Page 106 of A Manny for Christmas

‘I know.’ I take Toby from him. He’s too big for me to hold in my arms these days, so I put him down and stoop so we’re face to face. My hands go to cup his jaw. ‘How are you doing, dude?’ I ask him.

‘Fine.’ It’s his default answer, but one look at him tells me he has no clue what to think. He’s just been bullied on stage, been hauled out of school in the middle of the play, and been the centre of an almighty fuss. I’d say he’s reeling.

Daisy is definitely not reeling. She islovingthe drama. ‘Max yelled at Mr Pratt!’ she shouts gleefully.

‘That’s because Mr Pratt let Tristan hurt Toby,’ Max says in a tone that brooks no arguments. ‘He let a little boy get bullied. He wasn’t doing his job, and Toby had no one to protect him. Nobody ever gets to hurt you two. Not on my watch.’

As if the magnitude of what’s happened is just registering, Toby lets his head fall onto my shoulder. I draw him into an awkward hug from my squatting stance, though if he leans any harder, I’ll fall over backwards.

‘It’s okay, sweetheart,’ I whisper in his ear. I tug off his stupid headdress so I can smooth down his hair. ‘It’s all over now.’

‘Will Max get into trouble for messing up the play?’ Daisy wants to know.

I support Toby with my arms while I get to my feet. ‘The only person getting into trouble is Tristan,’ I say firmly, though I have no idea what the fallout will be.

‘And Mr Pratt, with any luck,’ Max mutters grimly.

‘I don’t want Mr Pratt to get into trouble because of me,’ Toby says, eyes wide with alarm.

‘He won’t,’ I assure him with a panicked glance at Max. He nods. Message received.

‘I don’t know about anyone else,’ he says with false cheer as he winds Daisy’s scarf around her neck, ‘but all that drama has got me hungry. Who’s in the mood for an Oast House pizza?’

It staggers me how easily distracted kids are. ‘Me! Me!’ they shout, jumping up and down to ram their point home.

Max throws a wary glance at me. ‘I think your mummy needs pizzaandwine.’

‘That’s about right,’ I murmur tiredly. It’s not a bad call. I’m definitely too drained to cook.

‘I want a ‘dult one,’ Daisy says. ‘Not a little one.’

Max snorts. ‘Let’s see about that, you pint-sized hoover.’ He puts a hand around my shoulder as he leads us to the car. ‘Come on, then.’

He cranks up the radio for the short journey to the farm. It seems like the right move. The cheesy Christmas tunes most stations are playing back to back now give the kids the cheer they need while allowing me to process what’s just happened. I slump back in my seat and blow out a breath.

Max takes my hand. ‘You okay?’ he asks softly.

‘I’m good.’ I squeeze his hand and stare out the window at the darkness.

My answer is as unsatisfactory as Toby’s standardfine.

What I am is a tumultuous mess of emotion.

* * *

I’mquiet as Max gets a round of drinks in, including a large glass of wine for me, and places our pizza order. The Oast House is buzzing despite the fact that it’s not even six o’clock yet, and our little gingerbread village is holding up well. There’s a golden-oldies Christmas playlist on, and Tony Bennett’s voice is the ultimate comfort. I watch the kids as they colour in a festive scene with the crayons the server has brought them.

I feel like crying, and I don’t know why.

That’s not strictly true. I suspect I know exactly why.

What Max did back there tells me everything I need to know about his suitability as a father-figure for my children.

Absolutely everything.

All doubts swept away in one fell swoop.

Because if he was protective enough, and upset enough, on Toby’s behalf to barge up on stage without giving a shit about ruining an entire year group’s nativity play, then I have all the information I need.

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