Rule One
Anything Can Happen
IN THE BEGINNING, there is life. And it’s wonderful. But persistent. It grows like a weed and it wriggles into every corner of the world, expanding and changing. And space is limited. So there becomes a need for death. We’ve all heard it before, right? The necessary evil. The unexplained, unavoidable end to everybody’s story. Everybody gets their turn at life and everybody gets their turn at death.
You’re all very good at pretending that you accept that, but I know you don’t really. It’s in your eyes. At funerals, at hospitals, when you watch those soppy documentaries on television. Part of you wonders why we can’t just try a world with immortality, just to see what happens.
Of course there’s a real reason why you can’t get that thought out of your head: it’s because you’re hoping that if you keep thinking it, it will happen and you won’t have to die. You’ll be the first, the one and only, the miracle. The one to cheat death.
But you won’t. I’m not trying to sound ominous here. I’m not waiting behind your door with a knife or something. I’m just speaking from a position of authority and clearing away any misconceptions you might have. In the end, it will happen. In the end, it will be your turn. There’s billions of different choices being made by people across the world every day and one of those will, no matter how unknowingly, be the one that guides you toward your final hour. Someone offers you your first cigarette, someone doesn’t check the brakes on their car, someone passes on their genes. Anything can happen and I suppose I’ll be waiting for you when it does.
And yes, I’m aware that you’ve had to leave behind your family and no, I can’t change that for you. Boxes have to be ticked, quotas have to be met.
Life has to end and I have to arrive, sooner or later.
* * *
It starts around seven. The snow that is. Predictably, London grinds to a halt as the ground is dusted with the lightest smattering of the stuff, so much so that I’m twenty minutes late for dinner. Honestly, you would have thought the bus driver was driving across an iceberg, the speed he was going.
Despite the snow, the restaurant is still packed. Then again, it is a bit of a sanctuary. The combination of candles and radiators and people is enough to raise the temperature significantly, which I’m grateful for when I’m really not dressed for the arctic winter. Tonight’s date night, after all and Eric has been texting me all day about how much he’s looking forward to it, so I sort of felt that sweaters and jeans weren’t really going to cut it.
He sits across from me, fingers tapping incessantly against the wood. One leg jiggles under the table, causing my cutlery to tinkle softly as they hit against each other. A tiny earthquake.
“Eric, you’re acting like this is our first date.” He glances up from his plate of carbonara, eyes wide so I can see every little speck of toffee brown in there. “And now you look like you’ve just been caught pissing in the shower—what’s going on?” I say, laughing. But he doesn’t join in. Something is definitely up.
“Sorry,” he replies after a beat of silence. He looks genuinely apologetic. “Just got a lot on my mind.”
“Anything you want to share?” My voice is light, like I’m not bothered, but I’ve got a slight fluttering of fear in my throat. Things have been great between us for a decent amount of time now—but of course there’s the inevitable paranoia that I’ve only just not noticed all the signs and this is him about to break up with me. I’m already considering how I’ll tell my parents without causing a complete shitstorm when I notice that he’s speaking again.
“...and you know how much I love spending time with you, Daisy, but I want more...”
Here it comes. He wants more. So he wants someone else. He wants someone who knows how to have a serious conversation without injecting sarcasm into it every five seconds. Someone who’s a proper grown-up, not one who doesn’t really understand how her taxes work. I’m preparing for the inevitable, holding back the tears and the misdirected anger, when Eric pulls something from his pocket and places it on the table.
I’m so floored by the action that it takes me a whole five seconds to register what it is. There’s the predictable, heart-stopping moment when I think it might be a ring, but a closer look dispels that idea. Instead, it’s a key with a smart pink leather keyring attached to it, embossed with a golden “D”—for Daisy, I presume. I look back over at Eric with a frown.
“A key?” I ask, realizing that I’m probably being incredibly slow.
Eric laughs, warm and confident. Clearly, now he’s started with his big announcement, he doesn’t feel quite as nervous anymore. Well, bully for him. “Yeah, a key. It’s a key to the flat, Daisy.”
“Your flat?”
“Yeah.” He leans across and takes my hand, squeezing it firmly. “We’ve been going out a while now, Daisy. And you’re really special to me. So I want to take things further.” He draws in a deep breath, like a ringmaster about to announce the main attraction. “I want you to move in with me.”
I wonder distantly if the entire restaurant can hear my thudding heart. It takes me a second to take in his words, to fathom the fact that he’s just asked me to live with him. Me. The grumpy marketing assistant who only met him in the first place because he needed nagging about a late piece of paperwork. Anything can happen, I suppose.
“Wow,” I say finally, once my voice has found its way back to my throat again. “Eric, this is amazing, I mean—wow!”
Eric raises an eyebrow, still holding my hand. “So...is that a yes?” Big brown eyes watching me, drawing me in to the big next step on the ladder of life, if you can excuse that atrocious cliché.
It’s easy to accept the offer. I can feel a ridiculous grin on my face as I nod, squeezing his hand back this time. “Yes, of course! I mean, it will take a while to move out and get my shit together. But yes, let’s do it. Let’s move in together.”
Eric beams at me, sitting back in the chair with that big old grin. “Brilliant,” he says. “That’s just brilliant.” He looks like the cat who just caught the mouse, though perhaps I should think of a slightly lighter metaphor. Trust me to go dark.
It’s a little difficult to continue with a normal meal after that. We try, though; time doesn’t stop just because you make a big decision and this food is fancier than our usual chain-restaurant pizza. So we go back to our food, exchange little smiles across the table, like we have this shared secret. We’d be terrible spies.
He orders pudding and I order a massive cappuccino (it’s been a long day). We talk about storage solutions for all my stuff and possible decor changes (definite decor changes, but he doesn’t need to know that yet). We get the bill; he takes it in an automatic motion and pulls out his card. He glances over to me, sensing my dislike of the action.