Page 56 of A Manny for Christmas

‘I can cook,’ I protest, but he shakes his head at me. ‘Nope. You cook all day, every day. Let me.’

I don’t need to be told twice. I sit uselessly at the kitchen table, nursing a fresh glass of champagne as he whisks eggs and grates parmesan and chops up shallots and parsley and mushrooms. It’s nice, watching Max move easily, casually, around my kitchen.

More than nice.

His arse alone is a treat, showcased to perfection in his worn-in jeans. His back and shoulder muscles work under that slubby cotton T-shirt, and I give thanks that he’s worked up enough of a heat to take off his Christmas jumper. It occurs to me that, thus far into his tenure here, he’s respected my wishes for no gratuitous nudity, or semi-nudity, to a disappointing extent. I haven’t even got a glimpse of bare man-chest in the past few weeks.

Seriously.

I know I was firm with Angus that Max needed to keep his kit on while he was in my home, but honestly? I’m a frustrated single mum. I could really use a little gratuitous nudity from him.

Plates stacked high with parsley-garnished omelette and thick wedges of buttery toasted sourdough, we head back into the living room. One thing I love about having Christmas decorations up and a fire lit is that I find myself content to just be. To sit and enjoy them. No need for Netflix at all, even though my profile is brimming with cheesy Christmas movies.

The room looks amazing. Max has done a wonderful job. The baubles hanging on the tree reflect the white fairy lights in a million directions, and the effect is beautiful. Max insisted we buy fresh garlands at the farm and has laid a thick, lush one across the mantlepiece and hung a narrower one aroundThe Lady of Shallots. He’s also hung mistletoe from the beam that crosses the living room ceiling, as well as the one in the hallway. He winked at me when he put it in our basket at the farm.

I wish I was slightly less conscious of that mistletoe.

Hanging there.

Taunting me.

I’ve been dreading the festive season, I realise. But now that the tree is up and the room is decorated, I can breathe a sigh of relief.

Maybe perception is reality.

Maybe we’re all just faking it till we make it.

Maybe, if enough of the superficial stuff is on-point, the kids and I can get through this season as a little group of three.

Maybe the embrace of our found family here, at the farm, will be warm and joyous and kind enough to vaguely plaster over the void of having one whole person from our quartet missing.

I put my champagne flute on the floor, balancing my plate on my knees as I sit. Max goes as if to join me on the sofa, but suddenly stops and makes his way to the tree, plate in hand. With his free hand, he fingers a little decoration, glancing from it to me.

‘I bought you this,’ he says in wonder.

I smile. ‘You did. In Harrogate.’

That first Christmas together, he took me to the big Christmas Fayre at Harrogate so we could buy some trinkets for our new home. The decoration he’s referring to is a felt angel, piped in satin. She’s a little grubby these days, but her yellow yarn hair isn’t too messy, and Daisy adores her.

So do I.

‘I said she reminded me of you.’ He’s turned back to examine the little angel.

‘Yeah. Which isn’t remotely offensive to my hair,’ I retort, but I’m grinning at the memory.

Jesus. We were so fuckinghappy.

I look at him now, and honestly, I have no idea how I found the strength to walk away from him. It was such a brave move—or stupid, depending on how you look at it—to deliberately leave a man I loved, a relationship I was happy in, and a home I adored, to wander out into the unknown, to move down to London in the hope that I’d miraculously get over Max and find another man.

One who wanted to impregnate me.

I get tears in my eyes just thinking about it. Max never married. I’m under no illusions that he’s had plenty of women over the years—he’s far too good-looking and too sex-obsessed not to—but by abandoning him and chasing my own dream future, I necessarily deprived him of his own.

I set my plate down on the floor and stand up. Swallowing hard. Making my way over to him, as if drawn by some invisible force.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I tell him in a voice that threatens to break.

He turns and stares at me. ‘What for?’

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