Page 14 of A Manny for Christmas

He begins to move again, slowly, in my direction, and my feet feel like they’re walking through the caramel I use to stick my gingerbread houses together as I go to meet him halfway. But if my feet are slow, my brain is in overdrive as I process and analyse the sight before me.

God, he’s tall. I mean, I knew he was, but still. It’s—imposing. He still has good posture.Come on, Molly. He’s only thirty-nine. He’s hardly going to be bent over a walking stick just yet.No hair loss, which is good, though Angus, at a decade older than him, has a full head of hair, so that shouldn’t be a surprise.

And most egregious of all, the man looks to be positively thriving. No false social media advertising from those good folks at WaterAid. No, sir. He’s box-fresh and golden and gorgeous in a lightweight jacket and beige sweater. The beige is exactly the kind of tone most normal people avoid in winter so as not to look like a bowl of porridge, but he’s glowing.

It’s so obnoxious.

He’s smiling at me, in anI can’t believe this is happeningkind of way, so I smile back, but whereas his smile is warm and seemingly genuine, mine feels forced and tense and overly bright—the kind of smile I give Daisy when I say,don’t be silly, sweetie. You can’t go to school with bare feetand I’m actually praying that I won’t commit a crime.

And then—oh, sweet Jesus—I’m right in front of him, and his smile has grown wider, and he’s stepping forward and enveloping me in his arms. My face goes against the knit of his sweater and I inhale as I wrap my arms warily around his waist.

The body is a funny thing.

And byfunny, I meanevil and traitorous.

Because I can move on, and get married, and do the work, and repeat my affirmations till I’m blue in the face, but one whiff of my ex-boyfriend’s jumper and my olfactory system blithely whips out a decade-old memory and waves it at my pelvic area, shoutingwe remember him! Good things happened down there when this smell was around, remember?

‘Hey, Mol,’ he says into the top of my head, except he doesn’t say it so much as sigh it in a way that strikes me as more wistful than resigned.

‘Hi, Max,’ I say to his pecs.

He releases me, and I signal to my arms to do the same and step back. I look up at him. Woah. Too close. I take another step backwards, and Max grabs my upper arm just as one of the servers, Remi, executes a swift side-step in my peripheral vision to avoid my crashing into him and his precarious stack of plates.

‘Oh God—sorry, Remi!’ I say, inwardly cursing my complete lack of cool.

‘No probs.’ He smiles at me before wiggling his eyebrows appreciatively at Max.

Excellent. It’s not just the female staff members I need to worry about in Max’s presence.

Max still has me by the elbow. ‘Thank you,’ I say through gritted teeth while pulling out of his grasp.

He’s grinning at me and shaking his head. ‘This is so fucking weird. Molly Carter.’

‘Stafford,’ I say mutinously, though why I’m either holding onto or reminding him of my ex’s name, I’m unclear.

‘Molly Stafford.’ He pronounces my name with distaste before appearing to shake himself off. ‘Can you sit for a few minutes?’

I should probably play nicely. After all, unlikely as it is, Max Rutherford may save my bacon come Monday morning.

‘Of course.’ I jerk my head. ‘Come over here.’

Without waiting for him, I turn and weave through the tables and sofas once more till I get to a small table flanked by two generously stuffed armchairs. It’s right in front of the bank of huge French doors and has a wonderful view of the entire space as well as the courtyard beyond.

‘Nice place to work,’ Max observes as he sits, manspreading himself in one armchair and stretching his unnecessarily long legs out in my direction. I treat myself to an internal eye roll and tuck my feet safely under my chair so there’s no risk of unintentionally playing footsie. ‘A lot more Christmassy than Lilongwe, that’s for sure.’

‘Have you been here before?’ I ask, because I can’t stomach discussing his overseas exploits quite yet. That he turned an inability to settle down into a holier-than-thou ‘vocation’, in everyone else’s minds, still rankles.

‘Couple of years ago. I came back for Rose’s christening.’

Jesus. Angus had invited me to that, but I was working at the Savoy at the time and we were right in the midst of wedding season. I had way too many cakes to decorate to spare the time for the christening.

Thank God.

‘It’s a bit of a bubble,’ I say, looking around me at the spectacular trees and lavishly decorated garlands that punctuate the enormous space. ‘It’s easy to forget the outside world exists when I’m here.’

‘I can imagine,’ he agrees, and I instantly feel stupid, because while I’m here, whisking and baking and icing, Max is actually in the real world, preventing children from dying of dysentery, for God’s sake.

‘Too much of a bubble for you?’ I ask, raising my eyebrows, and he laughs.

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