The apartment, which had felt spacious and serene approximately thirty seconds ago, was now a barely-controlled riot.
Christine had commandeered the kitchen island to lay out the cake... a magnificent, three-tiered creation with a crudely but lovingly drawn Crystal Palace crest on top.
My mother, who had somehow already found the kettle, was making tea for everyone with the focused efficiency of a woman who had been feeding large groups of people her entire life. Sarah had brought a bag full of bottles and was distributing them with the tactical precision of a woman who had spent months organising training sessions.
I was still standing in the middle of it all, slightly dazed, when Eze appeared in front of me. He was holding an enormous card, the kind you could only buy from a joke shop, roughly the size of a small door. It was covered in signatures, doodles, and messages in a dozen different handwriting styles.
