Page 36 of A Manny for Christmas

The emotions they provoke in you are altogether too complicated, toobig, to be remotely helpful. Or healthy.

13

MOLLY

Max’s eyes are on me as soon as I walk through the door with the kids. He texted me earlier, asking how I was feeling and whether I wanted him to do the school pickup. I declined, because if I tell Toby and Daisy I’m going to be there for them, then I’m going to show up, and they deserve to see their mum after a full day of school and after-school clubs.

But that doesn’t mean Max’s thoughtfulness doesn’t touch a soft, warm place in my heart.

My movements are slow. Careful. When my sinuses are playing up, I can’t really bend over or even squat down without rings of pain shooting around my skull. I lean cautiously to one side and drop the schoolbags to the floor, where they fall with a heavy thump.

Max strides across the kitchen, relieving me of my tote bag before I can get it off my shoulder.

‘Thanks.’ I wince. ‘Careful, there’s a bottle in there.’

He sets it on the table and comes back to me, folding his arms across his chest. He’s in a Sorrel Farm checked shirt and gilet, and they look great on him. He didn’t shave this morning. He’s wearing what I estimate to be Day Three stubble. I know from years of experience that it’s the perfect length to scratch with my fingers. His shirt has a couple of buttons open at the neck, but thankfully I’m feeling too rubbish for the fine sight to have a dangerous effect on me.

‘Still in pain?’ he asks. The expression on his face saysdon’t try to bullshit me.

I give him the smallest nod I can manage. ‘Yes.’ I sniff. ‘Something smells amazing.’

‘I’ve made spag bol with the mince I found in the fridge. It won’t be as good as if you’d made it, but it’ll do.’

‘Wow. That’s—’

‘You need to get to bed,’ he tells me.

‘No way.’

‘If not bed, then you need to lie on the sofa or get in the bath. Which is it? I’ll sort the kids.’

I blink. I’ve been on my own for the best part of a year, and in that time I’ve had plenty of days where I’m feeling sub-par or downright rubbish.

And I get on with it.

Because I have no choice.

But right now, there’s a man standing in front of me, telling me he’s got this. Telling me to take a step back and do what my body needs.

I really hope I don’t swoon, because falling to the floor would really, really hurt my head.

‘I’ll lie on the sofa,’ I say meekly. ‘But the kids—’

‘—will be fine,’ he finishes. ‘Are they allowed a bit of TV before dinner?’

‘Yeah.’ I nod. ‘They can chill out till it’s time to eat.’

‘What do you need?’ he asks. ‘Ginger tea?’

That practically sends me over the edge, becausehe remembers. Fresh ginger tea is my go-to when I have a sinus infection, and Max used to brew it for me when we lived together.

‘That would be great.’ I barely trust my voice.

He nods abruptly before leading me into the formal living room, which is TV-free right now. Under the teary gaze ofThe Lady of Shallots, he fusses around, plumping up a cushion before positioning it like a pillow at one end.

‘This is too hard,’ he says.

‘Honestly, it’ll be fine.’

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