by Kate Hardy
‘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.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE NEXT DAY, Alice was already waiting by the entrance to the gardens when Hugo got there, and his heart skipped a beat when he saw her.
‘Hi.’ He’d said goodbye to her with a kiss, yesterday. Could he say hello with a kiss, too? He was so out of touch with dating, and he didn’t want to get this wrong. It was ridiculous to feel this nervous and awkward; he was thirty-two, not fifteen. But he had a feeling that Alice could really matter to him, and he didn’t want to make a mistake that could take all the possibilities away.
She blushed. ‘Hi.’
Her voice was slightly breathy and sh
y, and that decided him. He kissed her cheek. ‘Thank you for coming.’
‘I really thought we’d be heading to see a dome or a staircase,’ she said, and he loved the slightly cheeky, teasing look in her eyes.
He smiled and took her hand. ‘The staircase I want to show you next isn’t open at weekends. Maybe Wednesday lunchtime?’
‘That works for me,’ she said. ‘So why did you pick here?’
‘I used to come here with Rosemary when I was small. I haven’t been for a few years,’ he said, ‘but I wanted to take a look at the glasshouses.’
‘Is that what you meant by mainly a date?’ she asked. ‘Are you in the running to restore the glasshouses or something and you wanted to check them out?’
‘Possibly, but that’s not what I had in mind,’ he said. ‘Let’s go for a wander.’
She handed him a ticket, pre-empting any arguments over who was going to pay for their admission. ‘Seeing as I got here before you,’ she said, ‘and you took me to dinner last night, our admission’s on me.’
‘It’s my idea, so it’s my bill,’ he protested.
‘No. We’re sharing,’ she said firmly.
He sighed. ‘Alice, I’ve apologised for ever thinking you were a gold-digger. I know you’re not like that.’
‘Good. But let’s not fight,’ she said, and tucked her arm into the crook of his.
Strolling round the gardens with her was a delight. She pointed out her favourite flowers, and several different species of butterflies; but, more than that, Hugo just liked being with her. He didn’t have to pretend, with her; he could just be himself. She knew about Emma, and she hadn’t judged him or told him what he should be doing. Not having to fake being a normal, functioning human being was so refreshing; and, in a weird way, taking that pressure off meant that he could actually function normally and focus on things he usually didn’t have the energy to notice because he was too busy trying to get through the day.
When they stopped at the cafe for brunch of coffee and a bacon sandwich, he said, ‘I want to run something by you.’
‘Is this the non-date part?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’ He paused. ‘I’ve been looking at your figures for the butterfly house.’
She went very still. ‘Uh-huh.’
‘Tomorrow I’ll instruct Philip Hemingford to fulfil my great-aunt’s will.’ He smiled. ‘Though you’ve probably already guessed that.’
‘I hoped you would,’ she said. ‘But you hadn’t actually said you’d build the butterfly house—just that you’d think about it. I’m so glad.’
‘Good. We need to revise our planning application,’ he said. ‘And I can’t guarantee they’ll say yes.’
‘But it’s more likely they’ll say yes if you’ve had a hand in it.’
‘Not because of who I am,’ he reminded her. ‘Just that I’d word it in a different way—I know the guidelines of most planning departments and the words that work for them.’
Her eyes filled with tears. ‘I’m so glad you’re going to do it. But, just to be clear, that isn’t why I agreed to date you.’
‘Good. I was hoping it was because you wanted to see me for me.’
She nodded. ‘It is. But what you’ve just told me—I think you’ve scrambled my brain, because now I’m...’ she spread her hands ‘...speechless.’
He reached across the table, took her hand, pressed a kiss into her palm and folded her fingers over where he’d kissed her. ‘That’s one of the things I value about you. What you see is what you get.’
She didn’t reply, but her eyes sparkled again with unshed tears.
‘I thought maybe I could show you some rough ideas for the butterfly house, later this afternoon.’
‘I’d love that,’ she said.
And he was looking forward to seeing her reaction. He’d spent half the night sketching, and it was the first time he’d felt really inspired since Emma’s death—the first time his designs had flowed instead of feeling mechanical and as if he was simply ticking boxes. It was all because of Alice: without her, he wouldn’t have remembered how much it made his heart sing to work with glass, or discovered how amazing a butterfly house was. It felt like coming back into the spring after a very long, dark winter. New shoots everywhere, green starting to soften the bare branches, birds singing madly in the morning. He was starting to get the joy back in his life, and he wanted more.
After lunch, Alice wanted to visit the shop. She emerged with a recyclable shopping bag slung over her shoulder; she didn’t say what she’d bought, and Hugo didn’t want to be pushy and ask.
‘Do you want me to carry that for you?’ he asked instead.
She smiled. ‘Thank you, but I can manage.’
So instead he held her hand while they crossed the river and walked back through Battersea park, past the rose garden and under the pergola.
‘I know it’s pretty much past its best now, but the wisteria’s still so pretty,’ she said. ‘I love walking through Kensington in wisteria season.’
He’d never really been bothered about wisteria before, but he couldn’t resist kissing her under the pergola, with the lilac blooms hanging down. ‘Works for me,’ he said with a grin.
Back at his house, he opened the glass wall to the garden.
‘Is it OK for me to potter round your garden?’ she asked.
‘Sure. Have a seat on the patio. I’ll make coffee,’ he said.
‘I brought something to go with it.’
When he’d finished making the coffee, she was sitting down, looking at something on her phone. It took him another ten minutes to notice that the bag she’d had slung over her shoulder was missing—and there was something in his garden that definitely hadn’t been there before. ‘There’s a pot of flowers in my garden.’
‘A small pot,’ she said.
‘Flowers.’ That must’ve been what she’d bought from the shop at the Chelsea Physic Gardens. ‘I don’t do flowers.’
‘They’re Leucanthemums—Shasta daisies,’ she said.
Big white ones. Flowers he didn’t have a clue what to do with.
‘They’re beginner flowers. You can neglect them and they’ll still be fine,’ she reassured him, clearly guessing at his concerns. ‘They don’t mind full sun or partial shade, they’re hardy, and they’re not fussy about soil type. The main thing is that they’re great for pollinators.’
He still couldn’t get his head round this. ‘You bought me a plant.’
‘Call it a garden-warming present.’
‘I moved here two years ago.’
‘Late garden-warming, then. Because I didn’t know you two years ago.’
She’d just put flowers into his very plain outdoor area, showing him he didn’t have to be surrounded by plain boxes. Although she’d only moved him a tiny fraction out of his rut, it was enough to make him slightly unnerved. He’d wanted to move on, but now it was happening he wasn’t entirely sure he was quite ready for this.
As if he’d spoken aloud, she put her arms round him and kissed him. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll take it back with me if you really hate it.’
How could she take it with her, when she didn’t have a garden? And he was being ungrateful. The gift had been motivated by kindness. ‘It’s not that I hate it. I’m just not a gardener.’ He knew about buildings, about glass and staircases. Even though Rosemary had talked to him a lot about plants when he was young, and his mother was very fond of her outdoor space, Hugo didn’t have a clue about how to maintain a garden. Alice had pushed him out of his comfort zone.
‘Was Emma the gardener? Because I didn’t mean to trample on a sore spot. I’m sorry.’
‘We didn’t have a garden at our flat,’ he admitted. ‘And, no, she wasn’t really a gardener.’
She looked thoughtful. ‘So technically you’re a garden virgin.’
She kissed him again. ‘I apologise. But just watch. I promise this will be worth it.’
Ten minutes later, there was a bee buzzing round the pot of daisies. And, ten minutes after that, there was a butterfly.
‘See?’ she asked softly. ‘The difference one little pot can make. When was the last time you saw a bee or a butterfly out here?’
‘Hmm,’ he said, refusing to be drawn.
‘So now can I see your sketches?’ she asked.
‘They’re indoors.’
She followed him into the kitchen, and he brought out his files and spread the sketches on the table. He’d sketched a cylinder with a domed top, more or less what he’d suggested at Kew. ‘The panels on the sides remind me of the Victorian glasshouses we saw at Kew. The ones from Viola’s era. This is perfect,’ she said. ‘There’s plenty of space for the plants and the butterflies, as well as the heating system and the puparium.’ She looked at him. ‘But what I think isn’t important. What really matters is the planning committee’s view.’
‘I tweaked your application—our application,’ he corrected. ‘Hopefully we can get outline permission now, then work on the detail later. Have a look at what I’ve done. If it sounds right to you, I’ll submit it tomorrow.’
‘OK.’ She took a small box from her handbag. ‘By the way—parkin. I made some this morning. It’ll go nicely with coffee.’
‘From your gran’s recipe?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘Which isn’t me trying to fill Emma’s shoes by baking stuff. Just that you said you’d never tried it, and it’s my turn to bring in departmental goodies tomorrow, so I saved you a bit from the batch I made.’
‘Good plan,’ he said. He opened the box and tasted the gingerbread. ‘Now I know why Kit raves about this. Thank you. It’s lovely.’ He pulled up a file on his laptop and passed it across to her. ‘Here’s the revised application. Does this work for you or do you want me to change anything?’