Daisy Cooper's Rules for Living Read online

  Rule One: Anything Can Happen

  Daisy Cooper’s life has been pretty uneventful—until the moment it suddenly ends. Unfortunately, her death is—literally—an accident: Daisy wasn’t meant to die for another fifty years. One terrible, embarrassing clerical error is behind it, and Death himself is to blame.

  As Daisy battles against her new reality, she starts to realize that letting go isn’t just a challenge faced by those left behind. And while she learns how to survive this impossible time, friendship, hope and even love begin to come alive in the most unexpected ways.

  Dripping with heart and humor, Daisy Cooper’s Rules for Living is a fresh and modern take on loss, love and friendship. It is a joyful story about our own humanity and a poignant reminder of what it truly means to live.

  “Fun, fresh—a brilliant love story with a twist.”

  —Jenny Colgan, author of The Bookshop on the Corner

  DAISY COOPER’S RULES FOR LIVING

  Tamsin Keily

  About the Author

  Tamsin Keily studied psychology before completing a postgraduate degree in primary education. She now juggles writing with her job as a primary school teacher in the UK, where she lives with her husband. Daisy Cooper’s Rules for Living is her first novel.

  For Mum,

  who taught me the power of a good pen and a pile of notebooks.

  Contents

  Rule One

  Rule Two

  Rule Three

  Rule Four

  Rule Five

  Rule Six

  Rule Seven

  Rule Eight

  Rule Nine

  Rule Ten

  Rule Eleven

  Rule Twelve

  Rule Thirteen

  Rule Fourteen

  Rule Fifteen

  Rule Sixteen

  Rule Seventeen

  Rule Eighteen

  Rule Nineteen

  Rule Twenty

  Rule Twenty-One

  Rule Twenty-Two

  Rule Twenty-Three

  Rule Twenty-Four

  Rule Twenty-Five

  Rule Twenty-Six

  Rule Twenty-Seven

  Rule Twenty-Eight

  Acknowledgments

  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.

  “Just this once, Daisy? I know it goes against your ‘independent woman striking out on her own’ vibe but this is a special occasion.”

  I roll my eyes, considering it before conceding with a nod. Well, mainly conceding. My stubbornness doesn’t quite allow me to sit there and be paid for, so I pull out my purse and tug out a few coins. “Just for the tip,” I explain as Eric begins to complain.

  He lets it go with a slight shake of his head. We may not be living together yet but he certainly knows me well enough to pick his battles.

  We leave the restaurant sometime after ten. The snow has stopped but the chill outside bites at any exposed skin, quickly and efficiently chasing away any warmth still lingering from our time inside. To add insult to injury, there’s not even any proper snow on the ground. Just a slushy, slippery mess from hundreds of feet trampling through it.

  “So...wanna bunk up at mine?” Eric asks, as he’s buttoning up his coat, eyes squinting slightly against the wind.

  It’s tempting, but I find myself shaking my head. “Probably shouldn’t. If I’ve got to tell Violet that I’m moving out, it probably shouldn’t be right after a night at yours.” Eric smiles with a slightly knowing smile, which I’m grateful for. Violet Tucker is my best friend and current flatmate. My unofficial sister, that’s what everyone says. And I wouldn’t disagree with that. It took Eric a grand total of three dates to work out that she was as ingrained in my life as salt is in the sea, and another few dates to accept that fact. Two years down the line and it seems he also understands that this new living arrangement will take delicate explaining.

  “Fair enough, thought I’d give it a try.” He rubs his hands together, blowing on them in an attempt to warm them up before he pulls his gloves on. “You busing it?”

  I nod, shivering. The gray blazer I’m wearing over my dress really isn’t doing me much good, even when paired with a scarf. “Are you cabbing it?” Eric lives in the opposite direction to me, by the river in one of these glass-and-metal creations where successful and, let’s face it, smug city slickers live. On the other hand, the lowly marketing assistant here has to settle with a basement mold-farm of a flat. And a bus rather than a cab.

  Eric already has his phone out, opening up the appropriate app and searching for a ride. As he’s doing this, he nods. “Cabbing it,” he confirms, tapping the screen a moment later with a triumphant smile. “You going to be all right?”

  As usual, my instinctive reaction to his concern is to roll my eyes. I can’t help it. I’ve survived on my own for years after all, even if most of those years haven’t been in the “big city.” Somehow, having a boyfriend seems to mean I lose all those skills. Maybe a little harsh, so I soften my response with a smile and a squeeze of his arm. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got my polar bear Taser and I’m sure the bus driver will have a spare sled.”

  Eric grins, leaning in to kiss me. When he pulls away, he gives me a jaunty wink, eyes all twinkly with excitement. “See you soon then—roomie.”

  It’s such a cliché that we both have to laugh. “You dork. See you soon.”

  With one final wave, we part ways. I glance back as I make my way toward the bus stop, watch him duck into a car. Even from a little distance away, I can see a lingering smile on his face. Happiness and triumph emanates from him, unhampered by the cold. That brings a smile of my own to my face as I step onto the just-arriving bus. Who would have thought that Eric Broad, the golden boy of Bennington & Moore Insurance, would be so pleased by giving little old me a key?

  * * *

  The journey home isn’t too long, but I spend it trying to get some sort of plan of delivery straight in my head. After eighteen years of friendship, since day one of primary school, I know Violet’s ways pretty well by now—and big news has to be shared with great care.

  By the time I get home, it’s almost midnight. Despite this, Violet is still stretched out on our slightly threadbare sofa, swathed in the fleece blanket I got her for Christmas. I don’t blame her; our flat either does freezing cold or boiling hot. Judging by the way my breath still crystallizes in front of me, I’d say it’s currently the former.

  She doesn’t turn around from her phone but does deign to wave a hand vaguely in my direction. Standard Violet behavior. “One of these days it’s not going to be me coming through that door but some burglar. Then you’ll be embarrassed,” I comment, as I kick the door shut, wedging it into the slightly warped door frame with a grunt.

  Violet sniggers, plopping her phone down on the coffee table, narrowly avoiding knocking over the ridiculous New York snow globe my mum bought us as a flat-warming gift. Once she’s satisfied it’s safe, Violet twists around to look at me. “Yeah, ’cause embarrassment is going to be my biggest concern. So, how was dinner? Did he pop the question?” she asks, resting her chin on the back of the sofa as she surveys me with eager curiosity.

  “No, he didn’t. I promise you if that ever happens, I will call you up literally as he’s doing it, so there’s really no need to keep asking.” Moving to sit beside her, I kick off my heels and let out a sigh of relief at the feeling of having my toes free once more.

  “Wuss,” Violet teases, prodding me with one finger. “I danced in higher heels than that for six hours today.”

  “The difference being that you got paid for it.”

  “If you can call those wages getting paid.” She mutters this with a huff, though there’s a grin lurking in the corners of her mouth anyway. Violet might complain about the pay but this is her biggest professional dancing job since we moved to London together, three years ago. She can’t quite hide her pride, even if she’s got bruised and battered feet.

  I don’t reply and perhaps that’s how she knows there’s something on my mind. That’s the trouble with having a friend like Violet; she knows me better than I know myself sometimes. She can predict when I need to say something before I’ve even got the words together. “So, he didn’t pop the question, but something else happened?”

  I nod, automatically worming my finger into the large hole on the arm of the sofa. As if I might find the answer in there. “He asked me to move in with him.” The words slip out after a moment of silence, in which I realize that there’s no easy way to tell her the news.

  The sofa creaks slightly as Violet shifts, so she’s facing me a little more directly. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch her chasing away a small frown. By the time
I’m looking at her properly, though, she’s smiling. “Wow, Dee. That’s amazing.” She obviously spots my concern, because she prods me with her finger again. “Oi, don’t get all droopy on me. I’ll be fine. You know I only put up with you in this flat for your tea.”

  Her voice is steady and her eyes are bright. It doesn’t exactly fool me, but, for now, it will do. So I grin, leaning across to hug her tightly. Her wild curls tickle at my nose, just like always. “It won’t be for a while, I’m sure. Plenty of time to get used to the idea.”

  Violet makes a thoughtful noise, appraising me in that examining way she often does. It makes me shift uncomfortably, an insect under the microscope.

  To escape this examination, I clap my hands together and stand up. “Anyway. Tea?”

  Violet’s turned back to her phone now I’ve stood up, but spares me a guilty look. “You’ll need to go to the shop for milk, then...”

  Typical. “You promised me that when we lived together you’d stop consuming a damn dairy every day.”

  She shoots me a grin, one finger tracing an invisible halo above her head as she watches me hunt around for some better shoes. “Love you, tit.”

  “Love you, dickhead,” I reply automatically, following our usual routine.

  So a moment later I’m stepping back out into the night, with stupid heels back on because my trainers were buried somewhere under Violet’s vast collection of shoes. Gripping my keys tightly in my hand (I don’t want to be outside for any longer than I need to be), I start down the street.

  Tugging my coat tight around me, I quicken my pace. The night is silent—or as silent as London nights can ever be—which is a nice change. No buses hissing to a halt, no planes roaring across the sky and nobody else mad enough to be out in this weather. Just me and the stars. Perhaps I should stop and appreciate this moment. But it’s too cold.

  Just as I pass the bus stop, that’s when it happens.