Page 43 of A Manny for Christmas

‘Hi.’ My expression remains impassive, even as Molly glares at me.

‘Come in, come in,’ she says. ‘I’ve just got to say bye to the kids, okay?’

‘Of course,’ he says easily. ‘No rush.’

She retreats in the direction of the noise, and Paul and I size each other up in the hallway.

‘So,’ he says. ‘Are you staying here, then?’

‘Yeah. Just for a few weeks.’ I decide to throw him a little bone, purely for Molly’s sake. I have no interest in getting to know this guy, but she doesn’t deserve for me to make things awkward. ‘I’m doing the school drop-off, since Mol has to be in so early.’

‘Makes sense.’ He nods.

‘You local?’

‘Yeah. Hildenborough—it’s not far.’

‘Excellent,’ I say blandly, though really I want to pummel him with questions and orders.Are you divorced? Any kids? What are your intentions towards Molly? And keep your greasy hands to yourself. Okay, mate? Tonight and ever after.

Jesus Christ. The thought of him with her turns my stomach. Holding her hand. Slinging an arm around her shoulders in a casual but unmistakable mark of ownership.

Trying for akiss, for fuck’s sake.

It’s not happening.

Not on my watch, at least.

I’ll check that the little ones are doing all right with their babysitters, and then I’m off to play cockblocker.

15

MOLLY

The women of Sorrel Farm would be lapping up everything Paul Lancaster did if they were on this date with us. I’m trying to stay in the moment, trying to focus on this man and the effort he’s making, but my fingers are itching to get on our WhatsApp group and give them a blow-by-blow account (pun definitelynotintended) of our date.

He smells amazing!

The interior of his car is so nice. I could never let the kids in here.

He keeps looking over at me and smiling. He’s seriously sweet.

And seriously gorgeous.

He glances over again as he steers his extremely fancy car into the field that serves as an overflow carpark for the duration of the festivities at Sorrel Farm.

‘You look really beautiful, Molly,’ he says. His smile is sincere. Appreciative, but not slimy. It’s exactly right. Just like everything else about him. ‘I thought you looked good in chef’s whites, but—wow.’

‘Thank you.’ My cheeks are heating in the dark car, so I do what I always do and deflect the compliment. ‘It’s just, you know. Casual. I thought dressing for warmth was probably the way to go.’

He laughs. ‘Exactly right.’

‘You look very nice too,’ I say, my voice a little more stilted than I’d like. Crap, I’m out of practice at this stuff. But it’s true. He really does look lovely. He’s definitely a snappier dresser than Max, who’s more of an ancient-jeans-and-form-fitting-t-shirt kind of guy (and boy, does that work for him), while being less formal than Felix, who favours the whole Savile Row look. You know, to ram home to his international clients that he’s a bona fide part of the British establishment.

Paul is the goldilocks of the men’s sartorial scale, I decide. Everything about him says luxury, but in an understated way. I haven’t clocked any Gucci loafers or Hermes belt, but the wool of his thick jacket is plush, and the sky-blue cotton of his shirt is a lustrous weave. In the minute or two before I bundled him out of the house and got him the hell away from Max, I established that his blue shirt is a highly effective offset for the startling azure of his eyes.

Very effective indeed.

I’d definitely tell the girls that, if I could.

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