Chapter 11
Help for ODD
Christa
The call with Geoff ends and the flat goes quiet again.
I leave my phone where it is and don’t move for a second, just sit there listening to the fridge hum and the neighbour upstairs pacing like they’re training for something competitive.
Dinner waits on the coffee table. Soup. A pale orange one that smells faintly of cumin and optimism. I pick up the bowl, take a mouthful, and swallow slowly.
It tastes exactly how it looks.
Netflix is already playing. I remember hitting play at some point, probably while the microwave was counting down. An American film. Bright lighting. People talking fast. Houses with massive kitchens.
I eat without watching properly, eyes drifting in and out of focus. Halfway through the bowl, something on screen pulls my attention back.
A man is standing on a pavement, phone in hand. The camera moves closer. He’s scrolling.
A list fills the screen.
Short descriptions. Times. Prices.
He stops on one, reads it, shrugs, taps accept.
I frown slightly and take another spoonful.
The next scene, he’s carrying boxes. Someone thanks him. His phone pings. He smiles and scrolls again.
I shift on the sofa, tucking one leg under me. The bowl tips slightly. I steady it without looking.
On screen, more jobs slide past. A dog walk. Sorting paperwork. Building flat-pack furniture.
I glance around my flat without really meaning to.
The shoes by the door, lined up. My bag hanging where I won’t trip over it. The unopened post stacked neatly, oldest at the bottom.
Organisation has always come easily to me.
Not in a colour-coded, label-maker way that needs applauding.
Just… naturally. Lists make sense. Systems make sense.
I know what needs doing and I do it, usually before anyone else realises it’s a problem.
I even have a cleaning rota pinned inside a cupboard door, which is faintly ridiculous considering the entire flat could be hoovered in the time it takes to boil a kettle.
Still. The plan exists.
On screen, the man is already onto the next thing, phone in hand, scrolling with the ease of someone who knows what he’s good at. I watch him for a moment longer than necessary.
The job I do during the day is basically a running to-do list for other people, held together by phone calls, emails, and the assumption that I’ll deal with it.
Reception isn’t one job. It’s hundreds of tiny ones. Answer this. Fix that. Chase them. Remind her. Sort it. Smile while you do.
The film carries on. Another task accepted. Another small problem lifted off someone else’s shoulders.
I frown slightly, spoon hovering over the bowl, then lower it back down.
Is that… really a thing?
I pick up my phone, curiosity getting the better of me. My thumb hesitates, then moves.
Search: Task app. Help with errands.
The results load faster than I expect.
I scroll.
Jobs. Listings. People asking for help with things that look oddly familiar. Admin. Organisation. Errands. Sorting. The same kind of requests I field all day, only here they’re written down plainly, without tone or expectation.
I shift on the sofa again, soup forgotten on the coffee table, phone warm in my hand as I scroll a little further.
Huh.
My thumb freezes.
The name jumps out at me, ridiculous enough to feel intentional.
Task-Goblin.
I snort softly and tap it before I can overthink it.
The website loads fast. Clean. No corporate waffle. No smiling stock photos of people pretending to enjoy teamwork. Just text, centred and unapologetic.
Anything you need doing.
Big or small. One-off or ongoing.
Post a task. Set your budget.
Moving house.
Flat-pack furniture.
Dog walking.
Waiting in for a delivery.
Admin.
Inboxes.
Calendars.
Sorting the things you keep not sorting.
Goblins choose the tasks they have the skills for.
You choose who does the work.
No judgement. No obligation. Just jobs.
I flick my thumb again.
Photos this time. Not polished. Not curated. A bloke carrying a sofa up a narrow stairwell. Someone crouched on a floor surrounded by cardboard and Allen keys. A woman walking three dogs that look like they all regret their life choices. Screenshots of inboxes reduced from chaos to zero.
It’s not selling a dream. It’s selling relief.
I press the call button before I can talk myself out of it.
Ivy answers on the third ring. “If this is about ice cream again, I can’t help you.”
“Do you think,” I say, staring at the screen on my phone, “I could be a task-goblin.”
There’s a beat.
Then she laughs, a surprised snort slipping out. “A what?”
“A task-goblin,” I repeat, because apparently I’m committing to this. “It’s an app. People post jobs. Any jobs. Admin. Errands. Flat-pack furniture. Dog walking. Moving house. Literally anything. And you just… accept the ones you know you can do.”
She hums. I can picture her frowning slightly, processing. “And you want to be one of the goblins.”
“Yes.”
“Christa,” she says carefully, “you already do that. They just don’t pay you nearly enough for it.”
“I know,” I say. “That’s the point.”
Another pause. “Are you planning to give up your job?”
“No,” I say quickly. “Well. Not straight away. I was thinking more… try it. See how many jobs I can get. See if it’s even a thing.”
“Testing the waters,” she says.
“Dipping a toe,” I agree. “Possibly a foot. No full-body plunge.”
Ivy snorts. “You realise people will be annoying.”
“I deal with annoying daily.”
“That’s fair.”
I glance back at the app, at the neat lists, the boundaries spelled out in black and white. “I could choose,” I say. “That’s the bit I like. Say yes to what I’m good at. Say no to the rest.”
She goes quiet for a moment. Thoughtful quiet, not judgemental quiet.
“You’d be brilliant,” she says finally. “Annoyingly brilliant. People would love you.”
I smile, small and private. “You think.”
“I know. Also,” she adds, “‘task-goblin’ is the most on-brand thing you’ve ever said.”
I laugh. The tension I hadn’t noticed loosens a notch.
“I’m not doing anything yet,” I say. “I’m just… looking.”
“Uh-huh,” Ivy says. “Famous last words.”
I hang up and set the phone down for a second, staring at the bright television screen where the film has long since moved on without me.
The soup is cold. I don’t care.
I pick the phone back up.
Just to look.
There’s a knock at the door.
Not the aggressive this is a delivery you forgot about knock. A tentative one. Two taps, pause, then one more, like whoever it is might apologise if I don’t answer.
I slide off the sofa and pad across, checking the peephole out of habit.
Geoff.
I open the door a crack. “Are you lost?”
He looks down at what he’s holding. Two tubs. Branded. Condensation beading on the sides.
“I come bearing sugar offerings,” he says. “And dairy.”
I open the door all the way.
“Strawberries and cream,” I say, immediately suspicious. “Where did you get those?”
“Went to three shops,” he replies. “Turns out limited edition means people get feral.”
Something warm flickers in my chest. I ignore it aggressively.
“You realise,” I say, stepping aside to let him in, “that this sets a dangerous precedent.”
He smiles. “I live to take risks.”
He hands me one of the tubs like it’s precious cargo. Our fingers brush and I very much ignore the tingle that causes.
He looks around my flat. Takes it in. The coffee table. The folded sofabed. The calendar. The suspiciously tidy everything.
“Cosy,” he says.
“That’s one word for it.”
He perches on the edge of the sofa while I grab spoons. Time to eat straight from the tubs like adults who have given up pretending otherwise.
“So,” I say, after a mouthful. “How’s your ODD?”
He freezes. Spoon halfway to his mouth. “My what?”
“ODD,” I repeat. “Overly Dramatic Dick.”
He chokes. Actually chokes.
I thump his back once, entirely too aware of how solid he feels under my hand. “You alright?”
He coughs, then laughs, breathless. “Christa. That is… wow.”
“Accurate though.”
He exhales and shakes his head. “I went to therapy. Ivy gave me Pee-Pee’s details.”
“Oh, the infamous Phyllis Philpott. If she ever finds out Ivy calls her Pee-Pee, she will probably black list her for life,” I giggle. “So… did Pee-Pee fix your penis?”
He snorts. “No. It seems like it’s not a mechanical issue you can just fix.”
“Shame,” I say. “I was picturing WD-40.”
He nudges my knee with his. “She suggested I date.”
I blink. “You already do that.”
“Without sex,” he adds.
I pause. Slowly lower my spoon. “Bold strategy.”
“She thinks,” he says, a little sheepish now, “that maybe I should get to know women without… pressure. A kind of bedroom ban, so to speak.”
“What is it with this woman and banning things? First Ivy, now you. But you are allowed to date?”
He laughs, rubbing a hand over his face. “In fact, she wants me to date. I’m just not taking anyone into the bedroom.”
“Technically,” I say lightly, “unless you were planning to build a blanket fort with the woman, there wouldn’t be a point of taking her to bed in the first place. ODD and all.”
There’s a beat.
Then he tips his head back and laughs. A full-bodied laugh.
“Harsh,” he says. “But fair.”
I grin, unable to help it. “I aim for accuracy.”
We sit there, legs brushing, eating ice cream far too quickly. The room feels smaller. Warmer. Like something’s settled.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, nodding at the tub. “For the ice cream.”
He looks at me. Really looks at me. “Anytime. Whatever you or the baby need.”
“I wonder what your dates will think about that.” I wink.
He snorts, breaking eye contact first, and digs his spoon into the tub like it’s suddenly fascinating.
“I’m not planning to open with it,” he says. “Hello, I’m Geoff. I bring dairy to pregnant women and have complicated feelings about bedrooms.”
“Missed opportunity,” I say. “Really sets expectations.”
I tilt my head, considering him. The earnestness. The way he’s half-joking, half-terrified.
“Well,” I say, tapping my spoon against the side of the tub, “if you’re meant to focus on conversation and connection, I could help.”
He looks at me. “How.”
“Practice,” I say. “Pick my brain. Run things past me. First impressions. Red flags. What not to say if you don’t want someone to fake a phone call to escape.”
He blinks. “You’re offering to coach me.”
“I am,” I confirm. “Think of it as dating rehearsal. No bedroom. Very on brand.”
A smile tugs at his mouth. “You’d do that.”
“Absolutely. I have opinions. Many of them.”
He chuckles, scooping up more ice cream. “I feel like that’s a threat.”
“It is,” I say lightly. “But a constructive one.”
He considers this for a moment, then nods. “Alright. Deal.”
“Good,” I say. “Rule one: if you say ‘My dick is on strike’ on a first date, I’m confiscating your phone.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Fair.”
“And rule two,” I add, “if a woman asks you what you’re looking for, don’t say ‘I don’t know’ like it’s a personality trait.”
He groans. “I’ve done that.”
“I know,” I say. “It’s why I’m here.”
He grins at me, warmth flickering in his eyes. “Thank you.”
“For the dating advice?” I ask. “Invoice pending.”
“For… everything,” he corrects, quieter.
The ice cream melts between us, neither of us in any hurry to finish it.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a sensible voice clears its throat.
I ignore it.
This feels harmless.
Helpful.
Entirely sensible.
Probably.