Page 62 of A Manny for Christmas

I could die here, like this. The only thing missing from making this the perfect evening is a couple of orgasms, but right now I’m so tired that a cosy cuddle may actually beat an orgasm. I’m perfectly content to lie here, in the eye of the full-on sensory storm that is Max’s gorgeous body wrapped protectively around me, and luxuriate.

It’s been months since I shared a bed with Felix. Too long. And even then, he didn’t boast the overwhelming physical size Max does. No one can cuddle like Max Rutherford. The relief of having a stunning male specimen wrapped around me, heat pumping off his spectacular body, cocooning me from worries and work and the isolation of being a single parent is immense.

It’s like someone’s injected me full of muscle relaxant. My body feels slack and happy. It’s incredible how great the power of human touch is. Except, I suppose you could argue that Max is more godlike than human. In physical form, anyway.

He shifts slightly behind me, his hand brushing my stomach as he does.

‘This is fucking bliss,’ he murmurs.

It really is. So much so that I think I’ll stay awake as long as I can, just to enjoy it.

Unfortunately, my knackered body has other ideas.

Max is true to his word.

When I wake in the morning, he’s nowhere to be seen.

22

MOLLY

Cassandra Davison is the worst kind of mum.

To clarify, she’s the worst kind of mum if you’re a fellow parent in her class. Although, I wouldn’t much like her as a mother, either.

Case in point: she named her son Caspian.

Exactly.

Poor little kid.

Unfortunately for me, Caspian and Toby have become thick as thieves this term. And while I find Cassandra ghastly, I have to admit her son is a sweetie pie. More importantly, he’s proving a nice little friend for Toby, and I’ll take nice little friends over class bullies any day.

Toby and Max tell me that Tristan is still engaging in low-level acts of arseholery in class, at lunch break and during rehearsals for the nativity. Nothing major, nothing that’s easy to define or mount a complaint over. Just tiny pokes and nasty laughs and obvious instances of talking about Toby behind his back. I spoke to Mr Pratt last week at pickup and he assured me he’s on it, but I feel like I’m permanently on edge, poised for news of another infringement of basic human decency by the little shit, at which point I will march in there and let the school have it.

Meanwhile, though, the cottage is alive with rowdy shrieks of delight from upstairs, and I’m grateful that Caspian and Toby are indulging in the kind of hijinks that eight-year-old boys should. I suspect they’re not the only ones causing a racket. Max has taken Daisy up for a bath, and though I protested, they both insisted. He said he was happy to help, and Daisy said Max is far more fun at bath time than I am, so there you have it.

I’ve been quietly cleaning up after dinner (bolognese, the aftermath of which always resembles a crime scene) and enjoying the solitude of the warm kitchen. Just me and festive choral music on Classic FM and the backdrop of squeals and shouts. Perfect.

Until Cassandra rocks up, shattering my peace. She’s looking around my kitchen, stroking her glossy Tesla car key like it’s a pet mouse, one perfectly micro-bladed eyebrow raised judgementally as she surveys the relative chaos. I mean, it’s not a total disaster, but it’s not Cassandra’s preferred aesthetic of showroom-chic.

I’d like to think that if she was on her feet, baking for other people from five-thirty every morning, she’d be a little more dishevelled too. As it is, she epitomises the put-together Kent yummy mummy. Honestly, I’m surprised Caspian is at state school, though she’s mentioned repeatedly that they only believe in ‘state till eight’, so I imagine she’ll be out of my hair next year.

Speaking of hair, hers is that expensive blonde that features a perfect spectrum of shades from honey to butter to platinum. It’s gorgeous. Not natural, of course, but stunning. It’s beautifully blowdried. The sunglasses on her head (purely for effect given dusk was a good couple of hours ago) are Chanel, with adorable black sequins on the frames. She’s in some kind of winter white ensemble that definitely doesnotsuggest she’s been cooking spag bol anytime recently.

I eye her with as much interest, and probably as much judgement, as she eyes my kitchen. If she’s had work done, it’s been done very well. Her skin is flawless. Her nose is flawless. She has that telltale swollen look around her lips that suggest they’ve had a bit of help, but honestly, the woman is gorgeous.

I know for a fact she’s well into her forties—Caspian is her youngest—but she looks fantastic, especially since it’s now seven in the evening and she’s presumably been wearing this all day.

‘This is so charming,’ she says now, eyeing the stack of unopened mail on my kitchen table with a barely concealed shudder. ‘It’s soquaint. It must be difficult for you, Molly darling, doing all this single-handed. You’re doing a fabulous job. I hope you’re getting yourself some me-time, though.’ She waggles a diamond-encrusted finger at me, her trio of gold, platinum and rose-gold Cartier love bangles clattering on her wrist. ‘It’sveryimportant.’

In the Venn diagram of my life, the only overlap betweenme-timeandmust-dois showering, but Cassandra doesn’t need to know that.

‘I’m fine.’ I lie. ‘I don’t need much maintenance.’

Her laugh is a silver bell tinkle. ‘Oh, darling, I canseethat. But it’s important, you know, to make an effort. Both for oneself—for one’s confidence—but also to get a man. It’s a bloody zoo out there. So many divorced women, and the divorced guys are laughing. They have women throwing themselves at them, left, right and centre.’

She reaches out and pats me on the arm. ‘You could be in with a chance, darling, but you’ve got to get your act together.’

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