Page 11 of You Had Me At Pumpkin Patch

‘Brrrrrr! That was cold.’

Rosie bounced back into her hut, the excitement of her mini morning adventure fizzing through her.

It had only been an exploratory trip to the compost toilet, wearing a big jumper over her PJs, and some borrowed wellies.

But for someone who’d always lived in a busy town and had never even been camping, sneaking out in the sixa.m. torchlit darkness had felt like a thrill.

She’d made it there and back in one piece and had managed not to bump into any naked men en route, even if a tiny part of her was secretly disappointed about that last bit.

Purely for research purposes, obviously.

‘Right. I should pack up soon, ready to get a move on.’ Rosie wondered if people got used to talking to themselves, living out here. Not that she’d be sticking around to find out. She swallowed down the sadness that pulled at her throat.

Before she could dwell on it, she heard a series of thuds on the wooden steps leading up to her cabin.

Her eyes widened. The footsteps seemed to retreat again as quickly as they arrived, and as Rosie rushed to the window, she saw the dark shape of Zain retreating.

Even though it wasn’t yet light, he was unmistakable, with his long black hair tied up in a scruffy knot, his figure carved like solid wood against the promise of morning.

What had he been doing there, outside her front door? Why hadn’t he knocked?

Rosie ducked back from the window in case he turned around and caught her spying on him again, even though he was clearly the intruder this time.

There was a strange tug in her chest to know more about him – but the more sensible part of her knew she ought to stay away.

He didn’t like her being there and would probably soon work out that she was all but trespassing.

Anyway, he was better off kept as a fantasy, because when you got too close to people, you saw all of their flaws.

You found out they collected underwear-stuffed dingoes, or got kinky with cyborgs, or.

.. Her eyes flitted to the wood burner where the torn-up fragments of an orange letter lay. Other stuff .

No. Zain was better off kept at arm’s distance. This whole bubble would have to burst soon anyway. That morning, she would check in with Agnes, politely decline the job, and get out of there.

Guessing he’d now be safely back in his own hut on the other side of the lake, she opened her front door a crack to see if there were any clues as to what he’d been doing out there.

‘Oh.’ Rosie didn’t know what she’d been expecting, or indeed why she was now talking to a basket of pastries. But that’s what he’d left behind.

She picked it up, then straightened herself, her eyes seeking out Zain’s home across the water.

A dim light was on, as though he didn’t like to waste things.

It was a comfort to know he was there, even if she may never see him again.

She imagined Cassius at this time of day, with his flat full of voice-activated lights and two million gadgets to make his morning run as efficiently as that scene from Wallace and Gromit’s The Wrong Trousers .

‘Live simply,’ she heard herself say. She looked down at the basket again, noticing it was filled with croissants, fresh bread and those little pots of jam that you got with a hotel breakfast. ‘And stop talking to baked goods.’

Zain must have brought the food over from the main house, unless he was a secret artisan baker as well as a speciality pumpkin farmer. She was touched he’d brought it to her door, even though he’d probably wanted to hurl the crusty rolls at her head and shout, ‘Get off my patch.’

‘You have a beating heart under that firm torso, huh?’ she whispered. And this time she wasn’t speaking to the pastries.

When she’d thrown together a quick breakfast, she cosied back into her writing cubby. She hadn’t been meaning to write that morning. But even a fleeting glance of Zain was enough to make her creative mind twitch, and before she knew it, she was deep in the flow.

‘You in there?’ The loud voice and sharp knock pulled Rosie from her writing alchemy. It was Agnes.

How long had she been typing? Rosie jumped up and pulled her hair into a wonky bun, smoothing down her pyjamas like that would make Snoopy and Woodstock so much tidier. Why hadn’t she even dressed yet? She rushed to open the door.

‘Oh gosh, I’m all behind,’ Rosie explained as Agnes bustled her way in. Rosie scooped bits of leftover breakfast back into the basket, realising she’d left the kitchen in a crummy state.

Now was meant to be the part when Rosie gathered her things and insisted she wasn’t a good fit after all. That had been the plan. Yet with every moment she spent here, it became harder to peel herself away.

‘Sorry about the muddle,’ Rosie heard herself saying, while her logical brain screeched: screw the mess – tell her you can’t take the job!

‘Tsssk, woman,’ Agnes chided. ‘I’m not one to judge.

’ She held her hands out and Rosie noticed she had her jumper on backwards under her patched-up wax jacket, and she was sure that was strawberry jam on her cheek.

‘And if you think I’m scruffy, wait until you clap eyes on Steve. ’ She held her sides as she laughed.

Who was Steve?

‘And when you meet Mags and the swim ladies, that quirky bunch will make you feel right at home.’

At home . It was outlandish to entertain the idea, though part of her was terrified about leaving, just as her precious new story was coming to life.

‘I take it you’re staying,’ said Agnes, in a way that did not sound like a question. ‘The swim lot are coming tomorrow, and I’ll never find anyone else to coordinate before then.’

Rosie gulped. She could swim a few metres and like most things in her life, she could just about tread water.

But she’d never dared to swim in a fresh lake, where the depth wasn’t clear and there were no handrails.

Her mind was reeling. And that could be the only reason that her errant mouth decided to take over.

‘I’ll stick around.’ Wait, what? When exactly had that been decided?

‘I mean, just for a week, to see how it goes.’ Yes, that was more sensible.

She’d get the essence of her story down before the whole thing slipped away, then she’d be out of there.

Because stories were delicate like that.

You couldn’t disturb them when they were settling in.

‘As long as I don’t need to be a lifeguard, or anything.

I’m limping at the moment, so I shouldn’t be in charge of anyone’s safety. ’

‘Don’t be daft. You’re not David Hasselhoff.

’ Agnes did a slow-motion running impression.

‘They’re seasoned swimmers, and they’ll show you the ropes.

There’s tow floats and spare kit. And make sure you put on a good show in case Zain’s watching.

If he thinks you’re all about the swimming, it’ll give you chance to charm him before he realises you’ve got designs on his big, bulging squash. ’

‘I’m pretty sure Zain is not for charming, and I may not be here long enough to get a grip on anyone’s...’

Agnes waved a hand. ‘Give it a week and you’ll never want to leave. This place gets under your skin.’

That was not going to happen. It was a pumpkin farm, not a parasitic infection.

And yet, there was something about this place.

The freedom of it. The enchantment of waking up to the sound of nothing but birdsong.

Pure darkness, other than the solar lights reflecting on the lake.

The distant glow of the pumpkin fields, warm and almost mesmerising – even if she hadn’t dared venture there yet, for fear of being impaled on a certain farmer’s pitchfork.

Autumn Meadows was a riot of everything she loved about her favourite season.

It would make the perfect backdrop for all sorts of retreats – theoretically.

Not that she’d be the one stupid enough to brave it.

Agnes straightened herself and checked her watch. Rosie had no idea what she was always in a rush for, unless disappearing in haste was her canny method of getting her own way before Rosie could organise her thoughts.

‘Just a week,’ Rosie repeated firmly, hoping her message was loud and clear.

Rosie had spent her whole life winging it. She could surely style this charade out for another week without making any preposterous mistakes or blowing her own cover.