Chapter 15
My House Goblin
Christa
Ifinish the second crumpet and immediately regret nothing.
“Just so you know,” I say, wiping my fingers on a napkin, “I’d still pay you rent.”
Geoff frowns.
“Rent,” I repeat. “Money. Monthly. I’m not moving in as a charity case or an emotionally complicated house plant.”
He blinks at me. Once. Twice. “You’d… pay rent.”
“Yes. I’m planning to give up my reception job. For being a goblin.”
He stares at me like I’ve just confessed to living under a bridge.
“A goblin,” he repeats slowly. “You’ve mentioned goblins several times now and I feel like I’ve missed a meeting.”
I sigh. “Right. Okay. Task-Goblin.”
“That does not help.”
“It’s an app,” I say patiently. “People post tasks. Any kind of task. Admin, inbox clearing, flat-pack furniture, dog walking, waiting in for deliveries, moving house, whatever they don’t want to deal with. And goblins pick the ones they have the skills for.”
He frowns harder. “And you are… one of these goblins.”
“Yes.”
“Actively.”
“Yes.”
“Professionally.”
“Yes.”
He leans back, running a hand through his hair. “And this works.”
“It does,” I say. “I’m making more than I ever did at reception.”
That lands.
His eyes flick to me, sharper now. “More.”
“Yes. Not billionaire money. But proper money. And the important bit is that if I stay working on reception, I am only ever entitled to SMP anyway. So becoming a full-time goblin would pay me much more in the short term and wouldn’t change anything through mat leave.”
He exhales. “Right.”
“The plan is to work now, take on as many tasks as makes sense, save, then actually rest during maternity leave instead of panicking about rent. And, when I’m back on my feet, I go back to goblining.”
He stares at the ceiling for a second, like he’s asking it for help.
“So your solution to being pregnant is to become self-employed and work harder.”
“Briefly,” I say. “Then I put my feet up. That’s the incentive.”
He drops his gaze back to me. “Christa. The whole point of you moving here would be to save money.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t need your money,” he says gently. “You don’t need to work. I can cover things. I want to.”
I feel something bristle immediately.
“How fascinating,” I say lightly. “I must have accidentally taken the bus to the 1950s.”
He winces. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” I say. “But I don’t want to be kept. Or rescued. Or quietly shuffled onto the sofa with a blanket and told not to worry my head about finances.”
“I wasn’t—”
“I know,” I interrupt. “And I appreciate it. Truly. But I need to know I can contribute. Not because you expect it. Because I do.”
He studies me for a moment, something thoughtful settling in his expression.
“You’re serious about this,” he says.
“Painfully,” I reply. “I’ve done spreadsheets.”
He huffs a laugh. “I’d expect nothing less.”
“And this,” I add, gesturing vaguely between us, “only works for me if I’m not giving things up that matter to me. Independence is one of those things.”
He nods slowly. “Alright.”
“Alright,” I repeat, relieved.
“But if I say yes,” he adds, holding up a finger, “we talk about numbers. And expectations. And what happens when you’re not working.”
“Yes,” I say. “Grown-up conversations. I’m on board.”
He smiles at me then, soft and a little awed. “You’re incredible.”
“Organised,” I correct. “Still different.”
He laughs, shaking his head, and for the first time since I arrived, the room settles.
Not solved. Not decided.
But balanced.
My phone rings like it’s offended by the time.
I fumble for it, half tangled in the duvet, brain still somewhere in a dream involving spreadsheets and a missing shoe. The screen glows far too brightly.
Geoff.
I squint at the clock. “It’s three in the morning,” I croak. “Are you on fire?”
“No,” he says quickly. “Everyone’s fine. Nothing’s wrong. I just—”
I close my eyes again. “This better be important or I will end you.”
He exhales down the line. I can hear movement, footsteps, like he’s pacing.
“I want you to move in,” he says.
I open one eye. “Pardon.”
“With me,” he adds.
There’s a beat while my brain attempts to reboot.
“And,” he continues, rushing now, “I was thinking about everything you said and the space and the timing and the baby and the money and it just… makes sense.”
I push myself upright against the pillows. “Geoff. It is three in the bloody morning.”
“I know. I tried to sleep. I failed spectacularly.”
I snort despite myself. “So this is an insomnia-fuelled life decision.”
“No,” he says. “This is a considered one that happens to be happening during insomnia.”
I rub my face. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Like… really sure?”
“Yes.”
“And not just panicking because your brain won’t shut up?”
“Well,” he says carefully, “that’s part of it. But, even when it shuts up, I still want this.”
I smile into the dark. Annoyingly.
“You realise,” I say, “that if I move in, I will organise your entire house.”
“That’s a selling point.”
“And I will absolutely judge your food storage.”
“I’m prepared.”
“And I am not your maid.”
“God no,” he says immediately. “I was thinking more—”
He hesitates.
“Go on.”
“I was thinking,” he says, “you could be my house goblin.”
I laugh hard. I can't help it. It's the kind of laugh that makes my stomach tighten and my voice crack. “Your house goblin?”
“Yes.”
“That sounded better in your head, didn’t it?”
“Much better,” he admits. “It was almost charming in there.”
I shift under the duvet, suddenly wide awake. “And you’re okay with all of it? Me. The goblin work. The baby. The chaos.”
“Yes,” he says simply. “It all fits. I like that it fits.”
There’s no drama in his voice. No bravado. Just certainty.
“Alright,” I say softly.
He exhales, long and relieved, like he’s been holding his breath since midnight.
“So that’s a yes.”
“It’s a yes to talking about it in the daylight,” I say. “Like sensible adults.”
“I can do daylight,” he agrees. “I just needed to say it now.”
I smile, warmth spreading in my chest.
“Get some sleep,” I tell him.
“I will,” he says. “Eventually.”
“Goodnight, Geoff.”
“Goodnight, Christa.”
The call ends. The flat falls quiet again.
I set the phone down and stare at the ceiling, heart thudding, mind racing in a completely different direction now.
House goblin.
Ridiculous.
And somehow… perfect.
I roll onto my side, smiling into the pillow.
Three a.m.
Honestly.
Friday arrives and we don’t fuck about.
That’s the first thing I notice.
Given that my flat is roughly the size of a generous wardrobe, packing it up is less move house and more relocate contents.
Once you take the sofa-bed out of the equation, there’s really nowhere for delay to hide.
By lunchtime, my entire life is in boxes, bags, and one suitcase that has seen too much.
The landlord does attempt a last-minute performance about notice periods and “standard procedure”. Theo puts on his I-was-a-lawyer-not-too-long-ago voice.
I don’t know what changes exactly. Tone, cadence, vocabulary. Possibly the implied threat of paperwork. But the conversation pivots fast. By the end, the landlord is wishing me all the best and clarifying that yes, of course, flexibility can be found.
Theo ends the call, looks at me, and says, “I should invoice him.”
By late afternoon, it’s done.
By Friday evening, I am sitting on Geoff’s sofa like a benevolent tyrant.
I have a clipboard.
This was inevitable.
“Right,” I say, scanning the room. “Corbin Three. Lamp first.”
Jasper stops mid-step. “I have a name.”
“Yes,” I say pleasantly. “But right now you’re Corbin Three.”
Theo raises his hands. “Just to clarify, we’re still not allowed to sit.”
“That is correct,” I say. “You are here to be useful.”
Ivy and Miranda are sitting beside me, perfectly still, smug in their immunity.
“We’re under strict instructions,” Ivy says sweetly. “No lifting. No bending. No heroic gestures.”
Miranda nods. “Goblin orders.”
“If either of you move,” I say without looking at them, “I will revoke tea privileges.”
Neither of them breathes.
Jasper hoists a box. “Where does this go?”
“If it says kitchen… the kitchen. Rest to my bedroom. If you’re unsure, stop touching it.”
Theo grins as he picks up another box. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I am thriving,” I reply, ticking something off the clipboard.
Geoff is hovering nearby with a roll of bin bags like he wants to help but doesn’t trust himself.
“Geoff,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Either carry something or become furniture.”
He chooses carrying.
The brothers move. Jasper grumbles but complies. Theo hums cheerfully while dismantling something that absolutely wasn’t meant to be dismantled twice. Every so often I call out a correction.
“No, that box is lying.”
“That needs to go back.”
“Who packed this and thought that was acceptable?”
“That was me,” Jasper admits.
“Reflect on that,” I tell him.
Miranda leans towards Ivy. “She’s terrifying.”
Ivy beams. “Isn’t she marvellous?”
I glance up and catch Geoff watching me. Not hovering now. Just… looking. Something in his expression softens when our eyes meet. I smile at him, small and private, then go back to the clipboard.
This is chaos, but it’s my kind of chaos. Labelled. Directed. Already settling into shape.
And as I sit there, barking orders at three Corbin brothers who are absolutely doing as they’re told, it hits me with a quiet certainty.
This wasn’t a mad idea.
This just needed proper organisation.
Which, frankly, I trust far more than fate.