Page 65 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
He nods. “I’ve done alright. Been smart with the money, invested early, didn’t blow it all on sports cars and nonsense. I could quit tomorrow and live off the portfolio.” He pauses. “Might even be better for my mental welfare.”
Theo lets out a low whistle. “So why haven’t you?”
Geoff shrugs. “Maybe I needed one more Christmas covered in fake snow and sequin rage to finally tip the scales.”
I lean against the counter, swirling the whisky in my glass. “Well. When you do retire, I’ll be right there with you. We’ll start a podcast. Call itMen Who’ve Had Enough.”
“You joke,” Geoff says, “but I’d do it. Come with me to New York. We can drink overpriced cocktails and heckle Father Christmas in Central Park.”
I laugh. “Tempting. But no.”
“Come on. Better than sitting around here eating a steak for one. You are getting broodier by the day. A break would do you good.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But I’ve got no desire to celebrate Christmas in a hotel room surrounded by over-decorated lobby trees and strangers in matching pyjamas.”
Geoff tilts his head. “Fair. But you really want to spend it alone?”
“Don’t start,” I mutter. “I’m not joining your reindeer-papped misery tour. Christmas Day will be me and a nice steak.”
Theo shifts in his seat. “Well, look. If you don’t want to sit around sulking in your flat with nothing but leftover steak and self-pity for company, at least come to ours for Boxing Day.”
I glance up.
“We bought enough food to feed a small militia,” he continues. “Lucy will be knee-deep in wrapping paper and unicorn slime. You might as well be fed while being forcibly included in a tea party.”
Geoff grins. “Sounds festive. And mildly terrifying.”
“It’s a deal,” I say. “Thanks.”
Theo lifts his mug. “Good. One proper roast and we’ll call it even.”
“Until next year,” I add. “We’ll do a proper family Christmas back in Guernsey. Full on turkey Christmas dinner, bad crackers, and Mum judging our life choices from behind a sherry glass.”
“Sounds horrifying,” Geoff says. “I’m in.”
“Same,” Theo echoes. “I’ll bring the Gaviscon.”
We all raise our drinks in a slightly chaotic toast, then the call fizzles out with the usual chorus of sarcastic goodbyes and one last jab from Geoff about my cooking.
The kitchen falls quiet again.
I finish the last bite of dinner, rinse the plate, and load it into the dishwasher.
That’s when the doorbell rings.
I pause, wiping my hands on a tea towel. It's late. Unexpected.
I head to the door, wondering who that could be, and find Miranda looking at me.
She’s standing on the step in her coat, cheeks pink, hair a little windswept, and her expression somewhere between determined and slightly giddy.
She grins. “I accept your offer.”
I blink. “...My offer?”
“To help me relax.” She gives a small flourish, like she’s presenting a prize on a questionable game show. “You remember. From the world's most mortifying conversation.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you drunk?”
