Page 78 of A Manny for Christmas

I swear to God this kid lies awake at night, dreaming up lists of things to worry about.

‘No way,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve seen the store room in that place. I bet it puts Mrs Claus’ pantry to shame. It’s stacked floor-to-ceiling. There will be spare sweets everywhere. So if your mum has used up all the ones in the kitchen, we’ll make her open up the store cupboard for us. Got it?’

‘Got it,’ Toby echoes as Daisy bites into her sandwich of choice—fuckingmayonnaise and butter, for fuck’s sake—and kicks the back of my seat, just because she knows it pisses me off.

‘What was that?’ I growl in a sinister voice, and she giggles.

‘Nuffing.’

‘Didn’t feel like nothing.’

Keeping my right hand on the wheel, I slide my left hand around the back of my chair to lie in wait for the offending foot. It’s dark enough that she won’t spot it. She won’t be able to resist goading me again.

Sure enough, a moment later, I feel a kick. I grope around and grab her foot with a theatrical snarl, and she lets rip with a blood-curdling scream and tries to free herself with more kicking.

I laugh. Bloody children. So easy to wind up.

* * *

The farmat dusk is a magical place. I did a few hours volunteering with one of Angus’ teams today, repairing a section of the dry stone wall that circles the fields on the farm’s west side. It was slow, steady work, but the limited daylight at this time of year meant I could finish up in time to grab the kids.

I know Molly’s been spending hours and hours working on this village, and I suspect she’s pretty knackered given how many hours of sleep I’ve stolen from her these past few nights (even though she’s admitted that when she does crash in my arms post orgasm, she sleeps more soundly than she has all year. That hurts my heart in a really fucking great way).

Car parked, I get the kids out, making sure Daisy has her coat zipped up for the short walk through the main resort to the Oast House.

‘Wow! It’s so pretty!’ she says, staring up at all the evergreens dotted with fairy lights. That must have been a painstaking job for some poor idiot—I imagine they spent a lot of time up a ladder, cursing the strings of lights.

‘Have you guys not seen the farm lit up for Christmas yet?’ I ask them.

‘No, because when we came to get the tree, it was in the morning,’ Toby reminds me.

‘Oh, yeah. We definitely need to rectify that. Maybe your mum and I can bring you back this weekend? We could grab dinner here and listen to the choir. They do seriously good hot dogs and burgers.’

‘Really?’ Daisy tugs on my hand, and I look down at her. ‘Like, at night-time?’

‘Yeah, at night-time,’ I say drily. More like five or six in the evening, but they don’t need to know that. It’ll be pitch black by then; they’ll get the full effect. We can spend an hour here, meandering around, and eating, and soaking up the atmosphere. I bet Toby will love the choir, little dreamer that he is. And Daisy will go wild for the stall selling hand-carved Christmas decorations.

Maybe Molly and I can enjoy a nice cup of mulled wine. And then, when we get home, we’ll pack the tired kids off to bed, and I’ll open a bottle of something in front of the fire, on that scratchy but otherwise convenient rug, and then…

My vivid mental movie of a naked Molly, moaning my name from the rug as I lick champagne off her tits, shatters in an instant as Toby repeats my name with the consistency and irritation-level of a car alarm.

‘Max. Max. Max. Max.’

‘Yeah, mate?’ I shake myself, disturbed that I fell so easily into a full-on porno starring Molly while being in charge of her kids. Get a grip, for God’s sake.

‘Look at the reindeer.’ He points towards the entrance to the main courtyard, where a huge, metal-framed reindeer stands, studded in fairy lights, his nose glowing red.

‘Oh, cool.’ I ruffle his hair. ‘That’s not just a reindeer, though.’

‘I know. It’s Rudolph.’ He beams up at me.

‘Damn right it is. He your favourite?’

‘I don’t really know the others.’ He screws up his nose. ‘Like, I can’t remember all their names. But I like Rudolph cos he thought he was different, but Father Christmas told him that made him special.’

I take his hand and squeeze it. ‘Exactly.’

We cross the courtyard, the Oast House twinkling invitingly. It’s an impressive structure outside and in. Between all the benches out front sit troughs full of snowdrops and greenery. The continuous bank of French doors on the near side showcase the inviting golden glow of soft lighting inside.

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