wrong?’ he asked.
She’d soon find out if he was another of them, so she might as well be honest. ‘They want to change me,’ she said simply.
He frowned. ‘You’re supposed to date someone because you like them and you want to get to know them better, not because you want to make them into someone else.’
That was reassuring. ‘How do you get to know someone better?’ she asked.
‘Search me. I’m out of practice,’ he said. ‘Emma and I met at university, in our last year. Friend of a friend at a party sort of thing. We just clicked, and I never looked at anyone else after that.’
She blinked. ‘Are you telling me this is your first “first date” since you were twenty-one?’ She wasn’t sure whether that made her feel special—or scared that she wouldn’t live up to his expectations.
‘Yes. So I’m a bit out of practice.’ He grimaced. ‘I apologise if I’m making a mess of it.’
So was he feeling as nervous as she was? Wanting to reassure him, she said, ‘You’re not. Whereas I have a PhD in making a mess of first dates. The wrong clothes, the wrong conversation…’ She shrugged. ‘The wrong everything.’
‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘we shouldn’t call this our first date.’
Because he’d already seen enough of her to change his mind? Because she’d crashed and burned yet again?
Her thoughts must’ve shown in her expression, because he added quietly, ‘To take the pressure off both of us. This is dinner between people who might become friends—and who might become something else.’
‘So it’s a getting-to-know-you sort of thing.’ Which was a lot less scary. At his nod, she said, ‘As a scientist, I get to know things by asking questions.’
‘Go for it,’ he said.
She’d start with an easy one. Something that didn’t have any real emotional investment. ‘What’s your favourite food?’
‘Cheese. Really salty, crumbly, strong Cheddar, with oatcakes and a glass of good red wine. You?’
‘Parkin, like my gran makes,’ she said promptly, ‘with a cup of proper Yorkshire tea. Strong.’
‘So that’s your accent,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t sure.’
She tried not to flinch. ‘Just so you know, I’m proud of being from South Yorkshire.’ Even though Barney’s crowd had sneered at her heritage. The lass from t’pit. The oik.
‘And so you should be. Yorkshire’s given us Yorkshire pudding, the Brontës and Wensleydale cheese. Kit—my best friend—is from York,’ he said.
‘My best friend’s a Cockney,’ she said. ‘We have fights about whether London or Yorkshire is better. Our last fight was traditional dishes—jellied eels versus parkin.’ She spread her hands. ‘I won that one. No contest.’
‘Jellied eels are definitely not my thing. Though I couldn’t judge fairly, because I’ve never eaten parkin,’ he said.
‘Even though your best friend is from Yorkshire?’ At his nod, she said, ‘Then I’m taking that as a challenge.’
‘Good,’ he said, ‘because tonight might not be our first date—but as far as I’m concerned I don’t want it to be our last.’
She was glad of their food arriving, because she didn’t have a clue what to say next. The possibilities of where they went from here had completely flustered her.
‘OK. So you like the sweet stuff and I’m more savoury,’ he said. ‘Music?’
‘Whatever’s on the radio. Though at Christmas I like proper carols, like they sing at home.’
‘Kit made me go to a folk festival with him in Yorkshire, when we were students.’ He grinned. ‘Beforehand, I was planning to tease him about brass bands and Morris dancers—except I absolutely loved the music. And the beer was really good.’
‘So you like live music?’
‘Pretty much anything,’ he said. ‘Not super-heavy classical, though I’ve been to a few proms with Em.’
‘Ruth and Andy had an amazing group at their wedding. Quartus. A string quartet which played a mix of popular classical music and pop—it was really romantic,’ she said.
‘You like dancing?’
She had—until the ball where she’d learned the truth about Barney. That had put her off. Though telling Hugo the whole truth made her feel too ashamed. ‘I’m not very good at it,’ she said instead. ‘You?’
‘I have two left feet. I can’t do much more than sway, and even then I might not do it to the right beat,’ he admitted.
So far, they seemed compatible. ‘What kind of thing do you read?’ she asked.
‘Background reports on architectural projects,’ he said. ‘Strictly non-fiction.’
‘Which explains why you don’t have any bookshelves.’
He shrugged. ‘Em was the reader, not me,’ he said.
And books reminded him of her, so he didn’t keep them in his house? she wondered. Before she could find the right words to ask him, he said, ‘I already know you read scientific stuff about Lepidoptera, have gorgeous photographic books of butterflies, and you read crime novels.’
‘Not gory ones,’ she said. ‘I like the clever ones where you solve a puzzle.’
‘So from a scientist’s point of view,’ he said.
‘I guess.’ She smiled. ‘I don’t like gory films, either. The ones I see with Ruth tend to be arthouse movies or costume dramas.’
‘Em loved costume dramas. Anything Jane Austen.’ He looked at Alice. ‘Do you mind me talking about her?’
‘Of course not. She was a big part of your life and you loved her. Not talking about her would be weird.’
‘You’re so easy to talk to,’ he said. ‘Yet, the first day I met you, you were terrifyingly polished and unapproachable.’
‘That was the idea,’ she said. ‘To look professional, in case the meeting was about Viola’s journals and you were on the side that could cancel the project.’
‘But that wasn’t who you are,’ he said.
She went very still. ‘Meaning?’
‘You’re not a suit. You’re a scientist. You’re about seeing the world in a different way,’ he said.
She felt the colour flood into her face. ‘That might be the nicest compliment anyone’s ever given me.’ She could tell he meant it. He saw her for who she was and, although she found it hard to believe this was real, he actually seemed to like her for who she was. ‘Thank you.’
‘It wasn’t meant to be schmoozy—more trying to say that the real you is a lot more approachable,’ he said. ‘When I found out who you were… I didn’t think you looked like a butterfly expert. Not in that suit. That’s why I didn’t think you were genuine.’
‘Remember what my favourite T-shirt says: “Don’t judge a butterfly by its chrysalis”.’
‘I like that.’ He paused. ‘I’m glad I’m getting to know you.’
‘Me, too.’ Even though part of her still worried. Hugo’s world was like Barney’s. When he got to know her better, would he realise that she wouldn’t fit in? Would he change his mind about dating her? Or, worse—despite what he’d said about not wanting to turn someone into something else—once he got to know her better, would he want her to change, the way almost all her past boyfriends had?
The waitress arrived with the food, which was excellent. And thankfully Hugo turned the conversation to food and all the dangerous moments were averted. They watched the sun set over the Thames, the sky looking almost airbrushed and reflecting on the river; after coffee, they walked along the river, holding hands.
‘If I was any good at dancing,’ he said as they passed a group of people dancing in a fairy-lit square on the South Bank, ‘I’d suggest we stop here and join them.’
‘Better not. Your posh shoes would be in severe danger,’ she said with a smile.
He stopped and drew her close to him. ‘But, on the plus side, if I was dancing with you I’d have an excuse to do this.’ He brushed his mouth very lightly against hers.
Heat bloomed through her, and she slid one hand round the nape of his neck. ‘There are fairy lights. That’s all the excuse you need.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ he said, and kissed her again.
Alice had no idea how far they walked, after that; all she was aware of was the floaty feeling being with him gave her, and the warmth of his fingers twined with hers.
He hailed a taxi to take them back to her flat, and walked her to the front door.
‘Would you like to come in?’ she asked.
‘Not tonight,’ he said, and kissed her again on her doorstep. ‘But if you’re not busy tomorrow, maybe we can have a field trip.’
The heat in his eyes made her ask, ‘A field trip or a date?’
‘A bit of both,’ he said.
‘What’s the dress code?’ she asked.
‘Whatever you’re comfortable in,’ he said, and frowned. ‘Why do you worry so much about what to wear?’
Explaining that would open up a can of worms she’d rather leave closed. ‘Thinking about ticks,’ she said lightly. ‘Urban or countryside?’
‘Both,’ he said. ‘Your hiking boots are fine. And maybe I can cook us dinner tomorrow night.’
So he wanted to spend the whole day with her? ‘That would be lovely,’ she said. ‘Where do you want to meet, and what time?’
‘Chelsea Physic Garden at half-past eleven,’ he said.
She grinned. ‘I notice you’ve gone for an owl-type hour.’
‘It means we can have brunch,’ he said. ‘See you tomorrow.’ He kissed her lightly.
‘Thank you for tonight,’ she said. ‘It was amazing.’
‘Good. And tomorrow’s mainly a date, by the way,’ he said.
She kissed the corner of his mouth. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’