Page 20 of A Manny for Christmas

‘Yeah. My ex-husband painted it. Felix is hugely inspired by the Pre-Raphaelites, especially Millais and Rossetti, but he likes to make his paintings tongue-in-cheek.’

‘It is spectacular.’ He stands, hands in his pockets, looking at it intently. ‘Is it valuable?’

‘Seven figures, easy.’

‘You areshittingme.’

‘Nope. He’s very sought-after. Especially in the Middle East.’

‘So why are you here, in my brother’s cottage, instead of in some massive fuck-off pad?’

‘Because, even though he painted it for me and gave it to me as a birthday present, we had to include it in the joint assets when we divvied everything up. And it was such a massive chunk of the assets that I didn’t get a huge amount of other stuff. There wasn’t enough left over for me to buy a decent place. But I’d rather be homeless than let that painting slip through my fingers.’

‘I get that. Kind of.’ He squints. ‘From everything I’ve heard, it sounds like your husband was a massive tosser, but fuck me, can he paint.’

I laugh. ‘Yeah. He is exceptionally tosser-ish, it turns out.’

‘I’m really sorry your marriage didn’t work out.’ His voice is soft, his eyes fixed on Felix’s flattering rendition of my face, luminous and ageless in oils. ‘I know it was what you wanted. I’m gutted for you.’

‘Thanks.’ I look at the floor, tracing a line through the rug with my slippered toe. ‘But at least he gave me children, so that’s what counts.’

I glance up to find him staring at me, what looks like pain etched across his face.

‘Oh my God.’ I backtrack rapidly. ‘I didn’t meanat least, like I was comparing him to you. I meant that at least he gave me kids before he buggered off. They’re more important to me than he was.’

‘It’s okay. I know what you meant. And I’m really glad you got the family you always wanted.’ He nods, his hand jingling something in his trouser pocket. ‘They seem like cool kids.’

‘I’m not sure you feel like that quite yet,’ I say, ‘but maybe they’ll grow on you. If they don’t do you in first.’

‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?’ He gives me a tight smile. ‘Don’t worry about me and the kids in the morning. I’ve got this. I might go and read. I don’t intend to get under your feet while I’m here.’

He looks at me as if to make sure I understand that he means what he says, and I nod.

‘Text me and let me know how it goes, will you?’

‘Will do. Night, Mol.’

I sigh heavily as I watch his retreating figure.

* * *

Max Rutherford isin my house.

Inbedin my house.

I’m not sure how I’m supposed to be able to go to sleep, knowing he’s under the same roof. Tonight went better than I could have expected. He was considerate and sweet and helpful, and he took himself off to bed without overstaying his welcome. But this polite dance we’re doing around each other is fucking exhausting. I’m not sure what the alternative is, though. I’m not sure how you’re supposed to act when you know someone so well but haven’t seen them for a third of your lifetime.

All I can hope for is that we find an equilibrium. A routine. Having kids to process will definitely help with that.

My unhelpful brain returns to the mind-blowing concept of Max lying in the spare room bed. I wonder if he’s still reading?Whathe’s reading? I wonder how he sleeps when he’s alone. On his back, probably. One arm flung carelessly up, the other resting on that six-pack I have no doubt is still there. Thank God he’s on the other side of the house. Thank God he has a separate route to his room, via the kitchen stairs. Thank God I don’t need to worry about bumping into him in the hallway when I need a midnight pee.

And then I have a thought so horrifying that I clutch my hot water bottle harder against my stomach.

What if he’s masturbating right now?

He’s here for, like, six weeks. The Max I knew and loved had a healthy sex drive. Unless age has not served his libido well, this guy will be jerking off multiple times a week.

Under my roof.

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