“And absolutely not leading anywhere.”
She beams. “Christa, I have known you since you cried over a broken stapler because it ‘felt misunderstood’. You do not do calm, safe, non-emotional intimacy.”
I scowl. “That was a stressful job.”
She leans forward, lowering her voice like she’s sharing a secret. “You and Geoff have been orbiting each other for months. Months. I always knew you were meant to be.”
I laugh, sharp and disbelieving. “You say that about everyone.”
“No,” she says. “I say that about couples who are obvious and just too emotionally constipated to notice.”
I shake my head. “This is not a romcom. This is real life. And, in real life, people can help each other without it turning intomore.”
She holds my gaze. Softens a fraction. “They can,” she agrees. “Until they realise it already is.”
“That is not happening,” I say quickly.
She smiles. Not smug. Just knowing.
“We’ll see,” she says. “Friends with baby. Friends with benefits. And one day you’ll wake up and realise you’re also… family.”
I feel that familiar tightening in my chest. The one I don’t want to name.
I stab another piece of cake and shove it into my mouth. “You are banned from saying that sentence ever again.”
She lifts her cup in surrender. “Fine. I’ll just think it very loudly.”
I glare at her over my coffee.
She grins back, entirely unrepentant.
And annoyingly, terrifyingly, a small part of me doesn’t immediately dismiss the idea.
“So,” Mrs Longthorn says from my laptop screen, glasses perched halfway down her nose, “you’re absolutely sure this isn’t… too much?”
I glance at the document open in front of me. Colour-coded. Timed to the minute. Names spelled correctly. Contingencies quietly tucked in at the bottom like insurance policies.
“It’s an eight-year-old’s birthday party,” I say. “Too much is sort of the point.”
Geoff is sitting on the kitchen island opposite me, laptop open, mug slowly cooling by his elbow. He’s pretending not to listen.
He’s terrible at pretending.
“We’ve got the magician arriving at ten thirty,” I continue, clicking through. “He’s the one who specialises in small children and low ceilings. No fire. No rabbits. I’ve checked.”
Mrs Longthorn lets out a breath. “Thank God.”
“The face painter arrives straight after,” I say. “I’ve asked her to keep it to superheroes and animals. No skulls. No glitter near the eyes. She brings her own wipes.”
Geoff’s mouth twitches. He absolutely heard that.
“And the cake,” Mrs Longthorn says, leaning closer to her screen. “You’re sure about the cake?”
“I am,” I say. “Chocolate sponge. Vanilla icing. No nuts anywhere in the postcode. The dinosaur topper is edible but structurally unsound, so I’ve asked them to reinforce it.”
She studies me for a second, then nods, accepting it.
What I don’t say is that this is the moment my shoulders finally drop. The part where my brain settles into its natural rhythm. I haven’t done birthday parties before, not really. But logistics are logistics. People. Timings. Expectations. Pressure points. Those I know.
