Page 3 of A Manny for Christmas

Evelyn sighs. ‘I wish we still had a live-in housekeeper. If we did, I’d lend her to you for a few weeks.’

‘I have no idea how you manage without twenty-four-seven help, Evie,’ Jess says, sloshing wine into Evelyn’s glass. ‘What happens when you have a late-night drink? Do you, God forbid, have to put the glass into the dishwasher by yourself? Or do you just leave it for Marta to find in the morning?’

We all laugh. Evelyn has a bit of a reputation for being high-maintenance. She’s the glossiest person I’ve ever met and is currently wearing a long, richly patterned dress that showcases her gorgeous chestnut hair and probably costs more than I make in a month.

‘Fuck off,’ Evelyn retorts good-naturedly. ‘I have a husband to load the dishwasher when Marta’s not around, don’t you know.’

Cue more shouts of laughter. There’s no doubt who wears the trousers in Angus and Evelyn’s marriage.

‘Why did she move out?’ Zoe asks in her quiet, softly accented voice. Zoe is French and a gifted, intuitive chef whose cookbooks have taken Sorrel Farm’s profile to the next level. I’ve been lucky enough to collaborate with her on the desserts section of her upcoming book. She’s as serene as her wife is boisterous, and one of the most stunning people I’ve ever seen in real life. Tonight, her braids are wound into a knot on top of her head, adding to her statuesque beauty.

Evelyn smirks. ‘It was fine having a live-in housekeeper when I had a husband who never wanted to lay a finger on me, because—oh, that’s right—he wasgay, but now, let’s just say Angus and I value our privacy at home when the kids are asleep.’

‘Oh my God,’ I groan. ‘Too much information.’

‘That is a visual I did not need,’ Jess agrees. ‘Angus bending Evie over the kitchen island. No wonder they’re having works done on the house. Island reinforcement, probably.’

‘Stop.Please.’ Clara holds out a hand as if to protect herself.

‘Oh, come on. I bet you and Alex are just as bad,’ Nora says, reaching for the wine bottle. Clara left her husband a couple of years ago for her high school sweetheart. Alex Molloy is a national treasure, a celebrity personal trainer who’s one of the finest male specimens I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing in the flesh. He’s a lovely guy, a fantastic stepfather to Clara’s twins, and so unbelievably attractive that I can barely string a sentence together whenever I bump into him at the farm.

‘Back at you,’ Clara tells Nora. ‘You tamed the stallion when you took on Theo Montague.’

Nora smiles like the cat who got the cream, and with good reason, because Theo is smoking hot and utterly besotted with her.

I cut in. ‘While I appreciate I’m being a moody horror, you all congratulating each other on your amazing kitchen-island sex lives is spectacularly unhelpful.’

‘You may have an amazing sex life soon,’ Evelyn says, wiggling her eyebrows at me mischievously.

‘No.’ I sit bolt upright in a panic. ‘Don’t even—’

She ignores me completely and turns to the group. ‘Our little blonde bombshell here has a date withPaul Lancasternext week.’

There’s a collective gasp around the table, and I slump back against the sofa. Too late. Bloody hell.

‘Thanks a lot,’ I mutter.

‘Paul Lancaster as in the Steve McQueen lookalike, who’s always on his laptop in the Oast House?’ Clara asks.

Sadie purses her lips. ‘Would you call him that? I’d say more, like, Josh Lucas circaSweet Home Alabama.’

There’s a short and reverent silence as we all pause to appreciate that particular visual gift.

‘Either way, he is gorgeous,’ Evelyn says, ‘and he’s been following Molly around for months. She’s been oblivious, obviously.’

‘He’s very sweet,’ Zoe says. ‘And attentive. He pops up a lot when Molly’s on duty in the kitchens.’

I glare at her. ‘You’re supposed to be the discreet one.’

She smiles her beatific smile at me. ‘He’s a good man, Molly. Let him take you out and spoil you. It might be just what you need,ma chérie.’

‘Paul Lancaster is a definite catch,’ Nora agrees. ‘He’s incredibly charming, and when I organised that networking event for him last month, the women were flocking. Are you not interested?’

‘I am interested.’ I pause. ‘As in, I’m looking forward to it. I think. I’m just a bit nervous. And it feels… I don’t know, unlikely, maybe, that someone might want to date me.’

Jess gasps. ‘Are you kidding me? You’re drop-dead gorgeous. And if you wear your hair down for him, you’re very likely to give the poor guy a heart attack. I’m not surprised he’s been stalking you.’

‘He hasn’t been stalking me,’ I scoff. ‘He’s just been—sweet.’ And attentive. And kind. And he is very, very good-looking in a tanned, golden kind of way, which history has proven to be the exact way to my heart. And my underwear.

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