Page 41 of A Manny for Christmas

‘No, you’re right, of course,’ she said. She resumed her scrubbing, tackling the oven dish aggressively. ‘I just mean Tristan’s motivations aren’t crystal-clear. He acts out in other ways too. Toby says he’s very disruptive in class. God knows what kind of mental health issues he’s dealing with.’

‘You’re very rational about all this. I’d be going fucking mental.’

‘I’m trying really hard not to,’ she said. ‘Obviously, I just want to go full mama bear. But the school has asked me to trust them to deal with it, and I have, so far. Has anything else happened that I’m not aware of?’

‘No,’ I admitted. ‘But he mentioned it’s bothering him that they’re both shepherds. It seems to be putting him on edge, and I don’t like it.’

That earned me a smile. It was definitely a teasing smile, but there was some element of affection in there, too. ‘You do know it’s very sweet that you’re getting involved, right?’

I shrugged, embarrassed. I’d only known her kids a few days, and sure, they irritated the shit out of me most of the time I was in charge of them, but Toby’s air of vulnerability and anxiety was really getting under my skin, for some reason.

‘I feel responsible,’ I grunted. ‘If they’re going to tell me stuff, then I should be your eyes and ears when you’re not around. And I don’t see why Mr fuckingPrattcan’t keep them apart for the nativity.’

‘Apparently there are about twenty shepherds across the year group, so I wouldn’t worry too much about their roles. But I’ll speak to him at pickup tomorrow to make sure Toby’s not having to sit anywhere near Tristan.’

‘Good.’ I nodded. ‘And, you know, if you want me to say anything to him in the morning, I can. Not a big deal. Just if it saves you time.’

She presses her lips together, amused. ‘I suspect I’d relay our concerns more diplomatically than you would, Max. What do you reckon? Besides, it’s not your problem. I really appreciate you bringing it up, but I can take it from here.’

And there it was.

It wasn’t my problem, because they weren’t my kids. Thank fuck, I told myself. For all that childcare was physically draining, these past few days had strengthened my original case against procreation: it was the emotional stuff that really crucified you as a parent.

I’d done my duty. Fed my concerns into Molly. She was Toby’s mum; she’d deal with it. I could step back and stop interfering.

Our washing-up sessions had come a long way. From foreplay to parenting discussions. Who the hell would have seen that coming? And the most fucked-up part was that I felt grateful. Grateful to even have a dialogue with Molly. Grateful that, for the odd moment, it was as if we were in this thing together.

* * *

Molly disabusesme of any false sense of intimacy I’ve been feeling when she reminds me she has her date this evening. I lark about in the TV room with Toby and Daisy while she gets herself ready upstairs. I don’t mind doing it at all—even though Daisy is treating me like her own personal climbing frame—but I do mind the fact that she’s beautifying herself (completely unnecessarily, I might add) for another guy.

The doorbell rings, and I tickle Daisy under her tiny arms and throw her, shrieking, onto the sofa. I open the front door to find Jess standing there with a couple of teenagers. I haven’t seen Jess since I’ve been back. Last time I saw her was at Rose’s christening.

‘Hello, handsome,’ she says, pulling me in for a hug as the teenagers look on awkwardly. ‘These are my kids, Mike and Mia. They’ve come to hang out with Toby and Daisy this evening so Molly can go have some fun.’ She winks conspiratorially as she releases me, like I’m supposed to be happy about the fact that some rich wanker is taking Molly out. Like I’m supposed to join her in imagining all the ways he and Mol mayhave fun.

I don’t think so.

Hearing the doorbell, Molly comes running down the stairs. I stand in the hallway and openly gape. She’s in skinny jeans that mould themselves to her gorgeous legs and a soft-looking sweater in palest pink. Her hair hangs in two long plaits over her shoulders. And, for someone who works godawful hours and is permanently exhausted, her skin is peaches and cream. Luminous. I’m sure she’s put some makeup on—her eyes definitely look bluer and more striking than usual under those thick black lashes—but it doesn’t matter.

You can’t fake that kind of beauty.

If I tell you Claudia Schiffer was my type when I was growing up, then you get the idea. And let me tell you, Molly Carter is nailing the essence of my type just as much right now as she did when I first won a smile from her behind the bar at The Queen’s Head.

‘Bloody hell, Mol,’ Jess says. ‘You look absolutely gorgeous. Paul’s a lucky man.’

Paulcan go fuck himself.

What kind of name isPaul, anyway? It doesn’t even go withMolly. Not like Max and Molly. Molly and Max. Now that just sounds right.

I raise an eyebrow disapprovingly. ‘Hair down?’

‘It’s not loose,’ she says defensively. ‘If I pin it up, it won’t fit under my hat.’

‘It’s perfect,’ Jess says, throwing an unimpressed look my way. ‘You’re every man’s Heidi fantasy come to life. Right, Max?’

She raises her voice at the end like a parent who’s badgering a petulant child to play ball. But she’s hit the nail on the head, because Molly looks like porno Heidi.

The things I could do with those plaits. The places I could tickle, on her body and mine. Tease.

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