Chapter 5
Molly
Ihave a team to oversee, and a gingerbread village extraordinaire to assemble, and a meeting with the food stylist for Zoe’s cook book to prepare for, and two industrial ovens full of pastries to monitor in anticipation of the mid-morning mum crowd.
So why the hell I’m leaning into a mirror in the Oast House’s loos, slapping the thickest concealer I own over my purple-tinged eye bags in anticipation of a reunion with Max bloody Rutherford is a total mystery.
I know why.
Because, although he’s too cool and mysterious to have a Facebook account, the WaterAid Malawi Facebook page has obligingly furnished me with a very clear idea of how the philanthropic life is treating Max these days.
No beer-belly. No excess weight of any kind, as evidenced by the tight white WaterAid t-shirt he’s sporting in most of the team photos.
Just muscle.
A whole lot of muscle.
I suppose years of physical labour will do that for you. Of carrying around breeze blocks and massive water purifiers, and—I don’t know—toilets?
He even has his arms around beautiful children with breathtaking grins, who are ecstatic with the new wells and loos at their schools. I mean, come on! The man who hated kids now devotes his life to giving the world’s poorest children the gift of sanitation.
Seriously?
It’s nauseating. The guy appears to be the love child of Mother Teresa and Magic Mike.
Fuck’s sake.
That’s why I’m trowelling on the makeup.
‘Where the fuck is my iridescent primer?’ I mutter to myself. Anything that reflects light away from my actual face seems greatly necessary at this moment.
Once the patching up job is done, I look at my reflection properly.
I wonder what he’ll see.
A woman he once loved. Desired. Couldn’t get enough of.
Now a little faded around the edges. Crow’s feet at my eyes, put there by my children and my ex-husband.
My skin dull and pinched thanks to that disastrous recent combination of too little sleep and too much compensatory wine.
Makeup can only conceal so much. You can’t fake a healthy lifestyle.
At least my hair, my crowning glory (literally) is still blonde and lustrous and in impeccable condition, if I do say so myself.
I don’t know why I care, anyway. It’s not like I’m trying to attract him. I suppose I just don’t want him turning up and thinking what a lucky escape he had all those years ago.
It’s been twelve years since I walked away from him, and in those twelve years I’ve grown two humans. Two incredible humans whose existence, however exhausting, vindicates my decision to leave over and over.
Two humans I wouldn’t have had if I’d stayed and bowed to his vision for our future.
Just the two of us. Just you and me, Mol.
I shake my head. Everything that’s happened in my life, or rather, everything I’ve made happen in my life, has led me to this point, where I’m a mother.
Even marrying my total nob of an ex-husband was the right move, because he gave me Tobes and Daisy.
I created my own future. I made tough decisions that I stand by today.
And seeing Max Rutherford’s pretty face and come-to-bed smile again won’t change any of that.
Max’s pretty face and come-to-bed smile may not change anything for me, but they’ll sure as hell make my life that little bit tougher these next few weeks, because the man himself has just sauntered through the doors of the Oast House, and my stomach has just plummeted like I’ve jumped out of a plane.
Mark my words, within minutes there will be a hormonal charge among the female-heavy staff.
I can practically smell it in the air already, hovering just above the fragrant scent of freshly baked banana bread.
Here’s the thing.
The last time I saw him, we were a couple.
Sure, I was devastated and broken and terrified that I was making the biggest mistake of my life.
But I walked out on him. On our relationship.
So I’m not used to seeing him and him not being mine.
Not since those heady days when I’d finished catering college and was pulling pints at The Queen’s Head.
Those days, my tummy would flutter whenever he walked through the door with his brothers, because God were those Rutherford boys known around the entire Chatsworth area for their looks and their charms, and God was I fixated on the youngest and most delicious of all of them.
I knew he’d make a beeline for me over the other servers.
Knew there was no way a simple pint of lager could be the reason for the sheer perfection of the smile he’d throw my way.
Right this moment, the fluttering is back, and not in a good way. I have the most surreal, unpalatable sensation of watching him as if through a veil. Watching him like any random member of the public would. Anyone with no claim on him.
He’s a stranger to me now. And that’s exactly as it should be.
I squint a little more from the depths of the open-fronted kitchen before tugging off my chef’s hat and patting my hair, a move that’s more nervous than practical.
‘He’s here,’ I mutter to Zoe, who, in her infinite wisdom, understands exactly how I’m feeling.
Although I never met her when Max and I were together—she was back in France by that point—there’s something about knowing she goes back so far with the Rutherford family that calms me.
Makes me feel less alone in this whole mess.
Because, as lovely as Angus is, he’ll never understand fully how this feels.
Zoe, on the other hand, does. I think she understands everything. She’s a true empath.
‘Good luck,’ she whispers. ‘I’ll come say hello in a bit, but I’ll leave you both to it for now.’
I nod and make my way out front, smoothing my hands over my apron and hoping my makeup looks as good in the harsh winter daylight flooding through the huge windows as it did in the soft glow of the bathroom.
He hasn’t spotted me yet. He weaves his way through the tables, his stance as erect as ever, his gait as fluid. Then his eyes lock with mine, and he halts for a second, and in that same second I realise he, too, is nervous.
Good. Because I don’t want to be the only one who finds this entire situation utterly horrifying.
He begins to move again, slowly, in my direction, and my feet feel like they’re walking through the caramel I use to stick my gingerbread houses together as I go to meet him halfway. But if my feet are slow, my brain is in overdrive as I process and analyse the sight before me.
God, he’s tall. I mean, I knew he was, but still.
It’s—imposing. He still has good posture.
Come on, Molly. He’s only thirty-nine. He’s hardly going to be bent over a walking stick just yet.
No hair loss, which is good, though Angus, at a decade older than him, has a full head of hair, so that shouldn’t be a surprise.
And most egregious of all, the man looks to be positively thriving.
No false social media advertising from those good folks at WaterAid.
No, sir. He’s box-fresh and golden and gorgeous in a lightweight jacket and beige sweater.
The beige is exactly the kind of tone most normal people avoid in winter so as not to look like a bowl of porridge, but he’s glowing.
It’s so obnoxious.
He’s smiling at me, in an I can’t believe this is happening kind of way, so I smile back, but whereas his smile is warm and seemingly genuine, mine feels forced and tense and overly bright—the kind of smile I give Daisy when I say, don’t be silly, sweetie.
You can’t go to school with bare feet and I’m actually praying that I won’t commit a crime.
And then—oh, sweet Jesus—I’m right in front of him, and his smile has grown wider, and he’s stepping forward and enveloping me in his arms. My face goes against the knit of his sweater and I inhale as I wrap my arms warily around his waist.
The body is a funny thing.
And by funny, I mean evil and traitorous.
Because I can move on, and get married, and do the work, and repeat my affirmations till I’m blue in the face, but one whiff of my ex-boyfriend’s jumper and my olfactory system blithely whips out a decade-old memory and waves it at my pelvic area, shouting we remember him!
Good things happened down there when this smell was around, remember?
‘Hey, Mol,’ he says into the top of my head, except he doesn’t say it so much as sigh it in a way that strikes me as more wistful than resigned.
‘Hi, Max,’ I say to his pecs.
He releases me, and I signal to my arms to do the same and step back.
I look up at him. Woah. Too close. I take another step backwards, and Max grabs my upper arm just as one of the servers, Remi, executes a swift side-step in my peripheral vision to avoid my crashing into him and his precarious stack of plates.
‘Oh God—sorry, Remi!’ I say, inwardly cursing my complete lack of cool.
‘No probs.’ He smiles at me before wiggling his eyebrows appreciatively at Max.
Excellent. It’s not just the female staff members I need to worry about in Max’s presence.
Max still has me by the elbow. ‘Thank you,’ I say through gritted teeth while pulling out of his grasp.
He’s grinning at me and shaking his head. ‘This is so fucking weird. Molly Carter.’
‘Stafford,’ I say mutinously, though why I’m either holding onto or reminding him of my ex’s name, I’m unclear.
‘Molly Stafford.’ He pronounces my name with distaste before appearing to shake himself off. ‘Can you sit for a few minutes?’
I should probably play nicely. After all, unlikely as it is, Max Rutherford may save my bacon come Monday morning.
‘Of course.’ I jerk my head. ‘Come over here.’
Without waiting for him, I turn and weave through the tables and sofas once more till I get to a small table flanked by two generously stuffed armchairs. It’s right in front of the bank of huge French doors and has a wonderful view of the entire space as well as the courtyard beyond.