Chapter 6
Ambitious and Deeply Uneven
Christa
Geoff opens the door looking like a man who has recently realised he is out of his depth and the tide is still coming in.
His dark hair has been run through too many times to be accidental. There’s a faint smear on his sleeve. Tomato, I think.
“Oh, thank fuck you're here,” he whispers.
That’s my cue.
Lucy is on the sofa, arms crossed so tightly she’s practically hugging herself. Her fringe is… present. Ambitious. Deeply uneven. She is staring straight ahead like someone who has been unfairly accused by the universe.
Right.
Only then do I notice how amazing Geoff’s flat is.
Big. Calm. Exposed brick and high ceilings doing their best impression of a place that does not usually host small emotional crises.
Everything looks chosen. Thought through.
A home designed for one adult man who likes things to stay where he put them.
And yet here we are.
“Hello, Lucy,” I say lightly, crouching to her level without making a production of it. “I hear there’s been some creativity this afternoon.”
Lucy does not look at me.
“She’s upset,” Geoff whispers, hovering like a man waiting for a verdict. “And Theo is going to murder me.”
“We’ll circle back to Theo,” I murmur. “Later.”
I keep my focus on Lucy.
“Ivy’s fringe is nice,” Lucy says suddenly, voice thick.
“It is,” I agree easily. “I like Ivy’s fringe too.”
That earns me a sideways glance.
“I wanted one,” she mutters.
“Naturally,” I say. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t. Ivy is very stylish.”
That gets her attention.
“I tried to do it myself,” Lucy says, defensive now.
“I can see that,” I reply calmly. “That took courage.”
Behind me, Geoff makes a small, strangled sound.
“I wasn’t naughty,” Lucy adds quickly.
“I know,” I say at once. “You were creative. There’s a difference.”
Her shoulders drop a fraction. “Daddy says scissors are for grown-ups.”
“He’s right,” I say. “But grown-ups also fix things when experiments go a bit sideways.”
Lucy peers at me, suspicious but hopeful. “Can you make it like Ivy’s?”
“I can make it similar to Ivy’s,” I say carefully. “Important difference.”
Geoff lets out another strained sigh that suggests regret and desperation in equal measure.
I glance up at him. “Relax. I cut my own fringe.”
His eyes widen. “That’s not reassuring.”
“It should be,” I reply. “I’ve been doing it for twenty years and I still have friends.”
Lucy brightens. “You cut your own hair?”
“All the time,” I say. “Mostly out of spite.”
That earns me a smirk. A small one, but it’s there.
I stand and scan the room. “Where are the scissors.”
Geoff points to the counter like it might explode if I touch it. I pick them up, check the blades, then crouch back down in front of Lucy.
“Right,” I say. “I need you to sit up on the kitchen island so I can see properly.”
Lucy shakes her head immediately. “I’m not allowed to climb onto cupboards.”
She’s not wrong. Points for consistency.
Geoff steps in before I can negotiate. “Exception,” he says, already scooping her up. “Special circumstances.”
Lucy considers this, then accepts her fate with a sigh of martyrdom as he settles her on the kitchen island. He positions himself behind her without being asked, hands resting lightly on her shoulders, steady and protective in a way that feels instinctive rather than practiced.
I glance up and catch his eye.
I wink.
He blinks, startled, then smiles despite himself.
And there it is. The thing he doesn’t usually let people see. No confidence, no charm, no easy humour. Just concern. Care. A man who wants to get this right.
Vulnerability suits him. It’s quieter than his usual cockiness, but far more compelling. Add that to his looks of tall, dark (with a tiny bit of grey), and extraordinarily handsome, and you have a formula that will make every woman cream her knickers.
“Okay,” I say, professional now. “Lucy, eyes forward. Uncle Geoff, no commentary unless I ask.”
“I’ll behave,” he says quietly.
I lift the fringe again, fingers gentle, keeping it even. Lucy sits very still on the kitchen island, legs dangling, hands folded in her lap with exaggerated care, like she’s been given a very important job.
“Perfect,” I murmur. “Just like that.”
She nods once and freezes.
I catch Geoff's eye over the top of her head, and he gives a small, helpless grin.
Snip. Snip.
I step back, tilt my head, then go in for one last corrective cut. Nothing dramatic. Nothing irreversible. Just enough to suggest intention rather than enthusiasm.
“There,” I say, lowering my hands. “Ivy-adjacent.”
Lucy slides off the island immediately. “I want to see.”
“Obviously,” I say. “Mirror time.”
Geoff doesn’t hesitate. He lifts her straight back up, settling her on his hip like its muscle memory, and carries her towards the three doors at the end of the room. I follow at an easy pace, unhurried, the crisis already easing.
He stops in front of the bathroom sink and angles her slightly so she can see herself in the mirror. Lucy leans forward, studying her reflection with the seriousness of someone assessing a very important decision.
She tilts her head. Then the other way.
“It looks like Ivy’s,” she says.
“Similar,” I reply. “Yours has a bit more personality.”
Lucy smiles at that. “Mine is fancy.”
“It is,” I agree.
Geoff watches her in the mirror, his grip steady, careful not to rush her. He looks different like this. Grounded. Protective without being showy. The panic has gone, leaving something quieter behind.
“I like it,” Lucy decides at last.
“Very stylish!” I say. “And it’s not in your eyes anymore.”
She nods, then her face tightens a little. “Daddy might be cross.”
Geoff shifts his weight. “Daddy might be surprised.”
Lucy frowns. “I didn’t mean to be naughty.”
I step closer. “I know. And you won’t be in trouble. We’ll tell him you wanted to be like Ivy.”
She looks from him to me. “Promise?”
Geoff answers before I can. “Promise.”
That seems to be what she needs. She pats his shoulder once, tentative, then wriggles to be put down. He lowers her and she scampers back towards the living room, crisis already shrinking in the rear-view mirror.
Geoff stays by the sink for a moment, hands braced, staring at nothing.
“Theo is going to kill me,” he says finally.
I snort. “Murder feels dramatic. I’m predicting loud sighing, a lecture, and at least one very expressive pause.”
“He’s very expressive,” Geoff mutters.
“That’s not a crime,” I say. “Yet.”
He glances at me, a little wild-eyed. “Will you… stay?”
I raise an eyebrow. “For the fallout?”
“For the trial,” he corrects. “I’ll need a witness when I’m inevitably executed.”
I laugh. “I’m fairly certain Theo doesn’t own a weapon.”
“He has words,” Geoff says darkly. “Sharp ones.”
I consider him for half a second, then shrug. “Alright. I’ll stay.”
His shoulders drop like I’ve just granted him parole.
“Thank you,” he says, relief plain.
“Think of me as moral support,” I add. “And a character witness.”
“That implies I have character,” he says.
“Debatable,” I reply, smiling.
As we head back into the living room, something nudges at the back of my mind. Not panic. Not dread. Just a persistent, irritating awareness.
I’ve been circling this moment for a week now. Wondering how to say it. When to say it. Rehearsing versions that sound too dramatic or too casual or like I’m trying to control the narrative before it’s even begun.
And now here I am. In his flat. Standing beside him while he worries about being murdered by his brother over a fringe.
If there’s some sort of higher power watching over this mess, it’s being very unsubtle.
I glance at Geoff as he moves back into the kitchen, checking on Lucy, automatically gentle again now that the crisis has passed.
Maybe this is the nudge.
Not tell him now, obviously. I’m not a monster. Lucy is still here, and no child needs to overhear life-altering revelations between tea and felt tips.
But soon. Once she’s gone. Once the flat is quiet.
I feel oddly calm about it.
As if whatever goddess, fate, or cosmic busybody is in charge has decided I’ve had enough time to overthink it.
Fine.
I take the hint.
By the time the front door closes behind Theo and Lucy, the flat feels twice its size.
Theo’s reaction had been loud. Not shouting exactly, but very pointed sentences delivered with the careful restraint of a man determined to be reasonable.
There had been hands on hips. A slow inhale.
Several reminders about scissors, supervision, and the fact that children do not need fringe autonomy at five.
Geoff had taken it. All of it. Head bowed. Apologetic. Properly contrite.
And then Lucy had looked up at her father, lower lip wobbling and eyes shining.
“I just wanted to be like Ivy.”
That had done it.
Theo’s shoulders had dropped instantly, the fight leaving him like air from a punctured balloon. He’d knelt down, pulled her into a hug, and murmured reassurances about not being cross, how Ivy would think her fringe was lovely, and how everyone makes mistakes.
Corbin men. Absolute softies. All of them pretending to be stern until a child looks at them like that.
The rest had been logistics. Coats. Shoes. One last warning glance at Geoff that said we will talk later. Lucy had waved enthusiastically, already over it.
And now it’s just me and Geoff.
He stands in the middle of the living room, hands on his hips, staring at nothing.
“Well,” he says eventually. “That went better than expected.”
I tilt my head. “You survived.”
“Barely.”
He exhales, then laughs quietly, the sound edged with leftover adrenaline. “I genuinely thought he was going to ground me.”
“You deserved it,” I say kindly.
“I know.”
We stand there for a moment, the flat settling around us again. No felt tips. No humming. Just the quiet buzz of the building and the faint clink of cooling walls.
Geoff rubs the back of his neck. “Thank you. For staying. For… everything.”
“You’re welcome,” I say. “You handled it.”
“I panicked.”
“Yes,” I agree. “But you recovered. That’s the important bit.”
He nods, absorbing that.
The silence stretches. Not awkward. Charged in a low, steady way.
This is it.
The quiet I’ve been waiting for. The moment without children or chaos or convenient distractions. I can feel it settling into place, heavy and inevitable.
I glance at him. At the man who just took a dressing down from his brother, who steadied a five-year-old on his hip without thinking, who looked genuinely undone by the idea of getting it wrong.
If there’s some higher power orchestrating things, it’s being laughably obvious now.
I take a breath.
“Geoff,” I say.
He looks up. “Yeah?”
And just like that, every rehearsed version evaporates.
This isn’t about perfect timing or polished delivery. It’s about honesty. About not dodging anymore.
“I need to tell you something,” I say.
He straightens slightly, attentive, open in that quiet way that makes it impossible to hide behind jokes.
“Okay,” he says.
“I’m pregnant.”