Call Me Daddy

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.”