Chapter 13
Goblin Life
Christa
Calling in sick was the best idea I’ve had in weeks.
One carefully worded email. A strategic mention of nausea. A polite nod to my condition. Enough truth wrapped around the lie to make it untouchable. I’d hit send and waited.
No follow-up questions. No requests to just pop in for an hour. No passive-aggressive reminder about how busy things were. That told me everything I needed to know.
I spread the receipts out on the coffee table and immediately run out of space.
The table was clearly designed for mugs, not ambition, but I make it work anyway, shuffling paper into rows and nudging my laptop closer with my knee.
The flat is quiet in that late-evening way where everything feels temporarily paused, like the world is giving me a moment to think.
Task-Goblin has slipped into my life with alarming ease. I hadn’t planned it that way. I’d told myself I was just trying it out, seeing what was there, proving to myself it wasn’t ridiculous. Then the jobs started coming in.
Inbox clear-outs. Calendar rescues. Life admin that had been sitting untouched because people were too tired or too overwhelmed to deal with it.
I’d been picky from the start. Nothing involving heavy lifting.
Nothing that required pretending I had more energy than I did.
Just the things I’m good at. The things I already do, only this time without someone hovering, barking, or acting like it’s a personal favour.
I flip a receipt over and jot the amount down in my notebook. One job had taken an hour and paid more than a full morning at reception. Another had been so straightforward I’d felt almost guilty accepting the money. Almost.
I open the spreadsheet. Because of course there’s a spreadsheet.
Dates run neatly down one side. Tasks logged across the top. Fees added without rounding up, because I refuse to lie to myself even when optimism would be convenient. I start adding again, tapping numbers into the cells and watching the total climb in small, sensible increments.
I pause, then adjust a figure.
Three evenings a week, comfortably. Four if I’m careful. Higher-paying admin jobs only. Nothing that leaves me wrecked the next day.
The number changes.
I lean back against the sofa and rest my tea on the floor, having forgotten to drink it again. My hand drifts to my stomach without thinking, then stills. That part still feels strange. Like something I haven’t quite caught up with yet.
I glance at the calendar on the wall. Colour-coded, obviously. Workdays blocked out. A few evenings already marked where I’ve booked myself for tasks like I’m my own boss and can’t quite believe my nerve.
My phone buzzes.
Ivy
How’s goblin life?
Me
Surprisingly lucrative
Ivy
I remain unsurprised
Me
Also, no one has died without me on reception today
Ivy
Tragic
I smile and set the phone down.
I stare at the spreadsheet again, then at the calendar, then back at the numbers like they might rearrange themselves if I give them long enough.
Fifteen weeks.
I pick up my phone before I can overthink it and call Ivy.
She answers almost immediately. “Are you looking for verbal reassurance?”
“No, help with maths,” I say.
She groans. “Worse.”
“I’ve just hit fifteen weeks,” I tell her. “Which means if I leave my job now, I still get SMP.”
There’s a pause. “You’re going to have to translate that into non-policy language.”
“Right. Okay,” I say, rubbing my forehead. “Statutory Maternity Pay. You qualify if you’re still employed at the end of the fifteenth week before the due date. After that, it doesn’t matter if you stay or go. You still get paid the same.”
“How much is the same,” she asks.
“You don't want to know,” I say. “But Dubois & Woods don’t offer enhanced maternity pay anyway, so I wouldn’t be losing anything by leaving. It’s literally identical whether I stay at reception or not.”
She hums. I can picture her pacing. “So if you quit now, you’d still get the money.”
“Yes.”
“And if you stayed, you’d get… the exact same money.”
“Yes. Once my maternity leave starts.”
There’s a pause on the line. I can hear Ivy breathing, thinking.
“And you can live on that,” she says finally.
“No,” I say immediately. “Absolutely not.”
“Right.”
“But this is the same if I leave now or if I stay. SMP won’t pay me enough to pay the bills,” I add, because this is the important bit, “that’s where Task-Goblin comes in.
If I resign now and take to goblin life full time, I can build up a cushion.
Do more jobs while I’ve got the energy. Put money aside so when I’m on maternity leave, I’m not panicking about every food shop. ”
I can almost see the nod. “That makes sense,” she says. “Very you.”
“And I wouldn’t be starting from scratch afterwards,” I continue. “I’d already have clients. People I can go back to. It’s not like disappearing off the face of the earth.”
“Okay,” Ivy says slowly. “I’m with you so far.”
“There’s also… Geoff,” I add.
There it is. Saying his name changes the temperature slightly, even down a phone line.
“He’s said he’ll help financially with the baby,” I say. “Which I appreciate. And it matters. But I don’t want to rely on that completely.”
“Of course not,” Ivy says. “Independence is your love language.”
I smile faintly. “Exactly.”
“The big cost is still my flat though,” I add, and glance around at it. The sofa-bed. The kitchenette. The heroic lack of storage.
Ivy laughs. “Come on. Your broom cupboard can’t cost that much.”
“Nine hundred,” I say.
She makes a noise that sounds like choking.
“Pounds,” I add, helpfully.
“Oh my God,” she splutters. “For that… cubbyhole?”
“Location, allegedly,” I say. “And the luxury of not sharing a fridge.”
There’s a beat.
Then another.
Ivy goes very quiet.
Which is never a good sign.
“…I have an idea,” she says.
I straighten immediately. “No.”
“I haven’t even said it yet.”
“I can hear it forming,” I say. “And I don’t like it.”
“Just hear me out,” she says, far too brightly.
I narrow my eyes at the wall. “This is one of those ideas that changes my life, isn’t it?”
Silence.
Then, innocently, “Maybe.”
I close my eyes.
“Absolutely not,” I say.
She sighs, long and theatrical. “I am being sensible.”
This is never true.
“Okay,” she says, all reason now. “Hear me out. What if you didn’t stay in the broom cupboard?”
“It has feelings,” I say. “And mould.”
“What if,” she continues, ignoring me completely, “you moved in with Geoff?”
I choke on air.
“No.”
“Christa.”
“No.”
“I’m not talking about romance,” she says quickly. Too quickly. “I’m talking about logistics.”
Ah. There it is. The word people use when they’re about to suggest something that will absolutely ruin your emotional equilibrium.
“He has space,” Ivy says. “Large open plan living space. Two bedrooms. More than one bathroom… I think. And he wants to be involved. This would let him be fully involved. Appointments. Day-to-day stuff. Not just swooping in with ice cream like a Disney prince with lactose.”
I open my mouth, then close it again. It was a mistake to tell her about his ice cream rescue.
“That,” I say slowly, “sounds suspiciously like matchmaking.”
“It is not,” she replies at once. “This is not me trying to engineer anything.”
I wait.
She clears her throat. “Okay, it is mostly not that.”
I snort. “Are you sure?”
“I’m just saying,” she presses on, “from a purely practical point of view, it makes sense. He’s already committed. He’s got the room. You’d save a fortune on rent. And he’d get to experience the pregnancy instead of hearing about it second-hand.”
I sink onto the edge of the sofa and stare at the floor.
“You realise,” I say, “that this is insane.”
“It’s unconventional,” Ivy counters. “There’s a difference.”
“He’s my baby’s father,” I say. “Not my partner.”
“I know.”
“And we’ve been very clear about that.”
“I know.”
“And you’re suggesting I move into his flat.”
“Yes.”
I let out a short laugh. “That’s not logic. That’s a romcom.”
She brightens. “Exactly.”
“Ivy.”
“Look,” she says, softer now. “I’m not saying you have to decide anything. I’m saying it’s an option. One that solves several problems at once.”
I picture it without meaning to. Space. Fewer stairs. Not doing mental gymnastics over rent every month. Geoff in the next room, learning the rhythm of this thing alongside me instead of orbiting it.
The thought is immediately followed by panic.
“That’s… a lot,” I say.
“Everything about this is a lot,” Ivy replies gently. “This just might be a useful kind of a lot.”
I shake my head, even though she can’t see it. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You love me.”
“I tolerate you.”
She laughs. “Think about it.”
“I will not.”
“You will,” she says calmly. “Because you’re already doing it.”
I hate that she’s right.
“I’m not saying yes,” I say.
“I didn’t ask you to,” she replies. “Yet.”
We hang up a moment later, but the idea doesn’t.
It sits there, unwelcome and stubborn, taking up space in my head like it’s already unpacked.
Moving in with Geoff.
Mad.
Completely mad.
And irritatingly, alarmingly… practical.