Page 57 of A Manny for Christmas

‘For ruining it,’ I say. ‘For messing it all up, when we were so happy.’

‘Hey.’ He casts around for somewhere to stick his plate and settles on the coffee table. That done, he takes a couple of steps towards me and holds my upper arms in a firm grip. ‘Where’s all this come from?’

‘I don’t know.’ I shake my head, my mouth and chin trembling. ‘It’s just… being here with you at Christmas. Seeing the decoration. Remembering how ecstatic we were. Notremembering—more embodying. I can feel it in my bones, like this warm, glorious feeling. And I decided the grass was greener, and off I went, and shattered our future.’

He’s staring at me like he can’t believe what’s coming out of my mouth. ‘That’s bullshit, Mol. You’re looking back with such a skewed take on it all. You wanted what most women want, remember? And I should have been the one to give you all that, and I couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

‘So you did what was one hundred percent fucking right, and you left me and found a guy who could. Shame on me.Notshame on you.’ He points at the ceiling. ‘And you can’t tell me you regret any decision that gave you those kids.’

‘No.’ My sigh is so heavily that my entire body sags. ‘I don’t regret that for a second, and I’ll always be grateful to Felix for giving them to me. But I wonder whatyousee. I left you, and no matter how many times we talked about kids till we were blue in the face, I could tell you never really expected me to do it. But I did, and now I think all the time that you must look at this shit-show and think I made a massive mistake.’

His grip tightens. The whisky warmth of his eyes seeps through my bones.

‘You believe I look at you, and Daisy, and Toby, and thinkyou’rethe one who made a massive mistake? Are you fuckingkiddingme?’

I’m speechless. I gaze at him wordlessly.

‘You had a guy who wasn’t good enough for you,’ he says, ‘and you fuckingdid something about it. And you made it happen, Mol. Those kids are rock stars, even the crazy blonde beast.’ He bows his head. ‘Leaving me was the best decision you ever made.’

I’m crying openly now at his words. His generosity of spirit. And, above all, at the fondness he seems to be expressing for my amazing, resilient little kids. His benediction feels like closure.

He raises his head, and glances upwards, and lets out a little laugh. ‘Look.’

I look up.

We’re standing under the fucking mistletoe.

‘Mol,’ he says, and brushes a thumb across the damp skin under each of my eyes. And then he lowers his head and presses a soft, slow kiss to that spot next to my mouth.

It’s a kiss that somehow suggests respectful yearning. Holding back.

It’s the exact same spot Paul kissed.

But Paul’s kiss didn’t make me want to melt.

It didn’t travel through my entire nervous system from the surface of my skin, warming every corner of my body.

It didn’t make me want to turn my head, and trap his lips against mine, and take much, much more.

‘Come on.’ Max releases my arms and runs his palms down my sleeve. ‘Let’s eat, and you can tell me all about this wanker husband of yours.’

20

MAX

‘Tell me how you two met,’ I prompt, because Molly doesn’t seem in a rush to talk about her twat of an ex.

She sighs. ‘I was working at the Savoy, as one of the pastry sous chefs. Felix’s gallery was hosting some kind of party to celebrate him, and the events manager at the hotel organised for us to sit down with him and his gallery. They wanted tonnes of cakes and pastries and macarons—all very Marie Antoinette, and all in the same palette he’d used for his latest collection.

‘Anyway, he turned up with a laptop full of photos of the most beautiful paintings I’d ever seen a contemporary artist do. And he was very charming and suave, and at the end of the meeting he asked me to come along to the party as his date. And that was that.’

I shovel a generous mound of omelette onto a piece of sourdough and bite into it heavily as I turn over what she’s telling me. I knew from my brother that she’d married a painter, and, at the time, I imagined her finding a kindred spirit. Someone bohemian and dreamy. Just like her. They’d be penniless but happy and live in an airy garret. But that’s not the impression I’m getting about this guy. At all.

I swallow my food. ‘So, it sounds like he was quite successful by the time you two met?’

‘Yeah. He had a big Mayfair gallery backing him. He was in high demand; he couldn’t paint fast enough. But after the kids were born, he started taking on commissions. Sheikhs. Hong Kong financiers. Guys in Columbia who wanted to fly him out to paint their beautiful wives as Ophelia or Proserpine or whoever else they fancied. That was tough, because I was either on maternity leave or I was dependent on nannies and au pairs, and he was travelling more and more.’

‘That does sound tough,’ I agree mildly, but inside I’m seething. I mean, who the fuck gets lucky enough to win Molly and then neglects her? ‘So it wasn’t a massive culture shock when he left for good?’

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