Page 98 of A Manny for Christmas

All of which makes it okay, I think, to feel the slightest bit weird about going to their house for Sunday lunch.

Add to that the fact that Max is invited. Neither of us has any illusions about the ulterior motive here. On the face of it, the Molloys have invited us over for a family get-together with Clara’s kids and with Ned, Sadie and baby Isabelle. But I know they have a plan. And that plan is to meddle in my and Max’s relationship. These two are the poster children for second chances, and they won’t rest until we’ve marched down the aisle, just like they did.

None of which makes me nervous in the slightest…

I’ve filled both Clara and Sadie in on the latest developments, on my and Max’s fledgling plans to make a go of this.

They know it’s serious.

They know my kids are currently oblivious.

And it’s far better for me to go into the lunch-slash-ambush knowing that they’re fully briefed and unlikely to commit any faux pas about our relationship in front of Toby and Daisy.

When I say Alex and Clara’s house out in the Hildenborough countryside is sublime, that’s a gross understatement. It’s called Skuytercliff, and Clara’s told me previously that Alex named it after a country retreat in her favourite book,The Age of Innocence. The two star-crossed protagonists had spent a brief amount of time there, and apparently the heroine declared it the only house in America where she could imagine being perfectly happy.

Oh, and Alex named his house before he’d even taken a chance on Clara and her kids moving in with him.

I mean, come on.

No wonder the guy is a national treasure.

Clara had a far tougher time than me. She had to gather up the courage to leave her ex-husband, a guy who, by all accounts, turned pretty nasty. My kids and I have already been abandoned. All I have to do is take a leap of faith on Max. Believe him when he says he wants to commit fully to my children.

We crunch up the gravel driveway to Skuytercliff, a spectacular Georgian manor, the pillars of whose porch are bedecked with twisting green garlands and twinkling white lights. When we enter the house, there’s more of the same. A bloody massive tree in the large square hallway. The scent of cloves and oranges everywhere. A general impression of height and space and seriously good taste. Clara, her feline Italian looks heightened in a fabulous scarlet dress.

And Alex, an apron covering his crisp blue shirt, his shaven head showcasing bone structure so sharp it should be illegal, and his improbably green eyes hard to look away from, especially against his flawless, mocha-coloured skin. The son of a Dominican mother and Irish father, he’s not merely the product of a spectacular gene-pool but an excellent advertisement for his healthy lifestyle.

‘Welcome, guys,’ he says, kissing me on both cheeks and shaking Max’s hand heartily. ‘Come in, come in. The nut roast is nearly ready.’

Max’s face falls, and Clara creases up with laughter.

‘I told him to say that—I couldn’t resist. Don’t worry, we’re having porchetta. Fiori family recipe.’

‘Her mum was here all morning, overseeing my stuffing efforts,’ Alex grumbles as he leads us through to the stunning, light-filled drawing room.

Clara slaps him lightly on the bum. ‘You know you love being a part of the Fiori family.’

Alex mutters something that sounds very rude as he grabs a champagne bottle from an enormous, fully stocked champagne bucket. No healthy living for us today, then.

* * *

Toby and Daisyare in their element. Initially, Toby is so in awe of Alex, whose kids’ workout videos he sometimes follows at school, that he can’t do anything but stare worshipfully at him.

‘I think you chose the wrong potential stepfather for Tobes,’ Max mutters ruefully in my ear, and I giggle.

‘I’m pretty sure Alex is taken. And I’m sure if you do some shirt-off push-ups in the kitchen, you’ll win Toby over with your incredible physical prowess.’

‘And his mother, hopefully.’ Max gives my bum a cheeky squeeze.

‘I’m already way over the line,’ I tell him, my voice a little husky at the look in his eyes. I pat my hair. I have it in a fishtail plait today. Daisy calls it my ‘Elsa hair’, which seems appropriate.

My kids are also ecstatic to be taken under the wings of Violet and Charlie, Clara’s sweet fourteen-year-old twins. They whisk my two away to what is apparently a fabulous and totally gratuitous teen space Alex created for them in the attic, leaving us adults and baby Isabelle, who is delicious and has luckily inherited her father’s quiet, easy-going nature.

Ned and Alex aren’t the most obvious pairing, at first glance. Alex is the reformed and wildly successful former bad boy who’s never denied his council-estate roots nor his time behind bars, while Ned went to Princeton on a swim scholarship and is a self-confessed nerd of the highest order.

But they’ve become firm friends, thanks to their wives, and it becomes clear, as we sip champagne and chat in front of the roaring fire in its huge hearth, that they have more in common than is initially obvious. That is, they’re both thoroughly decent guys who have both feet firmly on the ground. Oh, and I’m not sure I’ve seen two men more smitten with their wives.

Daisy and Toby aren’t the only ones overwhelmed by the Molloy household. Max is quiet at first, but Alex and Ned’s easy friendliness soon draws him in, and I overhear them animatedly discussing the Premier League while Alex and Max take turns to smile and wave at Isabelle, bouncing happily in her father’s arms.

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