Chapter 7
Molly
Isend Max off to unpack and make himself at home while I give the kids their bath. Nothing about this situation is ideal, not least of all the short amount of lead-time before his baptism of fire tomorrow morning, but I needed the weekend to sort out the spare room after Sylvie’s departure.
I realise while I’m rinsing the suds out of Daisy’s hair that I haven’t really thought about the evenings properly.
I’ve been working on the assumption that I’ll go to bed earlier than Max, and I’ll be long gone before he gets the kids up.
But that still leaves at least a couple of hours in the evenings when the kids are down and we’re both at large.
I say a silent prayer that he has a serious Netflix habit, a functioning laptop, and a penchant for hanging out alone in his bedroom these days.
Because cosy nights watching TV in front of the fire together?
Not happening.
That would be… God, that would be so weird. So triggering. Reminiscent of what seemed at the time to be limitless evenings of foot rubs and sharing a bar of chocolate, or a bottle of wine, or a make-out session.
Yep. Solo Netflix-watching it is.
The kids go down eventually. They were far more interested in talking about Max in the bath than they were in talking to him downstairs. Toby wanted to know how I knew him, how many lives he’d saved in Africa, and how fast the car seats would heat his bum in the morning.
I avoided answering the first couple of questions directly, throwing Max under the bus by suggesting Toby ask him those questions in the morning, and gave him an estimated bum-warming lead time of two minutes.
Daisy asked me if I could please make Max take off all his clothes and put them in the washing machine to get rid of the funny smell.
I laughed and told her I’d ask him to wash what I assumed was the offending jumper (there was definitely no smell of mothballs when I sniffed his pecs in our hug yesterday).
Now, though, I’m battling an alarmingly vivid mental image of Max peeling off his clothes and sitting in the kitchen in just a pair of clingy white boxer briefs, in the manner of a 1985 Nick Kamen at the laundromat.
Bugger. That is not helpful. Maybe I should turn the thermostat down, just in case he’s tempted to revert to his old ways of wandering around the house semi-clad. He wouldn’t do that now, would he? Not in front of the kids, surely?
Extricating myself from sleepy hugs and delicious kisses and pleas for ‘one more story’, I find Max has set the kitchen table with two place settings, opened a bottle of red I don’t recognise, and organised all the shit that was on the table into a couple of huge piles at one end.
Precisely my MO when it comes to tidying.
He’s standing in front of the AGA, warming his backside.
‘Thanks,’ I say, glancing at the table before awkwardly nudging him out of the way so I can get the shepherd’s pie out of the AGA.
‘Wow.’ He eyes the pie, whose mashed potato topping, I have to admit, is crisped to perfection. His eyes are on stilts—he’s Tiny Tim. Oliver Twist. It’s annoyingly sweet. ‘Fucking hell, Mol. My favourite. You didn’t have to do that.’
‘It’s a good Sunday night option,’ I tell him stiffly. ‘I do it a lot so we can use it for leftovers during the week.’
‘Oh, sure,’ he replies, chastened. ‘Makes sense.’
I hate myself a little for being pathetic enough to make what I know is his favourite dish and a little more for being too cowardly to admit to my motives. He’s always adored my cooking, and I’m definitely a feeder.
In that respect, we were perfect together.
‘Seriously, though,’ he continues. ‘I haven’t seen a shepherd’s pie in a long, long time. Is it shepherd’s? Or cottage? Not that I care. I could eat that entire dish in one fell swoop. It looks fucking incredible.’
‘It’s shepherd’s.’ I may have remembered that, at the margin, he prefers it with lamb instead of beef. ‘Where’d you find the wine?’
‘I brought it.’ He hops over to the table and picks up the bottle. ‘Least I could do. I know it’s a school night, but do you fancy a glass?’
‘That would be lovely, thanks.’ By which I mean pour away, and I may just discover a modicum of personality at the bottom of my glass.
We sit, and he raises his glass awkwardly. ‘Thanks for having me. I know this is weird. But it’s seriously good to see you.’
I allow myself a little laugh. ‘Yeah. It’s really weird. But I’m sure we’ll get used to it.’
He takes a bite and makes a rapturous sound in the back of his throat that I recall well from other contexts. Contexts I’d do very well not to remember. ‘Jesus, it’s incredible,’ he says through a mouthful of meat and potatoes.
I watch in amusement as he proceeds to absolutely nail his food. It’s gone before I’ve barely taken a couple of mouthfuls. I jerk my head towards the pie dish resting on top of the AGA. ‘Go on. Help yourself.’
‘But you need it for leftovers, don’t you?’
‘It’s fine. Knock yourself out.’
He doesn’t need to be told twice. As he practically knocks his chair to the floor in his eagerness to get to the food, I reflect that it’s actually quite nice to have an appreciative audience for my cooking, for once. Preparing meals for my kids is one of the most thankless parts of parenting.
Max sits back down and dives in. ‘God, I’ve missed your cooking,’ he groans. ‘You’re a genius.’
I smile, lifting my glass to my lips and allowing my eyes to run over him as he eats.
He’s so male. Obviously, I haven’t had much adult male company since Felix walked, and practically none in this cottage.
But it’s not just that. Whereas Felix was debonair, sophisticated, Max is all man.
He’s huge. Broad. Stacked. Thrives on physical labour. He’s a man’s man.
The way he’s shovelling food into his mouth before he’s even swallowed the previous mouthful should be grim.
But it’s completely the opposite. It’s an unwelcome reminder that he’s a man of impressive appetites, in every way.
And I hate that the primal part of my brain is getting so fired up right now over feeding him and seeing his appreciation.
His stomach is supposed to be the way to his heart. Not anyone else’s, thank you very much.
‘I’m a bit stressed about tomorrow,’ I say, to kill the vibe. ‘It’s a lot to ask you—I’m worried it’ll be a baptism of fire.’
He shrugs. I suspect he’s too busy having a food-gasm to concern himself with anything else right now.
‘It’ll be fine.’ He piles an impressive mound of mash on his fork. ‘Wake them, feed them, dress them, drive them. Right?’ He pops the fork in his mouth, and sheer bliss washes over his face.
I grimace. ‘I mean, technically, yeah. But I’ll be honest. So many things can go wrong in any of those steps I can’t even tell you.
Daisy’s definitely not a morning person, and her tantrums have been worse since…
her dad left. And they’re bad when she’s tired—she tends to take issue with everything.
Toby’s the opposite. He gets himself so worked up about being late for school, and he really struggles when Daisy’s melting down. ’
‘How did the au pair handle it?’ he asks.
‘I suppose she just had the endless energy and positivity of youth. It helped that Daisy adored her, so she played ball. She also didn’t take any shit.’
‘I’m definitely not sure she adores me yet,’ he says wryly, ‘but I sure as hell won’t take any shit from them. Don’t worry about me. I’m a big boy. Anyway, surely kids fuck around more for their mothers than anyone else? Hopefully, they’ll be too scared of me to do anything other than what I say.’
I really, really hope that’s true.
After we wash up together, which is almost weirder than eating together, I offer to give him a quick refresher of the house. Except, of course, my bedroom. A cursory glance at my bedroom door is all he’s going to get on that front.
We finish in the drawing room, and he stops in front of the fireplace. His jaw practically hits the floor.
‘Holy shit, Mol.’
He edges towards the painting hanging over the fireplace as if transfixed.
Felix painted it of me in his signature style, which he dubbed satirical Pre-Raphaelite.
It depicts me, standing in front of a wooden butcher’s block.
My hair is loose and hangs all around me, the light above me creating a halo effect.
You see? Very Pre-Raphaelite. I’m in a sombre gown, and I’m weeping while chopping shallots.
It’s a bloody masterpiece, and it’s one of his most famous paintings.
‘It’s called The Lady of Shalotts,’ I tell him.
He jerks his head at me for a second. ‘You serious?’
‘Yeah. My ex-husband painted it. Felix is hugely inspired by the Pre-Raphaelites, especially Millais and Rossetti, but he likes to make his paintings tongue-in-cheek.’
‘It is spectacular.’ He stands, hands in his pockets, looking at it intently. ‘Is it valuable?’
‘Seven figures, easy.’
‘You are shitting me.’
‘Nope. He’s very sought-after. Especially in the Middle East.’
‘So why are you here, in my brother’s cottage, instead of in some massive fuck-off pad?’
‘Because, even though he painted it for me and gave it to me as a birthday present, we had to include it in the joint assets when we divvied everything up. And it was such a massive chunk of the assets that I didn’t get a huge amount of other stuff.
There wasn’t enough left over for me to buy a decent place.
But I’d rather be homeless than let that painting slip through my fingers. ’
‘I get that. Kind of.’ He squints. ‘From everything I’ve heard, it sounds like your husband was a massive tosser, but fuck me, can he paint.’
I laugh. ‘Yeah. He is exceptionally tosser-ish, it turns out.’
‘I’m really sorry your marriage didn’t work out.’ His voice is soft, his eyes fixed on Felix’s flattering rendition of my face, luminous and ageless in oils. ‘I know it was what you wanted. I’m gutted for you.’
‘Thanks.’ I look at the floor, tracing a line through the rug with my slippered toe. ‘But at least he gave me children, so that’s what counts.’
I glance up to find him staring at me, what looks like pain etched across his face.
‘Oh my God.’ I backtrack rapidly. ‘I didn’t mean at least, like I was comparing him to you. I meant that at least he gave me kids before he buggered off. They’re more important to me than he was.’
‘It’s okay. I know what you meant. And I’m really glad you got the family you always wanted.’ He nods, his hand jingling something in his trouser pocket. ‘They seem like cool kids.’
‘I’m not sure you feel like that quite yet,’ I say, ‘but maybe they’ll grow on you. If they don’t do you in first.’
‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?’ He gives me a tight smile. ‘Don’t worry about me and the kids in the morning. I’ve got this. I might go and read. I don’t intend to get under your feet while I’m here.’
He looks at me as if to make sure I understand that he means what he says, and I nod.
‘Text me and let me know how it goes, will you?’
‘Will do. Night, Mol.’
I sigh heavily as I watch his retreating figure.
Max Rutherford is in my house.
In bed in my house.
I’m not sure how I’m supposed to be able to go to sleep, knowing he’s under the same roof.
Tonight went better than I could have expected.
He was considerate and sweet and helpful, and he took himself off to bed without overstaying his welcome.
But this polite dance we’re doing around each other is fucking exhausting.
I’m not sure what the alternative is, though.
I’m not sure how you’re supposed to act when you know someone so well but haven’t seen them for a third of your lifetime.
All I can hope for is that we find an equilibrium. A routine. Having kids to process will definitely help with that.
My unhelpful brain returns to the mind-blowing concept of Max lying in the spare room bed.
I wonder if he’s still reading? What he’s reading?
I wonder how he sleeps when he’s alone. On his back, probably.
One arm flung carelessly up, the other resting on that six-pack I have no doubt is still there.
Thank God he’s on the other side of the house.
Thank God he has a separate route to his room, via the kitchen stairs.
Thank God I don’t need to worry about bumping into him in the hallway when I need a midnight pee.
And then I have a thought so horrifying that I clutch my hot water bottle harder against my stomach.
What if he’s masturbating right now?
He’s here for, like, six weeks. The Max I knew and loved had a healthy sex drive. Unless age has not served his libido well, this guy will be jerking off multiple times a week.
Under my roof.
Without me.
Of course, without me. Seriously, Molly.
Oh my God. Oh my God.
Will he do it in bed?
No. Too messy. He’ll do it in the shower.
I find myself squeezing my eyes shut in a pointless attempt at blocking out the crystal-clear, positively pornographic visual that my unhelpfully creative brain is now serving up.
Max in the shower. Naked. (Obviously. Duh.)
Water running over him, making those spectacular muscles slick and soaked. (They’re still spectacular, by the way. He took off his jumper when he was drying up and there was some serious bicep-flexing going on).
He throws his head back, fisting his rock-hard cock at the root and giving it a few pumps as he lubes it up with shower gel.
I can hear the noises he’ll make. Involuntary sounds of pleasure at the back of his throat. The same noises he used to make when we contorted ourselves for each other in bed.
His hand will pick up pace.
Those abs will contract.
He’ll plant a palm flat on the tiles to steady himself as he squeezes his eyes shut in pleasure.
Fuck. I can feel the ridges of his glorious dick just as clearly as if it was me in the shower with him, bringing him to orgasm with my hand. Can feel the satiny wetness of his crown as water and soap sluice over it.
And, as the Max of my mind’s eye presses his forehead against the cool tiles of the shower, his hand moving desperately over his length, his release hot and fast and hard under the torrent of water, I conclude that he will not be the only one touching themselves over the next few weeks.
I groan and roll over onto my stomach.