Page 77 of A Manny for Christmas

My thumb and forefinger join together to emphasise just how tiny my likely window for happiness is, and she seems to get it, because her big blue eyes turn solemn, and she reaches over and squeezes my hand.

‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I totally get it. I’m just excited for you, but I get it. I’ll rein myself in. But you know we’re all gunning for you.’

I sigh. ‘I know.’

‘I just…’ She exhales in frustration. ‘You’re a fucking catch, Molly, and from everything you’ve told me, it sounds like he’s still crazy about you. I don’t know what level of stupidity allowed him to let you walk away from him the first time, but I really, really hope he’s not imbecilic enough to lose you a second time.’

I give her hand a comforting pat, but I don’t answer her, because there’s not much to say.

There’s an undercurrent of terror, quiet but sure, running beneath all the giddy surface emotions of lust and excitement and novelty. Beneath all the warm, fuzzy feelings that Max Rutherford and his stupidly handsome face, and sinfully gorgeous body, and poignantly caring ways are eliciting from me.

Because things grew murky as soon as he moved in. As soon as he started to ostensibly not hate my kids, as soon as he dared to de-ice my car on a daily basis and deal with my Christmas tree headache and advocate for Toby’s worries about being bullied.

His brand of caretaking is genuine, and well-meant, and far too adorable, and pretty insidious, in that I’ve got used to it.Quickly. And that is not good. Max is blowing through town before he buggers back off to charity work in places I can’t even pin-point on a map, let alone visualise accurately.

And all that was before he insinuated his way right into my bed (and byinsinuated, I more accurately meanallowed himself to be dragged there by me). I’m in a state of temporary insanity, a bubble of lust and mutual adoration fuelled by chemicals so heady that they should probably come with a health warning. And it feels so motherfucking amazing that all I can think about is my next fix.

My next sweaty, intense fuck.

My next instance of having Max brushing and then plaiting my post-sex hair before we go to bed, so it doesn’t throttle me in my sleep. Just the way he used to, all those years ago.

My next quick kiss with him up against the AGA when the kids are watching TV.

But I shouldn’t be living fix-to-fix.

I should have a plan.

I am a mother.

A single one.

Which means the stakes are far too fucking high for my liking. Because I’m getting attached, and the kids are getting attached, and after a shitty year, the stress of which I’d be delusional to think hasn’t rubbed off on the kids to some extent, we’re all getting way too used to Mr Sunshine’s charm and warmth and sky-high fun factor. And some of us are getting used to other aspects of his, ahem,service offering, too.

All of which is why I’ve barely dared broach the subject of the F-word—The Future—with myself, let alone with him. Because, despite his graciousness and remarkable patience with Tobes and Daze, the guy has given me zero reason to think that his little sojourn with us has in any way altered his lifelong refusal to have children.

I’m not suggesting his decision will be easy for him, or pain-free.

I’m not suggesting for a second that he hasn’t fallen as deep down this intoxicating rabbit hole of a sex-fest as I have. That he’s not as high as I am on the chemical reactions rampaging through our bodies this week.

He’s a good guy. He’s not a flake. When he commits, he commits.

He committed to me.

But he also committed, steadfastly, and at a great personal cost to himself, not to have children.

And so I’d be both crazy and self-sabotaging if I allowed myself to think for a moment that he’s changed.

28

MAX

‘Ihave one question,’ I tell the kids as I steer us down the back roads towards Sorrel Farm. ‘But it’s a big one. Will there be sweets there? Because, honestly, that’s all I care about.’

‘There will be sweets!’ Daisy shouts from her car seat. ‘Mummy is a chef, silly. She can always get sweets. She bakes cakes all day long.’

‘She really does have the best job,’ I muse. ‘And you really do have the best mummy. I can’t think of anything better as a kid than having a mum who’s a professional cake-baker. And brownie-baker. And cookie-baker. I mean, you guys are the luckiest kids alive.’

‘But what if she’s used up all the sweets on the gingerbread village?’ Toby’s brow creases with worry as he holds his post-school sandwich poised in front of his mouth.

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