Epilogue - Molly
Max went viral.
Of course he did.
The main hashtags on TikTok were #hotdadrant and #superdad and #doyourfuckingjob.
Oh, and #movealongfucker. I may have been responsible for a few thousand of those views.
I couldn’t get enough of his alpha behaviour, or of the way his muscles flexed under that white t-shirt as he held Tobes and yelled at Mr Pratt.
It was almost as good as watching the terror on Pratt’s face.
Is it weird that the dad part of the first hashtag turned me on more than the hot aspect?
I loved the idea that millions of people around the world saw his behaviour as unequivocally dad-like. Because I agreed. If ever I’d witnessed fatherly instinct in action, it was that afternoon as my secret boyfriend stormed the stage and swept Toby out of harm’s way.
By the time Max pulled me into Mr Pritchett’s office the next morning, several of the parents who’d been seated in the front row had sent me video footage of what Tristan was doing to Toby in the run-up to Max taking action.
I’d also had an outpouring of support via the class WhatsApp chat, with many parents calling for Tristan’s suspension or expulsion.
We, but particularly Toby, got a big fat apology.
Tristan was suspended for two days and moved into a different class, effective immediately.
But as we strolled across the carpark, Max’s arm slung sexily and possessively over my shoulders, he said, ‘That’s not enough. Their attitude stunk the whole way through this. How many times did we warn Pratt about that Tristan fucker? And he still did nothing.’
I shrugged helplessly. ‘What else can we do?’
‘Move him to a private school. Somewhere small and happy, where smart kids like him are celebrated, not targeted.’
I’d always had a philosophical aversion to private schools, but I was quickly learning that morals came a distant second to my kids’ welfare.
‘It’s not like up north, Max. The fees down here are crazy. We’re talking six, seven grand a term. It’s insane. I can’t afford that.’
His grip on shoulder tightened. ‘You can now,’ he said firmly.
The tears came then.
‘Oh. My. God,’ Nora squeals. ‘I. Am. Dying.’ She reaches forward and reverently touches a lock of my hair.
‘You’re so creepy,’ Evelyn tells her. ‘You know Molly’s taken, right?’
‘I know,’ Nora sighs. ‘And I promise I’m straight. I just have a crush on her hair.’
‘Maybe ask Theo for a locket for Christmas, and Molly can give you a lock of her hair,’ Sadie suggests, and I nearly choke with laughter on my champagne.
‘I’m flattered, honestly,’ I tell her.
‘It’s just so exciting,’ she protests. ‘And don’t pretend to be blase, Evelyn. I know you’ve waited for this day as long as I have.’
Evelyn smirks. I wish I could exude her coolness for just a day. ‘I’ve been intrigued about Molly’s hair for a while, yes. And it’s even more stunning than I imagined. Max will go wild when he sees you.’
Now it’s my turn to smirk. It was Evelyn’s idea to have us all over to get ready for the annual Sorrel Farm Christmas party in her stunning, and newly refurbished, home.
She and Angus only got access last week, but already it’s decorated to the nines with an abundance of pine branches and eucalyptus and anemones and white roses.
While our menfolk get our kids ready and plan to meet us there, we’re enjoying festive bubbles and the attention of a fleet of professional hair and makeup artists. Evelyn’s treat.
I may have chosen my incredible dress in the tiniest, palest pink sequins from the selection of samples designer Astrid Carmichael brought over. But it was Nora’s idea—surprise, surprise—that I should wear my hair down.
Why not? It seems to make the girls happy, seeing it on display. And although Max loves having it to himself, I suspect he’ll get a kick of seeing it all properly styled, instead of kinky and messy from having been bundled into plaits as usual.
The hair stylist runs her skilful fingers through my locks, shaking out the curls.
I stare at my reflection. Honestly, I barely recognise myself.
The makeup makes me look fresh and dewy, which, in late December, is a bloody miracle.
My blue eyes pop against the perfectly blended brown liner, and my hair cascades over my shoulders in the most perfect tumble of blowsy curls.
I feel less like a frazzled mum who’s been up since five and more like a princess.
Or a movie star en route to the Oscars, or something.
I thank the stylist profusely for transforming me and step out of the chair so Sadie can take her turn. Not that she needs much help. She’s in a form-fitting bronze mini-dress. Ned will lose his life when he sees her.
Evelyn draws me into the gaggle of women standing around on the plush white carpet of her enormous bedroom. ‘Looking good, future sister-in-law,’ she says with a wink.
‘Oh my gosh,’ I say. ‘Don’t tempt fate.’
‘The man’s smitten. And now he’s a viral social media star and poster-child for standing up for your kids, you’ve got no excuse not to marry him.’
‘I’ll say yes,’ I promise. God, just the idea of marrying Max makes my knees want to give out. I was thrilled to walk down the aisle with Felix. Happy, excited, hopeful.
But Max?
The mere idea of Max standing at the top of an aisle somewhere, looking insanely hot in a suit and promising to be mine and Toby and Daisy’s forever?
It’s enough to make me swoon. Hard.
If my girlfriends’ reactions to Dressed Up Molly were sweet, Max’s is as gratifying as I could ever hope for.
My dress is hidden under a very large black coat when I arrive for the outdoor fun and games—think fire pit and marshmallows and entertainers and choir—but my hair is on full display.
And when we move indoors and I lose the coat and my boots in favour of some sleek heels, he goes quiet, and his eyes go feral.
He slides an arm around my waist and yanks me flush against him.
‘Doesn’t Mummy look beautiful, kids?’ he asks, without taking his eyes off me. I swear, the look he’s giving me right now could melt my underwear right off.
‘So pretty, Mummy,’ Toby says, sliding a hand into mine.
‘You look like a princess!’ Daisy tells me.
I beam down at her. ‘Thank you, sweethearts. You look like a princess too, Daze. And our boys look so handsome.’
‘Look the other way for a sec, kids,’ Max orders, and they turn around, squealing dramatically and covering their eyes. He may have made them do this a few times in the past week since we went public with our relationship.
And then my boyfriend gazes into my eyes, and plants his gorgeous, warm, firm lips to mine as his hand curves possessively over my bum.
‘So. Fucking. Beautiful,’ he mutters against my lips. ‘I can’t wait to peel this off you later. Spread you out so you’re nothing but skin and hair. Just the way I like you.’
I shiver at the roughness in his voice as much as the movements of his hands over my body. I suspect our behaviour is on the brink of becoming non-family-friendly, and this is a family party, after all.
We eat, drink, and make merry. We dance as a foursome, and we have a blast with the rest of this huge, crazy, loving Sorrel Farm family.
The found family that welcomed me and Tobes and Daze in with so much enthusiasm when Angus first hooked me up with my job and our home.
The kids are delighted to see Clara’s twins, and Daisy befriends little Rose on the dance floor, twirling her around until it’s a miracle they don’t wipe out.
It’s so odd, and miraculous, to think that if Evelyn’s prophecy comes true, Daisy and Rose will be step-cousins one day.
Sadie and Ned have wisely left Isabelle at home, and they’re slow dancing, her cheek against his chest, her expression more contented than I’ve ever seen.
She told me they got together at this very event three years ago.
Saoirse and Miles, whose cake I designed, are here too with Miles’ daughter, Bea.
They’re celebrating the anniversary of their first kiss, also at this event.
Seems to me there’s something in the water at the Sorrel Farm winter party.
Saoirse gushes again about the cake I made for them and says she hasn’t stopped giving my name out since the wedding.
She’s sweet, and her willingness to spread the word bodes well if I do decide to take the plunge and go out on my own.
I even bump into Paul on my way to the bar. He’s with his girls, and all three of them look picture-perfect. He greets me with two kisses and a wistful glance at my hair.
‘I always wondered what it looked like down,’ he says, before pressing his lips together with a little smile, like he’s said too much.
I’m not sure what to reply to that statement, so I return his smile.
‘I saw your friend Max went viral,’ he volunteers.
‘Ah, yes.’ My mouth twists. ‘The Kent bush telegraph is alive and well.’
‘Yeah. I’ve seen it on at least five school-related chats. Good for him.’ He pauses. ‘I’m glad you and your children have him in your corner.’
‘Thanks,’ I tell him. ‘That’s really nice of you.’
‘I saw you guys together earlier, too.’ He raises his eyebrows drily. ‘Looks like he’s no longer just helping you with childcare. Except I suspect he was always a lot more than that, really.’
‘You’re right,’ I admit. ‘He was. It took us a while to work that out, though.’
‘I’m glad you’re happy.’ He nods like he really is. ‘Merry Christmas to you.’
‘Merry Christmas,’ I echo as he turns away to lead his girls by the hand onto the dance floor.
He’s such a nice guy. He’ll be an incredible catch for someone.
It’s just that my heart has only really ever, properly, belonged to one man.
MAX
We get the kids to bed between us. They’re far too tired for baths. Instead, we wash their faces, give their toothbrushes a token whirl in their mouths and stick them in their beds.