Page 19 of A Manny for Christmas

In that respect, we were perfect together.

‘Seriously, though,’ he continues. ‘I haven’t seen a shepherd’s pie in a long, long time. Is it shepherd’s? Or cottage? Not that I care. I could eat that entire dish in one fell swoop. It looks fucking incredible.’

‘It’s shepherd’s.’ I may have remembered that, at the margin, he prefers it with lamb instead of beef. ‘Where’d you find the wine?’

‘I brought it.’ He hops over to the table and picks up the bottle. ‘Least I could do. I know it’s a school night, but do you fancy a glass?’

‘That would be lovely, thanks.’ By which I meanpour away, and I may just discover a modicum of personality at the bottom of my glass.

We sit, and he raises his glass awkwardly. ‘Thanks for having me. I know this is weird. But it’s seriously good to see you.’

I allow myself a little laugh. ‘Yeah. It’s really weird. But I’m sure we’ll get used to it.’

He takes a bite and makes a rapturous sound in the back of his throat that I recall well from other contexts. Contexts I’d do very well not to remember. ‘Jesus, it’s incredible,’ he says through a mouthful of meat and potatoes.

I watch in amusement as he proceeds to absolutely nail his food. It’s gone before I’ve barely taken a couple of mouthfuls. I jerk my head towards the pie dish resting on top of the AGA. ‘Go on. Help yourself.’

‘But you need it for leftovers, don’t you?’

‘It’s fine. Knock yourself out.’

He doesn’t need to be told twice. As he practically knocks his chair to the floor in his eagerness to get to the food, I reflect that it’s actually quite nice to have an appreciative audience for my cooking, for once. Preparing meals for my kids is one of the most thankless parts of parenting.

Max sits back down and dives in. ‘God, I’ve missed your cooking,’ he groans. ‘You’re a genius.’

I smile, lifting my glass to my lips and allowing my eyes to run over him as he eats. He’s somale. Obviously, I haven’t had much adult male company since Felix walked, and practically none in this cottage. But it’s not just that. Whereas Felix was debonair, sophisticated, Max is all man. He’s huge. Broad. Stacked. Thrives on physical labour. He’s a man’s man.

The way he’s shovelling food into his mouth before he’s even swallowed the previous mouthful should be grim. But it’s completely the opposite. It’s an unwelcome reminder that he’s a man of impressive appetites, in every way. And I hate that the primal part of my brain is getting so fired up right now over feeding him and seeing his appreciation. His stomach is supposed to be the way tohisheart. Not anyone else’s, thank you very much.

‘I’m a bit stressed about tomorrow,’ I say, to kill the vibe. ‘It’s a lot to ask you—I’m worried it’ll be a baptism of fire.’

He shrugs. I suspect he’s too busy having a food-gasm to concern himself with anything else right now.

‘It’ll be fine.’ He piles an impressive mound of mash on his fork. ‘Wake them, feed them, dress them, drive them. Right?’ He pops the fork in his mouth, and sheer bliss washes over his face.

I grimace. ‘I mean, technically, yeah. But I’ll be honest. So many things can go wrong in any of those steps I can’t even tell you. Daisy’s definitely not a morning person, and her tantrums have been worse since… her dad left. And they’re bad when she’s tired—she tends to take issue with everything. Toby’s the opposite. He gets himself so worked up about being late for school, and he really struggles when Daisy’s melting down.’

‘How did the au pair handle it?’ he asks.

‘I suppose she just had the endless energy and positivity of youth. It helped that Daisy adored her, so she played ball. She also didn’t take any shit.’

‘I’m definitely not sure she adores me yet,’ he says wryly, ‘but I sure as hell won’t take any shit from them. Don’t worry about me. I’m a big boy. Anyway, surely kids fuck around more for their mothers than anyone else? Hopefully, they’ll be too scared of me to do anything other than what I say.’

I really, really hope that’s true.

* * *

After we wash up together,which is almost weirder than eating together, I offer to give him a quick refresher of the house. Except, of course, my bedroom. A cursory glance at my bedroom door is all he’s going to get on that front.

We finish in the drawing room, and he stops in front of the fireplace. His jaw practically hits the floor.

‘Holy shit, Mol.’

He edges towards the painting hanging over the fireplace as if transfixed. Felix painted it of me in his signature style, which he dubbedsatirical Pre-Raphaelite.It depicts me, standing in front of a wooden butcher’s block. My hair is loose and hangs all around me, the light above me creating a halo effect. You see? Very Pre-Raphaelite. I’m in a sombre gown, and I’m weeping while chopping shallots. It’s a bloody masterpiece, and it’s one of his most famous paintings.

‘It’s calledThe Lady of Shalotts,’ I tell him.

He jerks his head at me for a second. ‘You serious?’

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