Page 103 of A Manny for Christmas

‘He keeps poking me. And the other day he even pinched me, and he said my glasses were gay.’

What the actualfuck? I tense and look at Molly for backup.

‘You knowgayis not a bad word, right, baby?’ she asks him. ‘Not even in the slightest. Nobody should ever use a word like that in an attempt to make someone feel bad. We’ve had this conversation. Jess and Zoe are gay. Is there anything bad about them? Categorically not. It’s just something people are.’

‘I know that. But he said it to try to make me feel bad.’

‘I know he did, buddy,’ I say. Little shithead. ‘And that’s on him, not you. Have you told MrPratt?’ I give his appropriate name the emphasis it deserves.

‘No.’ His voice is so low I can barely hear it. ‘But I told Mummy I don’t want to do the nativity anymore, because it’s making me feel anxious, and she said I can’t quit.’

Molly and I exchange another meaningful glance, and I press my lips together. It’s clear as fuck that Toby has anxiety about most things. While I know next to nothing about parenting, and I also know it’s healthy and helpful for him to have language he can use to describe his feelings, I can’t help but suspect he drops the A-word for effect from time to time.

‘Look, mate.’ I hesitate. ‘Your mummy has a tough job, because she wants to protect you from everything that makes you sad, or anxious, or worried. Of course she does. She’s your guard dog, and she won’t let anyone hurt you. But she also thinks you’re a superstar, and you have a big, exciting life ahead of you. So she also has to be your cheerleader, and she has to be the one to persuade you to take chances in life.

‘If she lets your anxiety drive your decisions, then you’ll live a small life, and you deserve so much more. So it’s a bit of a balancing act for her, to be honest. She has to protect you when you need it, but she also has to be the one to give you a little push from time to time so you can fly.’

I say all this in a low, confiding tone, my head bent over Toby, and I’m not sure when his issues blurred into mine. Because, for all my bluster, Molly’s having to deal with the same shit second time around. The reason I sacrificed my happiness to avoid having children was fear. I was terrified of feeling too much. Of opening my heart up to emotions and pain and trauma the like of which it would never recover. I was too scared to really feel, to really live, and I’ve been running ever since. Living a life that, on the surface, was exciting, altruistic, but that realistically was emotionally curtailed.

I’m damned if I’m going to let Toby do the same.

When I look up at Molly to see if I’ve overstepped, those beautiful blue eyes are limpid with unspilt tears. She gives me ayou’ve got thisnod, and I continue. ‘You deserve to be a part of that nativity, to have your chance to shine. There’s no way your mum’s going to let you miss out on all that fun just because some little f—idiot is making your life tough. Got it?’

He nods, but I sense reluctance. I smooth a hand over his soft dark hair.

‘But, and it’s a big but, there’s no way your mum or I will stand aside and let anyone hurt or bully or intimidate you. Which is why I am going to haveveryfirm words with Mr Pratt tomorrow morning at drop-off. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ he parrots, and I rub a soothing hand down his narrow back.

It’s not until I’ve extricated myself from Daisy and found Molly in the kitchen that she pushes me against the AGA and kisses me hard before her sweet lips whisper in my ear.

‘You’re so getting blown tonight it’s not even funny.’

37

MAX

Isteer Molly into the hall of Toby and Daisy’s primary school for Toby’s class’ nativity. It’s a bog-standard state school hall: climbing apparatus flattened against the walls, some kind of tissue-paper-stained-glass efforts adorning the windows, and that impossible-to-remove smell of school dinners. It’s dark outside, and someone has strung fairy lights over the gym apparatus.

It’s so stereotypical I may as well be on the set of the movieNativity.The stage at one end has a backdrop crafted from coloured paper, with a big North Star suspended in front of a navy sky. There are a couple of cardboard palm trees and an apex constructed of corrugated cardboard, presumably to denote the manger. It’s seriously low budget, but very sweet.

Daisy’s in my arms in her school uniform, fully recovered and back to her usual mouthy self, thank God. She was so docile when she was ill, which should have been a relief, but in fact felt deeply wrong. The reception class did their adorable nativity yesterday, and boy, was it cute.

Having her little arms around my neck, and my hand lightly but persistently touching the small of Mol’s back, saysfamilyto me.

These gestures tell me I belong.

That I’m accepted.

That, even if we haven’t gone public with our relationship yet, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, and the only people whose opinion matters want me right here.

With them.

We’re early, thanks to Mol, so we weave our way into the second row of interlocked plastic seats. Molly says hi to a few parents, and I clock that dreadful woman, Cassandra, smiling her creepy smile at me from across the aisle. I give her a tight nod of acknowledgement and slide my hand further around Molly’s waist, pulling her to me. I don’t need protection from her, but I don’t want her in any confusion about Mol and I being together.

Daisy insists on sitting on my lap, which is one hundred percent fine with me. I proceed to annoy her by blowing her curls away from the back of her neck. She twists around, an amused grin on her face. She has the tiniest, pearliest teeth, despite a sugar habit that could only come from being the daughter of a pastry chef. She’s adorable.

‘Ma-ax,’ she sing-songs in rebuke. ‘You have to be a good boy.’

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