Page 3 of You Had Me At Pumpkin Patch

‘Come on, Doll. Surely you can get us a bit further away than this ?’

Rosie wanted to scream and cry and kick things like she was a very cross donkey, even though she had not been brought up to use nice boots as weaponry.

Her eyes had just witnessed things that no respectable sensory organs should ever have to see, and yet another relationship had disappeared down the slippery slope to doom, because she’d opted to ignore the blindingly obvious.

And all her hopeless car wanted to do in support was conk out.

Thanks. A. Bunch.

Rosie unfolded her body from the vehicle, her unsavoury mutterings making the cold air foggy. She’d only made it about fifteen miles into the countryside before her car had all but said ‘You’re on your own, love’ before coming to a spluttering stop.

She knew it was hopeless trying to bargain with her little old banger.

She’d only bought the ancient green Citroen Dolly to clash with the pristine white Range Rovers that her mum and sister proudly parked outside the townhouse she used to share with them and her comparatively sweet stepdad, Giles.

Her mum had called it that dreadful green gooseberry , which had made Rosie’s inner rebel sing.

Childish, but true. And who wanted to be a grown-up?

Rosie tried to give the car a shove from behind, although she knew it was pointless.

You needed two people for a jump-start, and it seemed Rosie was now a one-person show.

Her heart sank, which she’d come to realise was actually a thing.

It had felt heavy since she’d been drop-kicked from her job, then had been forced to flee from her android-bonking boyfriend, dragging her emergency belongings and huffing obscenities that would have made a pirate blush.

How was this happening to her? And what the hell was she going to do?

She’d spent the drive yelling angry song lyrics at her windscreen and trying to erase the horrific images from her mind, but it was likely they’d be etched there for all eternity. Even lying on her latex back with her legs in the air, Zoe was doing a better job of winning at life than Rosie was.

She shook her head to dislodge the awful scene, because what was the point in taunting herself? Now she was here. Wherever here was.

Rosie pulled her coat tighter against the unseasonable chill.

She was in a country lane somewhere in Gloucestershire, in the Cotswold hills.

And although Doll hadn’t transported her as far from the robot-induced Armageddon as she would have liked, in contrast to her dreadful morning, there was almost the faint promise of peace here – other than the steaming green car and the fumes that were still quietly emanating from her head.

She took a few breaths to calm herself. At least she’d been able to chug into a parking spot and hadn’t fizzled out in a winding country lane leaving a tailback of beeping tractors or angry sheep.

There were some small mercies. It was almost as though old Doll was willing her to stop here and take in the view.

Now she came to look, the scenery below was almost magical, if she’d been in a better mood for it.

A blanket of mist hung low through the deep green and autumnal gold valleys, a few smatterings of Cotswold stone houses hugging together in what she guessed were small villages.

Hills rose up around her, clusters of trees on their tops.

The fields seemed to cascade down the hillsides, a patchwork blanket of shapes and shades, divided by ancient stone walls and gates.

There she was, a town girl in a peacoat, perched somewhere in the middle.

She hadn’t come far – but in that moment, it would have to do.

Rosie moved around the car, narrowing her eyes at its frontage.

Not that she’d ever admitted it out loud, but she’d always had the feeling that Doll’s front view was like a face.

The two bulging headlights were the eyes, and the grille at the front looked just like a mouth.

Right then, she could have sworn Doll was winking at her.

A car, winking? It had been a pretty weird morning.

Rosie put her hands on her hips. ‘I don’t find you funny. And we’re going to have words about this later on.’

As tempting as it was to crawl into the boot and hibernate until at least next century, it was time to find help.

Her phone battery had died on the journey, which she should have been annoyed about.

Yet part of her gave an internal cheer that hardware wasn’t as all-powerful as it thought it was, without a human to plug it in.

Had Rosie landed in the outskirts of Stroud? Doll was far too antiquated for satnav – not that Rosie would have been in the mood to consult it, as she’d zoomed away from the scarring sexbot fiasco. She’d had no real plan, other than to bolt.

Rosie grabbed her holdall containing clothes, her laptop and essentials from the boot, half-registering the bags of stuff for charity that hadn’t quite made it to a shop, even though she was definitely charitable.

Then she locked up Doll and made her way along the country lane on foot.

Her toes felt bruised inside her boot after dropping Cassius’s stupid vase on it.

It had taken all of her composure not to clonk him on the nose with the thing – although adding a police officer with handcuffs to that surreal bedroom scene would not have improved her day.

Rosie limped along the quiet country road, trying not to snag her beige coat on the hedgerows, realising she should have checked her face.

Her sobs had no doubt left her with mascara cheeks, and she’d given up trying to readjust her sad ponytail.

Much to her mum and sister’s disappointment, she’d only ever half cared about looking well groomed.

Why were there never enough toilets in the countryside?

Rosie felt like she’d been walking for days with her heaving bag, even though it had probably only been about ten minutes.

She was bursting for the loo, her foot was throbbing, and she could really do with a cup of something warm for her nerves.

There hadn’t been a single car or person. Where was everyone?

She stuffed her hands into her coat pockets, wondering if some of her coldness was caused by shock.

Her fingers brushed against the collection of now crumpled envelopes that she’d grabbed on her exit from the flat, and she pulled them out.

Probably bills. Urgh. Not that she had a job to help pay them, or even a roof to live under unless a car counted as a fixed abode.

Surely, they weren’t all bills? She deserved some positive news today.

What was this orange one? She stopped and pulled it open, noticing it smelt of a perfume that was oddly familiar, even if she had no idea why.

The letter inside was handwritten, on orange paper too. Anyone would think it was a love letter. But as her eyes devoured it, it became clear it was anything but. Her mouth dropped open.

Oh God . A whirlwind of emotions spun through her, twisting her insides and making her want to yell with the stupid, frustrating pain of it.

Was this some kind of crass joke? Hadn’t she been through enough today?

She shoved the note back into her pocket.

Because somewhere, deep inside her, the words registered as something she’d long suspected but didn’t have the courage to admit.

And after everything the world had fired at her that morning, one more truth bomb might sink her.

She felt herself wobbling and thrust out a hand. All she got was a prickly hedge... and a voice?

‘Rachel?’ A woman bustled out of an overgrown entranceway and made Rosie jump. The woman glanced at her watch and tutted. ‘You’re a bit bloody late.’

Rosie blinked back the tears that she really hadn’t invited, and glanced behind her for a Rachel, even though it was obvious there was no one else around.

‘No, I... I’m Rosie,’ she stuttered, forcing up her reluctant shoulders as much as her holdall would allow.

If nothing else, her mother had taught her not to blubber in public.

The woman screwed up her face, as if she was trying to remember something.

She reminded Rosie of the squat, scary-looking woman from that film Misery .

The one who’d kidnapped the writer and bashed his legs with a sledgehammer to make sure he wrote a novel without escaping.

That would be just about her luck today.

Rosie shook her head. The writer in her always did have an overactive imagination.

‘I was sure he’d said Rachel,’ the woman continued, scratching her head. ‘But he’s a forgetful old beggar, and I ain’t much better. Well, you’d better come in and I’ll show you around. I’m rushed for time now. Let’s go.’

The woman beckoned her with an urgent hand and turned to walk away.

‘I’m not sure...’ There was clearly a mistake, and Rosie wanted to explain herself.

But she was also desperate for a wee, and perhaps she could ask to use a phone.

And anything that distracted her from the contents of that letter could only be a blessing.

As she plastered on her brave face and hobbled around the hedge and into the opening of the entrance, she spied a huge, ramshackle house that would surely have room for at least five toilets.

‘Teapot’s warm,’ the woman shouted back at her. ‘I’m not one for idle chit-chat over bone china, but you look like you need something hot before you keel over. Nerves got to you, or something? Anyway, I’m not having the death of an employee on my hands.’

An employee? But there was no time for questions.

The woman marched off along the dirt track towards the big house.

And there would be a cup of tea at the end of it.

It wasn’t quite a pumpkin-spiced latte, but what she wouldn’t give for that ritual of calm, right then.

The small, cup-shaped thought filled Rosie with a flutter of hope after the worst morning ever.

There would be plenty of time for explanations when they got to the house.

Although maybe she should get her jittering hands around that cuppa first.

As Rosie limped past the partially overgrown wooden sign at the entrance, she noticed the name carved into it.

Autumn Meadows Farm . She probably shouldn’t follow strangers onto unknown land, when not a soul knew where she was.

It had Scary Hostage Situation written all over it.

Though quite honestly, Rosie didn’t think her morning could get any more atrocious than it had already. What was there to lose?