Page 2 of A Manny for Christmas

‘Watch it. But also, yes. You gave me fire, I’ll give you sex. Not because it’s the polite thing to do, but because I really, really want you. And it won’t be an option tomorrow. Not after stuffing myself full of your mum’s Christmas lunch.’

His eyes darken and his touch turns gentle as he removes his hand from my boob and strokes my hair, sifting his fingers through it as he arranges it over the blankets. Max makes his appreciation for my body very clear indeed, but my hair? Honestly, that’s something else. The guy cannot get enough of it.

‘I want you too, sweetheart,’ he says, twisting my hair around his hand. In the firelight, it gleams pure gold. It looks almost alive. He turns his hand this way and that to admire it as the light catches it before dragging his eyes up to my face. ‘I want you to be so full of me that you can’t ever imagine being anywhere else.’

My gaze runs over his dirty blonde hair, which is already slightly tousled and about to get totally fucked up, if my fingers have any say in the matter. I reach up and cup his jaw, licking my lips as those crinkly amber eyes I love bore into me.

‘I can’t ever imagine being anywhere else when I’m with you,’ I whisper.

His habitually cheerful face is deadly serious now. His eyes don’t leave mine as he takes a sip of champagne and leans forward, pressing his lips to mine. I open, and his warm tongue chases the cold, bubbly liquid through my mouth. I swallow.

‘Don’t ever cut your hair,’ he says in a gruff voice a moment later, his lips moving against mine.

I give him a tiny shake of my head as my hand closes over the warm skin at the back of his neck. ‘I won’t. Trims only.’

‘Trims only.’ He kisses me again. ‘I’m like a fucked-up version of Samson, basically. You cut your hair, and I lose all my strength. I’m totally in your evil clutches, Delilah.’

I set my flute down blindly on the floor and twist the soft cotton of his t-shirt around my hand, pulling him further down towards me.

‘I’m not going anywhere, my darling,’ I promise him.

MOLLY

FIFTEEN YEARS LATER

‘Iblame Nancy Meyers.’

I glug my white wine and sigh before continuing. ‘She completely oversold the single parenting thing. Like, I thought I’d be juggling makingpains au chocolateat the chic deli I own with tending to the glossy vegetable patch in my picturesque home in Santa Barbara. You know, the one with the Spanish-tiled roof. Or taking walks on the beach and arranging hydrangeas in my all-white New England home.’

‘And writing an award-winning Broadway show on the side,’ Jess points out with a fierce chuckle. Jess is co-founder of Sorrel Farm with her wife and has the loudest, dirtiest laugh I’ve ever heard.

I point at her with more vigour than I probably would if I wasn’t three glasses of excellent Sancerre down.‘Exactly.While somehow living in America, obviously. And while also being courted by a hot, younger doctor.’

‘That’s exactly what happened to my friend Honor,’ my friend and colleague Evelyn muses. ‘Don’t write off the fantasy.’

I snort. ‘Honor Chapman is a real-life celebrity who looks like a supermodel. Ofcourseshe got herself a hot younger doctor and a Nancy Meyers-style happy ever after. I, meanwhile, have flour and sugar and something else that’s either food or bodily fluids in my hair, and I’m living on the charity of your lovely husband in his cottage, and my fucking au pair is absconding.’ I glance at my watch. ‘And I’ve drunk too much, given I have to be up in, ooh, six hours. Ugh.’ I tip my head back to the velvet squishiness of the sofa. ‘I give up.’

There’s a silence that sounds like pity. It tells me I’m being a drain, and that I need to pull myself together and stop ruining everyone else’s evening. This is girls’ night, after all. It’s a too-rare treat and, despite the five-am alarm call and the imminent loss of childcare that are both hanging over me, I’m thrilled to be here.

The Oast House at Sorrel Farm is a massive, double-height space that’s been gloriously decked out for Christmas and smells deliciously of pine and eucalyptus, thanks to the plump garlands bedecking the banks of French doors and the massive central chandeliers (old, converted cartwheels, if you must know). It’s the hub of the entire resort, and I’m lucky enough to work here every day as the resident pastry chef in the charming, open-fronted kitchen at one end of the giant room.

It’s a luxury to work somewhere as inspiring as this, and even more of a luxury to enjoy it as a guest, sipping (or maybe mainlining) wine on plump sofas in front of the roaring open fire.

But the icing on the cake is the company I’m keeping tonight. These women are the best. Beautiful, inside and out, as warm as they are accomplished, they’re a rare breed. They may have started as colleagues, but they’re my dear friends now.

And did I mention all of them are sickeningly in love? Jess and Zoe have been married for donkey’s years and had the vision to expand Jess’ parents working farm into a luxury resort, all the while turning the farming practices themselves over organic, and then to biodynamics, under the experienced watch of Evelyn’s husband, Angus.

Evelyn, Jess’ childhood friend, escaped down here when her famous chef husband came out as gay. It must have been a horrific time for her, but Angus swept in to pick up the pieces, and they’re deliriously loved-up. As is Sadie, our gorgeous blonde PR manager who’s just back from maternity leave, our in-house photographer Clara, and our events manager, Nora, who joined Sorrel Farm a few months ago.

They’ve all got the most amazing life partners, but Angus will always be my favourite. I dated his brother, Max, for years when I was in my twenties, and Angus, who was quite a bit older than us, always treated me like a little sister. Even now, over a decade after Max and I broke up, Angus looks out for me. When my husband Felix walked out on me and our kids at the start of this year, for instance, it was Angus who got me the job of pastry chef here at the farm and insisted we move into his delightful cottage on a rent so low as to be laughable.

He’s a keeper. And Evelyn knows it.

I sigh now, hoisting my head off the sofa with difficulty. ‘Sorry, guys. I’m a pain in the ass. Ignore me.’

‘You are not a pain.’ Sadie mock-glares at me. Motherhood seems to have mellowed her, but she’s definitely not someone I’d want to get on the wrong side of. She’s badass, unless you’re her husband Ned, our Finance Director. She squeezes my hand. ‘You’ve had a shitty time, and you deserve a lucky break. I happen to think you’re incredibly resilient. God, I can hardly manage one baby. I don’t know how you deal with two kids and no husband on top of the hours you do. I’d be funnelling wine every single night.’

‘Wine helps,’ I agree. ‘But I’ve caught a lucky break. I have this job, and our cottage is so gorgeous. And I haveyou. Not sure there’s a better place to work in the UK. I’m happy to be here. I’m just a bit tired, and I’m worried about the childcare situation. When Sylvie goes next week, I’m fucked.’

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