Page 16 of A Manny for Christmas

‘Tell me about it.’ He sighs and fixes me withthatgaze again. ‘Look, Mol. I realise this is a farcical idea on so many levels. Not the least of which is you letting me within a mile of your kids. But, to be honest, I’m at a loose end over the next few weeks, and I’d rather be down here than up north with Jules and Rach.

‘So if you can stomach the idea of me kipping at the cottage for a while, then I’m definitely up for helping you out as much as is humanly possible in return. Angus mentioned work’s pretty crazy for you at the moment. And if helping you out means a bit of childcare, then’—he holds his arms out in an expansive gesture—‘I’m all for it. I mean, how hard can it be, right?’

I press my lips together to stop from smirking.

Oh, you poor, stupid man.

6

MAX

In my head, Molly’s kids are two little faceless blobs of energy that I’ll feed, and indulge in horseplay with, and chuck in the car when they need to go to school. I haven’t assigned them much in the way of facial features or personality in my head, despite Molly’s brief recap of both of them.

Toby’s eight. I remember that much. A quiet little guy whose anxiety’s apparently gone through the roof since his dad walked out. Wanker.

The dad, not Toby.

Molly has described Daisy, who’s four and in her first term of primary school, as ‘a bit of a character’. That sounds suspiciously like a euphemism to me, but I’ll give the kid the benefit of meeting her before I pass judgement.

Besides, she can’t be more than, like, three feet tall, can she? I can out-gun her any day.

Somewhat uncomfortable that my first instinct is to resort to physically overpowering a small child, I kill the engine of Angus’ top-of-the-range ‘spare’ Landrover and step out of the car. Duffle bag in hand, I survey his old cottage. It’s a fine-looking house, but my memories of being here are mixed. I came back that first Christmas after Audrey, Angus’ ex, walked out on him. She had the boys that year, and we were two pathetic bachelors who drank our way through the festive season.

Boy, has my brother landed on his feet with Evelyn. I can’t avoid a delightful frisson of smugness at what Audrey’s reaction must have been when she discovered that the solid-as-fuck husband she left for a banker had shacked up with one of the most gorgeous celebrities on these shores.

It’s bloody freaky how life works out. Who could have predicted I’d be back at this cottage only to move in with my ex and—in a random twist of fate—her kids?

I find I’m physically bracing myself for the emotional onslaught of seeing Molly again. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t affect me, coming face to face with her yesterday after so many years of nothing except what Angus had fed me.

Molly’s getting married.

That one hurt. Like, seriously hurt. The pain was visceral. Especially since she’d got herself engaged barely two years after she left me. But of course she wasn’t going to stay single for long. Only an idiot would let her go.

Molly had a baby boy yesterday.

That was a good day.

That was the day I blew out a physical breath of relief. Relief that her gamble had paid off. That she’d got what she’d so desperately wanted from life. Less good was the weird conflict I felt. No matter how adamant I was that I didn’t want kids, the mental image of Molly, exhausted and deliriously happy, holding her newborn child in her arms while some other guy looked on athislittle family haunted me way too fucking much.

And don’t even get me started on how I felt upon seeing her on Friday, all right? Because I’m not ready to go there just yet.

I ring the bell. The cherry red front door is so glossy that it looks like it was painted yesterday. That’s my brother for you. I bet he keeps this place ship-shape for his tenants.

The door opens, and I take a breath like I’m about to pull a plaster off, and then I let it out in confusion as I lower my line of sight by a couple of feet. Because there are two small people standing there, and neither of them is Molly.

The boy has neat, dark hair and thick specs that are a dead giveaway for long-sightedness. Poor fucker. He’s staring up at me, open-mouthed.

And coming in at a few inches shorter than him is a pint-sized girl. I’m aware of an impressive tangle of blonde curls and a staggering facial similarity to her mother. She’s in a bright pink tracksuit whoseBarbielogo is almost hidden by a massive smear of something brown down the front. Chocolate?Shit?Her stare is distinctly less awe-struck than her that of her brother.

In a nutshell, the kid looks fucking feral. Or she would, if she didn’t have the face of an angel.

The face of her mother.

‘Hello,’ I say. Children I don’t know make me seriously uncomfortable. I can just about handle my nieces and nephews. ‘I’m Max. Your mum around?’

‘Mummy!’ the girl screeches without breaking our stare-down.‘Mummy!’

Holy fuck, does she have a set of lungs on her. I eye her warily.

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