Page 54 of A Manny for Christmas

ME:Yes, when we went to buy a tree. How the hell did you know that?

ZOE:Just a feeling I had. I sense a growing affection between those two

CLARA:You are seriously, seriously spooky Zoe

NORA:Hey. Don’t knock Zoe’s special gifts. They helped me get my Happy Ever After, remember?

EVELYN:Anyone else finding Max’s behaviour last night quite hot, if a little toxic? Or am I just hard-wired to find those Rutherford men attractive?

ME: Sigh.You’re not the only one.

* * *

When I’m done battingback replies to my smutty friends’ smutty texts, I trail back into the living room to find Max is already on the case. He’s secured the tree in the cast-iron base he lugged out of the garage. The boxes are sorted into piles based on whether they contain tree decorations or general household trinkets, like the burlap-clad Santas or the nativity set.

He’s even lit the wood fire and hooked his phone up to our speakers. Instead of the high-octane eighties Christmas classics he insisted on in the car, Bing Crosby is crooning in the background, and I appreciate the mellow vibe. He’s located both sets of white fairy lights for the tree and is doing that man thing of plugging them into the mains first to make sure they work.

I lean against the doorframe and watch the scene. He’s squatting on the floor, his festive jumper straining over his back and shoulder muscles, dirty blonde hair falling over his eyes as he fiddles with the lights, unspooling them carefully from the thick cardboard around which they’re wrapped and handing length after length to Toby, who snakes them painstakingly on the floor.

Daisy, meanwhile, is elbow-deep in a box of what are almost certainly glass baubles, cooing to herself in delight. Beyond the room’s large picture window it’s starting to sleet, the sky prematurely dark, but inside, the fire’s taking nicely and Bing’s crooning, and it is pretty damn delightful.

‘This looks like a good production line,’ I comment, and Max looks up at me, shooting me a grin so warm, and so genuinely contented, that my breath catches in my throat. Maybe, just maybe, the memories we create today will override some of the kids’ Daddy-centric memories of Christmases past. For Toby, especially. I can’t imagine Daisy’s memories go back too far yet.

‘Found myself some helpful elves,’ Max says dryly, and I manage to smile.

‘Mummy. Mummy. I’m helping with the lights,’ Toby announces. ‘Max said we have to untangle them before we put them up.’

‘He’s right,’ I tell him. ‘The lights are the trickiest bit. We need to get them on first, and then we can hang up our baubles.’

Max gets to his feet, still holding one end of the string of lights. ‘How about this?’ he says to the room at large. ‘Your mummy feeds me the lights as I do the highest bit, and then, when the lights are on, I’m going to get everyone a drink and some yummy Christmassy treats that I may or may not have bought from the farm shop earlier.’

Once again, I have that feeling, like we’re acting out some kind of nauseatingly perfect family vignette here, but it’s about as real asThe Truman Show. It’s almost too cruel. We’re so near to, and yet so far from, the kind of traditional family unit that I know is no longer the norm in our society, but which I still desperately want for my kids.

After all, it’s the vision that drove me to break up with the love of my life.

Still, I know I’ll drive myself to distraction if I continue to step back and observe and over-analyse every single interaction Max has with the three of us. I need to take it all at face value.

There’s a sweet (when he’s not stalking my dates or cockblocking me), dreamily handsome man who’s in my home, giving my kids a brilliant time of it, and taking a tonne of the workload and pressure off my shoulders. It shouldn’t matter what it is or is not. Bottom line: he’s here, and I’m determined to enjoy the here and now.

‘Is there, by any chance, wine in that bag of goodies you brought home?’ I ask, fluttering my eyelashes at him.

‘Even better.’ He grins. ‘Champagne.’

‘In that case,’—I weave my way between the boxes on the floor and hold out my hands for the lights—‘let’s get this bit over with.’

19

MOLLY

The first bottle of champagne goes down remarkably quickly. In fact, it barely touches the sides. As do the Pfeffernüsse cookies and the fruitcake and the delicious Double Gloucester cheese on crumbly oatcakes. The tray Max bore proudly into the living room was piled high with yummy treats and now looks like it’s been the victim of a smash-and-grab.

‘Hey!’ Max shouts at Daisy as she makes off with the last sliver of pork pie.

She backs away from him, giggling. ‘My pork pie.’

‘Mypork pie,’ he corrects her. He shakes his head. ‘Unbelievable.’

‘The Victorians were definitely onto something with the wholechildren should be seen and not heardmethod of parenting,’ I muse.

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