Nick

The Maculinea Arion is the largest and rarest of the blue English butterflies. Little, blue-eyed Laine reminds me of one — fragile and delicate and inviting predators, with no idea of its own beauty.

I collect butterflies.

Not in a put the lotion in the basket style, just because I find them both fascinating and beautiful.

Unfortunately they’re usually dead by the time I’m able to admire them now. Long gone are long summer days in the meadow, armed with a butterfly net and a spotter guide to British wildlife.

Laine’s breath is a wisp, her eyes sparkling for a moment as she makes her birthday wish.

I want to ask what a girl like Laine wishes for, but I don’t.

“You have a beautiful house,” she says, and the colour is back in her cheeks.

“Thank you.”

She asks me if I want to share her cake with her. I tell her it’s all for her. She giggles as she gets cream down her chin, and I smile and laugh along with her, even though it makes my dick twitch.

It shouldn’t, but it does.

She tells me she’s a messy eater. Clumsy.

She says it’s because she’s one of those jittery people. Anxious.

I believe her.

It makes me want to grip her dithery fingers around my cock and jerk into her palm until I come.

It shouldn’t, but it does.

I dig out a fluffy pink robe for her and tell her it’s my daughter’s. I take her to the bathroom and stand outside the door while she changes. She gives me her wet clothes in return, ready for the washer, and my pulse quickens at the sight of the bunch of little white knickers she’s given me on the top of the bundle.

The robe dwarves her when she comes out onto the landing, skinny little legs so dainty underneath the swathes of pink towelling. Her hair is drying off, dripping at just the ends now, and her eyes are focused, sharp on mine.

She’s ok here. She feels ok now. She tells me so. She thanks me again.

I give her a tour of the house and make idle conversation, show her the butterfly paintings in the hallway and the old net I had as a boy. She asks me how old I am and doesn’t even apologise for it, just stares up at me until I give her an answer.

“Forty-two.”

Too old for you.

I see the many questions behind her eyes and I wonder if she’s interested in me or just naturally curious. She doesn’t voice any of them, but I ask about her.

Laine Seabourne. No father. No siblings. A mother who’s off with her boyfriend, Denny. Laine is at college, studying childcare. Laine likes children.

I ask her why, and she says nobody has ever asked her that before.

I suspect there are a lot of things nobody has ever asked her before.

She sits in an armchair in my living room and pulls her legs up under her. Her fingers twiddle in her lap, fiddling with the dressing gown belt around her waist.

“Do you want children of your own, Laine?” I prompt. “Is that why?”

She shrugs. “I don’t think that’s why.”

I wait. Listen to her breathe.

Her smile stills my heart. “I guess maybe it’s because I get to give them the things I never had.”

“The things you never had? You mean toys? Games?”

She shakes her head. “Time,” she says. “Someone to play with. I think I enjoy it as much as they do.” Her eyes glitter as she looks at me, and I wonder where she is in her mind. If she’s playing teacups, or dolls, laughing as Barbie kisses Ken under the covers.

I wonder if she ever played that game.

“Didn’t you have anyone to play with, Laine?”

“Sometimes,” she says, “when Mum didn’t have a boyfriend and wasn’t at work. She played with me then. Sometimes.”

“My daughter used to adore those little dolls that fit in your pocket. The ones with the rainbow hair, do you know them?”

She ponders, then shakes her head, and I realise how big the age difference is. Way before her time.

“What is your daughter’s name?” she asks, and my heart prickles.

“Jane.”

She smiles. “Thank Jane for her dressing gown. It’s really cosy.”

I nod, wonder if she’ll ever find out that Jane never owned anything like the dressing gown Laine is wearing.

She won’t find out. Of course she won’t. I’ll be taking her home tomorrow, making sure she gets in ok, and then I’ll be leaving, nice knowing you. I’ll wave her off and hope she has a nice life, glad to have been of service.

As Laine yawns and shoots me a grin, I know I’m lying to myself. She’s comfortable here, with me, as though she’s always been here. As though she belongs here.

“Time for bed,” I say. “Up those wooden hills to Bedfordshire, young lady.”

I’m smiling as I get to my feet, it seems so natural to hold out a hand to her. She takes it with wide eyes.

“Uncle Jack used to say that to me when I was little.”

“Uncle Jack?”

“One of Mum’s old boyfriends. One of the good guys.” Her eyes drop. “One of the few.”

My throat feels tight but I ignore it. “I’ll show you to your room.”

Your room.

She doesn’t let go of my hand, not even when I’ve pulled her to her feet. She keeps it tight, her little fingers so small in mine. I walk her upstairs and intend to take her right to the end of the landing, to the regular guest room where the sheets are white and there is a TV, an ensuite and wardrobe and regular pictures of poppies and a seaside landscape. The boring room. I should take her there.

But I don’t.

I reach Jane’s room and my legs won’t walk any further. I’m rooted to the spot, mouth dry as I press down the door handle.

Laine’s eyes widen as I flick the light switch, and I know I’m doomed when she smiles.

“Oh wow! Wow!” she says, and she’s taking it all in. The princess castle I made myself out of wood and silver paint. The rocking horse in the corner, the patchwork dollies on the shelf. I see her admire the little dressing table, the white wooden bed carved with hearts.

Sugar and spice and all things nice is stencilled on the wall above the bed.

“That’s what little girls are made of,” she says.

I nod. “Make yourself at home.”

She squeezes my hand before she lets go. “Thanks, Nick. For everything. This is… beautiful…”

I squeeze hers back before I let her go.

“Sleep tight.”

She sits herself on the bed and bounces. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

She’s smiling to herself as I close the door behind her.

* * *

Laine

This room is a fairytale paradise.

My heart hurts. It actually hurts.

I’m so jealous of the life Jane must have had, but mainly I’m grateful I get to enjoy it, even if it’s just for one little night.

I sit at her dressing table and use her pretty mirror. I pull down her dolls from the shelf one by one and brush their hair with her cute little princess comb. I look in all the rooms of her princess castle.

I wish I’d have had even one of these beautiful toys growing up.

I wish I’d have had a sugar and spice and all things nice message written above my bed.

But most of all I wish I’d had a dad like Nick.

Jane must’ve been so lucky.

I wonder how many times she played with the cute little Alice in Wonderland tea set at the bottom of the bed, whether she rode her rocking horse every single day or just took it for granted and left it sitting untouched. I wonder how long she’s been gone from here. How old she is. What she looks like.

I snoop around a bit, but can’t find any photographs of her.

There’s one drawing, pinned behind the door. Nothing but a scribble really, a scribbled man with a smiley face.

DaDDy.

She must have been young when she drew that. Much too young to fit into the dressing gown I’m wearing.

My heart thumps in gratitude for her daddy. He saved me. Rescued me and gave me a birthday cake, kept me warm and dry and safe.

I hope he knows how grateful I am.

Maybe when I’m home I can offer him dinner, just something small, a little something to say thank you. Maybe I could cook for him. For us. Something nice…

The thought of Nick being in my house is like an ice water bath. Nick wouldn’t belong there, amongst the cracked kitchen tiles and the fridge that doesn’t really shut properly, not unless you kick it. Nick is opulent and stylish and classy. Nick is… Perfect.

My tummy flutters.

Nick is perfect.

I turn on the little white lamp on the bedside table and take off my dressing gown, feeling strangely young myself, naked in this little girl’s room. I hang the dressing gown on the back of the door by the DaDDy picture.

I climb into Jane’s bed and stare up at the ceiling, think about her lying here and knowing her daddy is just along the corridor, ready to keep her safe this day and tomorrow and the next day, and every single day until she’s all grown up.

I wish that could have been me.

I think about Nick’s firm grip on my arm when he rescued me from the road. I hear his voice as he told that horrible man to leave me alone. He was so strong, so powerful…

I think about his hand gripping mine.

I think about his hands…

I don’t usually touch myself. Just every now and again, every so often. Kelly Anne laughs at me, says I’m a stupid prude because I’ve never even used a vibrator.

How can you never have used a vibrator? Christ, Laine, you’re such a little kid!

I remember how she laughed when I told her I’d never used a tampon, only towels. I remember how horrified she’d looked when I told her I’d never put my fingers inside myself.

How can you not?! How can you even survive without sex, Laine?!

I survive just fine. I don’t usually even think about it that much. I’m too busy with college, and keeping the house clean, and planning a future. Some kind of future.

I’m too busy trying to be a grown up, because my mother is pretty much incapable of being one. Always has been.

That’s what I didn’t tell Nick, when he asked why childcare. It’s because it’s the only time I’m really happy, when I can disappear into a magical imaginary world with children and live there with them for a little while. When I can forget I’m a big girl who has to clean up after her mother because her mother’s never been much of one for taking care of herself. When I can forget that I spent my evenings after school trying to cook myself dinner and do my homework and tidy the house up.

When I can forget about the noises coming through the wall from my mum’s room every night and how they made me feel.

I sigh and it sounds loud in the room.

That should have been my birthday wish. I wish I could live here forever.

I think about it. Living here. Being Jane. And the thought makes me smile.

I think about Nick being my daddy, and making my breakfast in the morning and ruffling my hair.

I think about Nick holding my hand and telling me I’m a good girl. Kissing me on the head.

Kissing me.

I think about Nick’s mouth.

His big hands.

I think about him touching me.

I think about him making the noises I heard through my bedroom wall.

I think about how it would feel. If it would hurt.

I rub my clit and it feels so naughty, touching myself in his daughter’s bed while he sleeps down the corridor. It feels naughty and wrong, and maybe it’s the combination of adrenaline and relief, but I can’t stop, not even when I hear footsteps on the landing and realise he’s not asleep. Not even when I reach that place where I breathe so quickly I make little gasps, and my heart races, and my toes curl.

My breath is so loud when it’s over.

I roll onto my side and pull my knees to my chest and realise that Jane’s bed creaks.

I convince myself that Nick definitely won’t have heard me. Definitely not, no way. Not one little chance. Not even one.

Until I hear his footsteps move away from the bedroom door.

Oh shit.