Chapter 19
Molly
The first bottle of champagne goes down remarkably quickly.
In fact, it barely touches the sides. As do the Pfeffernüsse cookies and the fruitcake and the delicious Double Gloucester cheese on crumbly oatcakes.
The tray Max bore proudly into the living room was piled high with yummy treats and now looks like it’s been the victim of a smash-and-grab.
‘Hey!’ Max shouts at Daisy as she makes off with the last sliver of pork pie.
She backs away from him, giggling. ‘My pork pie.’
‘My pork pie,’ he corrects her. He shakes his head. ‘Unbelievable.’
‘The Victorians were definitely onto something with the whole children should be seen and not heard method of parenting,’ I muse.
‘Definitely,’ Max agrees, shooting daggers at Daisy that make her giggle even harder. ‘I’ll get you back later, Daze. With tickles.’
She shrieks even more loudly, and the rest of us wince.
‘Remember this, Mummy?’ Toby asks, pulling a bauble carefully out of an open box. While the rest of us fool around, he’s laser-focused on the task at hand.
‘Of course I do, darling,’ I say fondly.
He holds it aloft and presents it to Max. It’s a glass sphere with Harrods written on one side in silver glitter and Baby’s First Christmas on the other. ‘My daddy buyed me a decoration every Christmas. This one was when I was a baby.’
Max brushes his fingertips over it. ‘It’s stunning, mate,’ he tells him softly. ‘Really special.’
I clear my throat, which suddenly feels thick. ‘Daddy texted me the other day to tell me this year’s decorations are on the way,’ I say. ‘That’s exciting, isn’t it?’
‘Yay!’ Toby says, while Daisy squeaks with excitement, and the sense of injustice that my kids should be so damn happy with a pathetic token from their dad at this time of year makes my blood boil.
‘I’m going to put this here,’ Toby announces, before hanging the bauble reverently on a low-hanging branch.
Max glances at me and gives me a tight smile of solidarity. He gets it, too. He raises his voice to a cheery pitch.
‘Well, these decorations are certainly a lot fancier than the ones we used to have, Mol. You’ve got classier in your old age. Remember that tinsel we had, that first Christmas?’
I laugh and cringe. ‘God. It was pretty tacky. And we were so proud of ourselves.’
‘What first Christmas?’ Toby demands.
I exchange a look with Max before answering him. ‘Max and I used to live together. He was my boyfriend before I met Daddy.’
His jaw drops open, while, from the corner of the room, Daisy sniggers at the word boyfriend. ‘He was your boyfriend? Like a boy that you kissed?’
I take a slug from my almost-empty glass of champagne. ‘Er, yeah. When grown-ups have a boyfriend or girlfriend, they like to kiss them.’ And the rest.
That’s yucky is Toby’s disgusted verdict on our prior relationship status.
I brave another glance at Max. He’s watching me, his face soft, the light of memory in his eyes.
‘They were good times,’ he says. ‘We should have been proud of ourselves.’
‘Do you know who’s living in the cottage now?’ I ask him.
‘It’s an Airbnb. After I fuc—went off to Africa, Jules and Rach tarted it all up. Farrow and Ball everywhere. It turns over a nice little income, apparently.’
‘I bet it does.’ I stare into the fire, but my mind’s eye serves me up an image of our sweet little cottage, all done out in gorgeous creams and greys and taupes and duck-egg blues.
Fern-print curtains and velvet-trimmed lampshades.
I bet Jules has done a gorgeous job. I’d consider taking the kids up there for a break if it wouldn’t hurt so much.
‘I love that place. I was so happy there.’
‘You weren’t, Mol.’
His voice is so low and pained that I look up sharply at him. He shakes his head.
‘Not in the end. You did the right thing, you know. I always admired you for going after what you wanted. I thought you were so brave, even though I was heartbroken.’
My face must be as crestfallen as I feel inside, because he comes towards me and gently removes my empty champagne glass from my grip. He tips my chin up with a finger so I’m forced to look into those gorgeous hazel eyes as he gives me a you’ve got this nod.
‘Do you want some help getting these two bathed?’
When the kids are down, Max opens the fridge to unearth a second bottle of champagne and peer at the contents.
‘Brunch as supper?’ he asks, twisting around to look at me. ‘Omelette and sourdough?’
‘I can cook,’ I protest, but he shakes his head at me. ‘Nope. You cook all day, every day. Let me.’
I don’t need to be told twice. I sit uselessly at the kitchen table, nursing a fresh glass of champagne as he whisks eggs and grates parmesan and chops up shallots and parsley and mushrooms. It’s nice, watching Max move easily, casually, around my kitchen.
More than nice.
His arse alone is a treat, showcased to perfection in his worn-in jeans.
His back and shoulder muscles work under that slubby cotton T-shirt, and I give thanks that he’s worked up enough of a heat to take off his Christmas jumper.
It occurs to me that, thus far into his tenure here, he’s respected my wishes for no gratuitous nudity, or semi-nudity, to a disappointing extent.
I haven’t even got a glimpse of bare man-chest in the past few weeks.
Seriously.
I know I was firm with Angus that Max needed to keep his kit on while he was in my home, but honestly? I’m a frustrated single mum. I could really use a little gratuitous nudity from him.
Plates stacked high with parsley-garnished omelette and thick wedges of buttery toasted sourdough, we head back into the living room.
One thing I love about having Christmas decorations up and a fire lit is that I find myself content to just be.
To sit and enjoy them. No need for Netflix at all, even though my profile is brimming with cheesy Christmas movies.
The room looks amazing. Max has done a wonderful job.
The baubles hanging on the tree reflect the white fairy lights in a million directions, and the effect is beautiful.
Max insisted we buy fresh garlands at the farm and has laid a thick, lush one across the mantlepiece and hung a narrower one around The Lady of Shallots.
He’s also hung mistletoe from the beam that crosses the living room ceiling, as well as the one in the hallway.
He winked at me when he put it in our basket at the farm.
I wish I was slightly less conscious of that mistletoe.
Hanging there.
Taunting me.
I’ve been dreading the festive season, I realise. But now that the tree is up and the room is decorated, I can breathe a sigh of relief.
Maybe perception is reality.
Maybe we’re all just faking it till we make it.
Maybe, if enough of the superficial stuff is on-point, the kids and I can get through this season as a little group of three.
Maybe the embrace of our found family here, at the farm, will be warm and joyous and kind enough to vaguely plaster over the void of having one whole person from our quartet missing.
I put my champagne flute on the floor, balancing my plate on my knees as I sit. Max goes as if to join me on the sofa, but suddenly stops and makes his way to the tree, plate in hand. With his free hand, he fingers a little decoration, glancing from it to me.
‘I bought you this,’ he says in wonder.
I smile. ‘You did. In Harrogate.’
That first Christmas together, he took me to the big Christmas Fayre at Harrogate so we could buy some trinkets for our new home. The decoration he’s referring to is a felt angel, piped in satin. She’s a little grubby these days, but her yellow yarn hair isn’t too messy, and Daisy adores her.
So do I.
‘I said she reminded me of you.’ He’s turned back to examine the little angel.
‘Yeah. Which isn’t remotely offensive to my hair,’ I retort, but I’m grinning at the memory.
Jesus. We were so fucking happy.
I look at him now, and honestly, I have no idea how I found the strength to walk away from him.
It was such a brave move—or stupid, depending on how you look at it—to deliberately leave a man I loved, a relationship I was happy in, and a home I adored, to wander out into the unknown, to move down to London in the hope that I’d miraculously get over Max and find another man.
One who wanted to impregnate me.
I get tears in my eyes just thinking about it. Max never married. I’m under no illusions that he’s had plenty of women over the years—he’s far too good-looking and too sex-obsessed not to—but by abandoning him and chasing my own dream future, I necessarily deprived him of his own.
I set my plate down on the floor and stand up. Swallowing hard. Making my way over to him, as if drawn by some invisible force.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I tell him in a voice that threatens to break.
He turns and stares at me. ‘What for?’
‘For ruining it,’ I say. ‘For messing it all up, when we were so happy.’
‘Hey.’ He casts around for somewhere to stick his plate and settles on the coffee table. That done, he takes a couple of steps towards me and holds my upper arms in a firm grip. ‘Where’s all this come from?’
‘I don’t know.’ I shake my head, my mouth and chin trembling.
‘It’s just… being here with you at Christmas.
Seeing the decoration. Remembering how ecstatic we were.
Not remembering—more embodying. I can feel it in my bones, like this warm, glorious feeling.
And I decided the grass was greener, and off I went, and shattered our future. ’
He’s staring at me like he can’t believe what’s coming out of my mouth. ‘That’s bullshit, Mol. You’re looking back with such a skewed take on it all. You wanted what most women want, remember? And I should have been the one to give you all that, and I couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
‘So you did what was one hundred percent fucking right, and you left me and found a guy who could. Shame on me. Not shame on you.’ He points at the ceiling. ‘And you can’t tell me you regret any decision that gave you those kids.’
‘No.’ My sigh is so heavily that my entire body sags.
‘I don’t regret that for a second, and I’ll always be grateful to Felix for giving them to me.
But I wonder what you see. I left you, and no matter how many times we talked about kids till we were blue in the face, I could tell you never really expected me to do it.
But I did, and now I think all the time that you must look at this shit-show and think I made a massive mistake. ’
His grip tightens. The whisky warmth of his eyes seeps through my bones.
‘You believe I look at you, and Daisy, and Toby, and think you’re the one who made a massive mistake? Are you fucking kidding me?’
I’m speechless. I gaze at him wordlessly.
‘You had a guy who wasn’t good enough for you,’ he says, ‘and you fucking did something about it. And you made it happen, Mol. Those kids are rock stars, even the crazy blonde beast.’ He bows his head. ‘Leaving me was the best decision you ever made.’
I’m crying openly now at his words. His generosity of spirit. And, above all, at the fondness he seems to be expressing for my amazing, resilient little kids. His benediction feels like closure.
He raises his head, and glances upwards, and lets out a little laugh. ‘Look.’
I look up.
We’re standing under the fucking mistletoe.
‘Mol,’ he says, and brushes a thumb across the damp skin under each of my eyes. And then he lowers his head and presses a soft, slow kiss to that spot next to my mouth.
It’s a kiss that somehow suggests respectful yearning. Holding back.
It’s the exact same spot Paul kissed.
But Paul’s kiss didn’t make me want to melt.
It didn’t travel through my entire nervous system from the surface of my skin, warming every corner of my body.
It didn’t make me want to turn my head, and trap his lips against mine, and take much, much more.
‘Come on.’ Max releases my arms and runs his palms down my sleeve. ‘Let’s eat, and you can tell me all about this wanker husband of yours.’