Page 37 of A Manny for Christmas

‘I’ll grab you a pillow.’ He goes to leave and stops. ‘Permission to go into your bedroom?’

I nod, too tired to argue, and lower myself gingerly onto the sofa as pain shoots around my head. Shit. I dig my fingers into the base of my skull to relieve the pressure and screw my eyes shut.

‘Do you have any facial oil upstairs?’ he asks in a softer voice.

‘In my bathroom. Brown frosted bottle,’ I say feebly, no longer giving a shit that Max will shortly be in my bedroom. My haven. Rifling through my personal things.

I attempt to lower myself to a lying position. He’s right. The cushion’s too hard. Also, my up-do is sticking into my neck. I get myself upright again and take out the pins holding it in a huge bun not dissimilar to a danish pastry. It uncoils in my hand into a long, golden plait. Better.

Moments later, Max is back. He slides a hand under the base of my skull and takes its weight as he tugs the cushion out from under me and stuffs my pillow in its place. ‘Be right back, he says, and returns a moment later with one of the kitchen chairs which he puts behind me, by the arm of the sofa.

‘What are you doing?’ I whisper.

‘Giving you a facial massage.’

I try to get up. ‘Oh God, no, you don’t need to do that.’

‘Hey.’ He puts a hand on my shoulder and lowers me back down. ‘You know it helps. Let me do this for you.’

I pause, conflicted. It’ll definitely help—it’s one of the few things that do—but it’s a lot to ask a man I haven’t been in a relationship with for years. Not to mention, it’s intimate. And it could trigger memories I’d rather forget.

‘It’s this, or I go and watch CBeebies with the kids,’ he says. ‘I know which I’d rather be doing.’

I manage a little smile. ‘Okay then. If you’re sure.’

‘I am.’

I close my eyes and settle myself as he sits behind me. A moment later, there’s the sound of him unscrewing the bottle of botanical facial oil, and then of his hands rubbing briskly together, warming the oil.

He remembers every step.

Max puts his hands on me. They’re warm. Their touch is sure. Confident. He smooths the oil over my forehead. Down my temples. The sides of my nose. Across that swollen, throbbing area under my eye sockets. His thumbs find the underside of my jaw and slide along it before his hands smooth down the sides of my neck. He’s even remembered the importance of lymphatic drainage while he works out the toxins.

The man is a miracle worker.

Still, after all these years.

‘Relax,’ he tells me, his voice low. I take him at his word and settle further into my pillow as his magic fingers smooth and stroke and rub and massage. Teasing out blockages and soothing aches and relieving pressure. Circling my face. Knowing instinctively where to move. How to touch me.

It’s pure magic.

He works in silence, our breathing the only sounds I can make out over the distant tinkle of children’s TV. His exhales are warm on my face. My body grows heavier, but in a lovely way, as Max’s massage alleviates the worst of my tension headache.

‘You’re not congested?’ he asks.

‘No. But the sinuses are inflamed.’

‘Got it.’ His strong thumbs make circles in that spot under my eye sockets where most of the pressure has built up. Once he’s happy he’s worked some of it out, his hands move down my face and under my neck.

I make a low, happy noise at the back of my throat. The referred pain means the base of my skull is fucking agony, but now Max is honing in on that exact spot, and I want to weep with gratitude.

He tugs gently at my plait. ‘This is pretty tight. Can I let it out, so I can have a good go at your scalp? There’s a lot of tension here.’

I hesitate.

‘Come on, Mol. It’s just hair, for Christ’s sake. It’s not like I’m asking you to whip off your top.’

I sigh. ‘Okay.’ I know I’m being ridiculous. Hair isn’t boobs. It’s not private. I don’t know why I have such a hang-up about letting people see it loose. It’s fun when I’m in a relationship, and my man is the only person who gets to fully unravel me, but far more pointless when I’m single.

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