Chapter 6
Max
In my head, Molly’s kids are two little faceless blobs of energy that I’ll feed, and indulge in horseplay with, and chuck in the car when they need to go to school. I haven’t assigned them much in the way of facial features or personality in my head, despite Molly’s brief recap of both of them.
Toby’s eight. I remember that much. A quiet little guy whose anxiety’s apparently gone through the roof since his dad walked out. Wanker.
The dad, not Toby.
Molly has described Daisy, who’s four and in her first term of primary school, as ‘a bit of a character’. That sounds suspiciously like a euphemism to me, but I’ll give the kid the benefit of meeting her before I pass judgement.
Besides, she can’t be more than, like, three feet tall, can she? I can out-gun her any day.
Somewhat uncomfortable that my first instinct is to resort to physically overpowering a small child, I kill the engine of Angus’ top-of-the-range ‘spare’ Landrover and step out of the car.
Duffle bag in hand, I survey his old cottage.
It’s a fine-looking house, but my memories of being here are mixed.
I came back that first Christmas after Audrey, Angus’ ex, walked out on him.
She had the boys that year, and we were two pathetic bachelors who drank our way through the festive season.
Boy, has my brother landed on his feet with Evelyn. I can’t avoid a delightful frisson of smugness at what Audrey’s reaction must have been when she discovered that the solid-as-fuck husband she left for a banker had shacked up with one of the most gorgeous celebrities on these shores.
It’s bloody freaky how life works out. Who could have predicted I’d be back at this cottage only to move in with my ex and—in a random twist of fate—her kids?
I find I’m physically bracing myself for the emotional onslaught of seeing Molly again. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t affect me, coming face to face with her yesterday after so many years of nothing except what Angus had fed me.
Molly’s getting married.
That one hurt. Like, seriously hurt. The pain was visceral. Especially since she’d got herself engaged barely two years after she left me. But of course she wasn’t going to stay single for long. Only an idiot would let her go.
Molly had a baby boy yesterday.
That was a good day.
That was the day I blew out a physical breath of relief.
Relief that her gamble had paid off. That she’d got what she’d so desperately wanted from life.
Less good was the weird conflict I felt.
No matter how adamant I was that I didn’t want kids, the mental image of Molly, exhausted and deliriously happy, holding her newborn child in her arms while some other guy looked on at his little family haunted me way too fucking much.
And don’t even get me started on how I felt upon seeing her on Friday, all right? Because I’m not ready to go there just yet.
I ring the bell. The cherry red front door is so glossy that it looks like it was painted yesterday. That’s my brother for you. I bet he keeps this place ship-shape for his tenants.
The door opens, and I take a breath like I’m about to pull a plaster off, and then I let it out in confusion as I lower my line of sight by a couple of feet. Because there are two small people standing there, and neither of them is Molly.
The boy has neat, dark hair and thick specs that are a dead giveaway for long-sightedness. Poor fucker. He’s staring up at me, open-mouthed.
And coming in at a few inches shorter than him is a pint-sized girl.
I’m aware of an impressive tangle of blonde curls and a staggering facial similarity to her mother.
She’s in a bright pink tracksuit whose Barbie logo is almost hidden by a massive smear of something brown down the front.
Chocolate? Shit? Her stare is distinctly less awe-struck than that of her brother.
In a nutshell, the kid looks fucking feral. Or she would, if she didn’t have the face of an angel.
The face of her mother.
‘Hello,’ I say. Children I don’t know make me seriously uncomfortable. I can just about handle my nieces and nephews. ‘I’m Max. Your mum around?’
‘Mummy!’ the girl screeches without breaking our stare-down. ‘Mummy!’
Holy fuck, does she have a set of lungs on her. I eye her warily.
‘Don’t shout, Daisy,’ the boy says, a worried crease forming between his eyebrows. ‘Mummy’s tired. Hello.’
He’s the peacemaker. The caregiver. Thank God Mol has one of them to look out for her. But I bet he doesn’t make life easy for himself.
The feral female—Daisy—shoots him a like I give a flying fuck look.
Nice.
Five seconds in, and I’m beginning to get an idea of what a bit of a character may mean.
Molly’s shapely legs come into view as she thunders down the stairs in front of me in leggings so nude that for a brief, heart-stopping moment I think she’s naked from the waist down. She has a soft grey sweater on, and her hair is wound round her head, Alpine-style, in one long plait.
Thought number one: the boy is right. She does look tired.
Thought number two: she’s still unfairly beautiful.
‘Hi.’ She sounds flustered. Looks distracted. ‘Come in, come in. Tobes. Daisy. Out of the way—let Max through.’
The children give me an inadequate amount of space, so I inch past them, back grazing the doorframe, trying not to take the girl out with my bag.
I get the impression I’ve arrived in the middle of a particularly chaotic moment (unless every moment is chaotic here, which, I suspect, is a distinct possibility).
That’s good, because if everything’s in flux, there will be less time for Mol and I to get weird and awkward—because everything about this situation is weird and awkward.
I place my bag by the door as Molly tugs the kids away from me.
‘Come on through,’ she says, turning towards the kitchen and ushering them ahead of her. My gaze slides to her ass. Peachy and perfect.
The kitchen is cosy, thanks to the AGA pumping out heat, but it’s a lot more—er—lived in than it was when my brother was here alone. The wooden table is barely visible under a jumble of opened and unopened mail, folded school uniforms and massive bowls of fruit.
I wander over to the big standalone fridge that’s groaning under the weight of colourful artwork. The ones marked Daisy in clear, primary-school-teacher writing are heavy on exuberance and light on accuracy. Toby seems to favour colouring squarely within the lines.
‘It’s a bit of a mess.’ Molly rubs her temples distractedly. ‘It always goes downhill at the weekends—they mess it up faster than I can tidy.’
‘It’s nice,’ I tell her. ‘Cosy. A lot more character than when my brother had it.’
She smiles tiredly. ‘Poor Angus. He’s letting us live in his beautiful cottage, and we’re absolutely feral.’
I suspect only one of you is truly feral, I think, but I hold my tongue.
‘He knows the score. Remember when Alastair and Hector were little? They were like weapons of mass destruction.’
‘That’s true.’ She brightens a little. Angus and Audrey lived in Derbyshire when the boys were young, which means Molly got to see plenty of my nephews. ‘They were exhausting, weren’t they?’
‘Yeah. And they’ve turned out well, so there’s still hope.’ I look down and fix Daisy with a pointed look.
As Molly fills the kettle and puts it on the AGA, she chatters to the children. She’s had forty-eight hours since our coffee to prep them for my visit and fill them in on the plan for the week ahead.
‘So,’ she begins, ‘remember I told you Max will be staying with us for a few weeks? He’s an old friend of Mummy’s,’—she clears her throat—‘and he’s going to take you guys to school in the morning! Isn’t that exciting? You can show him your school!’
Daisy comes towards me, sniffs theatrically, and bursts into instantaneous crocodile tears. ‘I don’t want to go to school with the weird man! He’s weird! He smells funny!’
What the fuck? ‘I do not.’ I glare down at her.
‘Oh God,’ Molly says. When I glance over, she’s pressing her lips together to stop herself from laughing. ‘Daisy, that’s not polite. You can’t say things like that—you’ll hurt Max’s feelings.’ To me she says, ‘I think she can smell the mothballs.’
‘Huh?’ I sniff the arm of my jacket. ‘Oh, yeah. They were obsessed by camphor where I stayed in Malawi. I can’t even smell them anymore.’
‘They’re yucky.’ Daisy is still weeping. Molly swoops in and scoops her up, and she snuggles into her mum’s arms while shooting daggers at me.
‘Yeah. Maybe I can wash everything if you have a washing machine?’
Toby points towards the door by the fridge. ‘It’s through there. We have a tumble dryer and everything.’
‘Awesome, thanks, mate.’ I ruffle his hair and he beams. ‘What time do you guys have to be at school tomorrow?’ I ask.
‘By eight-thirty,’ Toby says.
I look at my watch. ‘Okay then. We have T-minus-fourteen hours.’
‘What’s tee-minus?’ Toby asks, squinting up at me.
‘It’s what NASA uses to count down the time to rocket launches,’ I tell him. ‘We want to be on time tomorrow, don’t we?’
‘Yeah,’ Toby says, ‘because if everyone in the class is on time, we get to use the climbing frame in the playground at break time.’
I nod. ‘There you go. So we leave at ten past eight tomorrow, and not a second later.’ I cast a wary glance in the direction of Daisy, who is now sucking her thumb and shuddering against Molly’s chest. Lucky little she-devil.
‘I borrowed a car from Angus, and it’s very fancy.
It has heated leather seats and a bluetooth connection to my phone, so maybe we can make a school-run playlist?
That way we can listen to your favourite songs, right? And you can teach me the words.’
Daisy pulls her thumb out with a wet noise. ‘Kidz Bop,’ she says, and for some reason my internal alarm bell starts ringing.
‘Excellent,’ I say with an enthusiasm I don’t feel.
But Molly’s telegraphing well done to me with her huge blue eyes as she rocks her daughter in her arms, and that’s enough reassurance, all by itself.