The End of Men(96)

“These safety measures are responsible for making driving much safer,” the mechanic says, clearly used to disgruntled customers who like the idea of safety in theory but not paying for it. “Before the Plague, women had a forty-seven percent higher chance than men of being seriously injured in a car crash.”

That makes me pause as I’m putting in my PIN. That’s actually quite a shocking statistic. Fair enough, Miranda Bridgerton, “Minister for Change.” I’ll grant you it would be nice not to die in a car crash.

“Thank you, and sorry for being a grouch,” I say, trying to sound graceful.

“That’s okay,” the mechanic says cheerfully and starts prattling on about some optional upgraded service program that would cost blah blah, when my phone rings. It’s a number I have saved in my phone as “Emergency.”

“Hello?”

“Dawn, it’s Nancy from the PM’s office. Emergency meeting has been called. The Chinese Civil War is over.”

“What did you say?”

“The war. It’s over, they’ve declared peace. The speech announcing it has gone viral. Meeting’s in an hour and a half in the usual location.”

I hang up the phone and gape. Well, I never. I never actually thought they’d manage peace. I quickly google “Chinese war” on my phone and the clip is offered up on every news website on the first page.

Fei Hong, famous since her Maria Ferreira interview, stands in a line with eleven other women. They’re all behind lecterns, each branded with a number between one and twelve.

“We are here today to announce that peace has been achieved,” Fei says. “China is now formed of twelve states. Last week a truce was called and each of the women on this stage, representing our rebel groups, met in Macau. Representatives from the four independent states of Macau, Beijing, Tianjin and Shanghai attended these meetings to ensure the truce was upheld. The condition of peace was democracy: every state will hold free, fair elections in two months’ time. A new Chinese Republic is born today.”

Bloody hell. I hurry to the meeting, knowing that as it’s a weekend no one will be dressed appropriately.

Oh God, Gillian’s wearing leggings. At least I’m not a home secretary wandering into a Cobra meeting wearing an elasticized waistband.

“Did they interrupt your yoga class?” I can’t help asking.

“Pilates,” Gillian says with a sigh.

“Thank you all for being here,” the prime minister says. Somewhat unsurprisingly for a woman who has been successfully leading a country through its worst-ever crisis, she’s absolutely terrifying. The room is at attention. “For once, I have good news for us to discuss. We will be appointing ambassadors to each of the new states in short order.”

The prime minister looks down at the briefing paper in front of her. She looks as astounded as I feel. “Each faction in the twelve territories has to register their supporters. The four most popular factions in each territory will become a registered political party and can seek election in their territory. For the first five years each faction has agreed to focus only on gaining a democratic mandate in their own territory to ensure no one consolidates power.”

“So, it’ll all go to shit in five years,” Gillian says dryly.

“Quite possibly,” the prime minister says. “Macau, Shanghai, Tianjin and Beijing have agreed to supervise elections and have threatened economic sanctions as a form of incentive for anyone breaking the rules. They’ll be hoping that over the next five years trade builds to a level that each of the territories is more concerned with building economically than expanding territory.”

The room goes silent, a rare thing for a meeting of ten of the most powerful people in the United Kingdom. There is little to say. The war is over and maybe they’ve actually . . . won? It’s not possible for a world to be in order—the kind of peace that serious, old white men write books about—when nearly 20 percent of the world’s population is at war or adjacent to it. It’s as though the entire planet has breathed a sigh of relief. Phew. They did it. We’ve all survived. Thank bloody God. I couldn’t handle World War Three before I retire after dealing with a Plague. I. Could. Not.





CATHERINE


London, United Kingdom (England and Wales)

Day 1,699

I haven’t been to a dinner party in over four years. Four years. I keep telling myself there’s a limit to how much dinner parties can have changed over the last four years, but that’s not very helpful actually because I didn’t like them very much before the Plague. My outfit’s never quite right—too short? Too hot? Can’t do layers, they make me look like an organized hippie—and the only good bit about them used to be getting ready while Anthony drank a glass of wine sitting on the bed chatting with me, and then dissecting what everyone said on the tube home.

But Anthony’s not here and I am Making an Effort so here I am, in a green velvet dress I already sort of know I’m going to be too warm in, ringing the doorbell of Phoebe’s beautiful Battersea home.

Her husband, Rory, opens the door and for a moment everything feels completely normal. White wine is proffered, I make awkward small talk with people I don’t know. But, looking even slightly below the surface, everything is different. No Anthony by my side. The numbers are all off; out of ten, there are only two men. Rory and a friend of his called James.