Page 12 of A Manny for Christmas

That’s so unfair. He’s using my concern for my children to manipulate me into accepting Max as our kind-of au pair out of sheer desperation. Max, the last person on the planet I could imagine being responsible for my kids.

‘There’s always a risk with childcare,’ I tell him. ‘Believe me, I’ll do my homework before I hire anyone.’

‘When does Sylvie leave?’ he asks.

I huff out a breath. ‘Friday.’

He’s silent. That’s two days away. And right now I have zero plan for how I’m going to get the kids to school on Monday morning while also overseeing the baking fest that is mornings at the Oast House. I can’t take holiday—I need to keep that for when the kids have broken up for Christmas.

I am well and truly fucked.

‘Look,’ Angus says. ‘I know how ridiculous the whole thing sounds. Believe me, the idea of my brother looking after your children after everything that’s gone down between you two is laughable. But let him help you out of this sticky situation. He’ll be great with the kids—they’ll have a ball with him. And maybe they’ll put him through his paces, which I can’t imagine you or I would have a problem with.’

My mouth twitches. Daisy could take Max Rutherford down without breaking a sweat.

‘You make a fair point,’ I concede.

‘You’d be helping me out, too,’ Angus continues. ‘I have no clue what to do with him. There’s no way he can sleep on the sofa for more than a night or two—he’d drive Evelyn round the bend. I promise you, I’ll give him a talking to. Make sure he’s on his best behaviour. You can stick him in the room over the kitchen. You’ll hardly even have to see him. Besides. Don’t take this the wrong way, but it might be nice for you to have another pair of adult hands around the place. You can make him do the dirty work. Take out the bins, pick up some wood for the fire. You know.’

‘You mean “men’s jobs”?’ I tease, to cover the fact that Angus’ offer has started to look slightly less objectionable since his mention of the ‘dirty work’ I could offload. It’s exhausting running a household and a family while holding down a big job that involves being on my feet all day.

‘You know that’s not what I mean,’ he says. ‘Just chuck the stuff you hate doing at him. It’s winter. Everyone’s knackered and run-down. I know things are crazy at the Oast House. Why not just see Max as an unexpected but timely convenience?’

‘Ugh.’ I bury my head in my hands as I attempt to process this enormous head fuck. I cannot conceive I’ve got myself to a place in my life where Max Rutherford waltzes back in and shares a home with me, even temporarily. It’s like the grossest parody of what we once had. I wonder if he still has a tendency to wander around the place half-naked? Yet another reason not to allow him over the threshold.

I peer at Angus through my fingers. ‘Has your brother’s ability to remain fully dressed while in the house got any better, do you know?’

He grins, like he knows I’m softening up. ‘I’ll add that to the pep talk. He did say he couldn’t believe how cold and miserable it was in the UK, so I suspect he’ll stay wrapped up. But I’ll tell him gratuitous nudity is off the table.’

‘It’s not like I care or anything,’ I grumble. ‘I just don’t want the kids being creeped out by a scary half-naked man.’

It’s not like the sight of Max’s naked torso, with its golden skin covering hard muscle, could tip me over the edgeat allafter almost a year of no sex. God, I hope he’s got really fat building those wells. I hope he has a pronounced beer belly. I hope the years have been most cruel to him.

‘Got it,’ Angus promises.

Here’s the thing. Realistically, there is no option but to say yes. I’m royally screwed, and try as I may to deny it, an able-bodied adult who’s in need of a bed and is remotely willing to deal with my kids in the mornings is most likely a gift from heaven, even if he’s as sinful-looking as the devil himself.

Who knew the good Lord had such a sense of humour?

5

MOLLY

Ihave a team to oversee, and a gingerbread village extraordinaire to assemble, and a meeting with the food stylist for Zoe’s cook book to prepare for, and two industrial ovens full of pastries to monitor in anticipation of the mid-morning mum crowd.

So why the hell I’m leaning into a mirror in the Oast House’s loos, slapping the thickest concealer I own over my purple-tinged eye bags in anticipation of a reunion with Max bloody Rutherford is a total mystery.

I know why.

Because, although he’s too cool and mysterious to have a Facebook account, the WaterAid Malawi Facebook page has obligingly furnished me with a very clear idea of how the philanthropic life is treating Max these days.

No beer-belly. No excess weight of any kind, as evidenced by the tight white WaterAid t-shirt he’s sporting in most of the team photos.

Just muscle.

A whole lot of muscle.

I suppose years of physical labour will do that for you. Of carrying around breeze blocks and massive water purifiers, and—I don’t know—toilets?

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