Page 41 of You Had Me At Pumpkin Patch

‘What is this?’

She wasn’t even sure if she could articulate what she’d just discovered or how furious she was, so she glared at him, almost daring him to speak.

She had no idea what was on the paperwork he was gripping, but she was sure it wasn’t going to trump the Kimberkoo Chat exposé.

For once, she was going to win – even if winning would feel exactly like losing everything.

She was having quite the season for that.

‘You’ve been documenting our exact relationship, and turning our private life into a novel for the whole freaking world to see?’ His look was incredulous.

With what she’d just discovered, he had some serious cheek.

‘No, I have not,’ she bit back, realising he was holding pages from her latest manuscript. Because she hadn’t, exactly. ‘It’s the story of Josie. And Cain.’

‘Oh, so expertly disguised. No wonder you’re a writer. What a bloody wordsmith.’

Well, that was below the belt. ‘How dare you. It’s just a working draft. I can change anything I want when I do the editing. Shows how much you know.’

‘I do know that this appears to be the same story as a certain Rosie and Zain, other than some bonus sex scenes, which I’m pretty sure didn’t happen – although the one in the pumpkin field did.

I expressly told you I would hate being used as fodder for your novel.

And why am I being compared to some dead bloke called James? ’

‘James is nobody.’ She had no idea how he’d crept into her work, but she’d soon realised he’d never belonged.

It was OK to explore things, before deciding to delete.

‘And as for the sex scenes.’ She felt her cheeks flame red.

‘They call it artistic licence – because I do have an imagination. Unlike some people.’

He exhaled sharply and ran a hand down his face.

‘Rosie, I understand that you’re a writer.

And I’m sorry about the wordsmith comment.

You are good – I’ve just seen that. But I’m an extremely private person.

I do not want my intimate life – and parts – described in full technicolour detail for everyone and their uncle to read.

You’ll have to use that imagination and create your own storyline. Isn’t that what authors do?’

‘Oh, so now you think I’m not a real author?’ She stood up from the bed and put her hands on her hips, one hand still gripping tightly to the printed-out emails she’d been reading. Some of the papers from the bed slipped to the floor as she moved.

A look of realisation began to dawn on Zain’s face, but Rosie wasn’t finished with his accusations yet.

‘And you don’t think I can make up my own storylines? What’s wrong with taking inspiration from real life?’

She cocked her head angrily, trying to get his attention from the floor by her feet.

Though now he was pointing at the papers, his forehead creasing.

She didn’t know why he looked so confused.

They were his sodding emails. Reams and reams of fully scripted dates, planned with precision like a military operation to conquer her heart.

He’d used her own chatbot nemesis to make her fall in love with him.

Or perhaps, more accurately, to make her fall in love with a chatbot.

Which is when another thing occurred to her.

All that time she’d been thinking she was writing a love story straight from the depths of her heart, she’d been disillusioned.

Because if the chatbot had contrived their dates, the things they did together, the words Zain had used to make her fall for him – then Kimberkoo Chat had more or less written her novel.

She’d based pretty much everything on what had happened between her and Zain, yet all of that had been scripted to sickening perfection by a piece of stinking software.

Not only was she helping to prove this tech could take over from real humans, but she wasn’t even sure if she could write a decent story without it.

Her blood went cold. That manuscript Zain was clenching had been her best-ever attempt.

The one she’d been sure wouldn’t be rejected.

Her first ever hope of reaching her published author dreams and becoming the heroine of her own story – in more ways than one.

She leapt towards him, trying to snatch it back. He pulled away, his stare landing on the papers she was still holding, before locking with hers.

‘You’ve been going through my stuff?’ Something behind his eyes seemed to be processing thoughts at lightning speed, like his head was an actual computer. Right then, nothing would surprise her.

‘Yes, Zain Kimberkoo . I happened to stumble upon your emails – even though I had no idea that you were an email kind of guy, or a laptop kind of guy, or that your name wasn’t actually Zain Kay, because you’re related to a chatbot.’ She glared at him, past caring that most of that made zero sense.

‘Related to an artificially intelligent computer program? Yes, that seems likely.’

He could keep his stupid sarcasm. ‘It sounds like you know a lot more about the whole thing than you were letting on. “ So great to see you back, Zain .”’ She gave the line from the chatbot the mocking air quotes it deserved. ‘And why did you lie about your surname?’

‘I never told you my surname.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose and screwed his eyes shut, as if this was giving him a headache.

Rosie searched her memory. ‘Then you must have lied to Agnes about your surname. She was the one who told me.’

‘No I didn’t!’

‘So your surname isn’t Kimberkoo?’

He sighed and opened his eyes. His lack of response told her it was.

‘And you’re not the kind of person who enlists a robot computer thing to make women fall for you, so you can shag them in your pumpkin field?’ Blood was rushing to her outraged face so quickly it felt like her eyeballs might pop.

‘What? No! It was nothing like that. And I did try to tell you, and to distance myself...’

‘It was exactly like that. And here’s the full-blown proof.

Every date you ever wowed me with. Every romantic sentiment you ever used on me.

Take her on a date to a lake, carry her to the boat like you’re her chariot, arrange a pumpkin-themed picnic basket.

It probably gave you blow-by-blow instructions on how to grope my boobs and snog my face off, before disappearing into the night like some chivalrous, non-sex-hungry prince of the bloody gourds.

Well, I am not charmed. Because it was all mapped out.

Every single sordid step of it – and none of it came from you.

None of it was from the heart. That’s if you even have one. ’

‘Is that what you honestly think of me?’ His eyes were searching her, and with every second that she didn’t answer, they became a little colder.

‘I have no idea what I think of you.’ Her hands dropped to her sides, the papers falling like dead autumn leaves. ‘Or even who you are.’

Something inside her clung desperately to the hope that he was about to explain it all. That there would be some dramatic plot twist, where he was secretly saving the world in his underpants, and Agnes was the real Zain Kimberkoo in cunning, Mrs Doubtfire-like, latex disguise.

But he simply looked at her, his face sinking like his once strong shoulders. ‘So you thought you’d go through my stuff to find out.’

‘No, actually. I just happened to...’

‘ Stumble across my paperwork, whilst you were busy going through my laptop. Nice.’ He raked a hand through his hair, dark waves tumbling.

‘You know, I spent my whole childhood longing for a bit of privacy. Praying for a home where people weren’t always checking up on me, going through my things, treating me as though I couldn’t or shouldn’t be trusted.

My so-called father couldn’t be arsed to stick around.

My mum couldn’t even be bothered to stay alive for me.

I thought you... I thought you were different . But you’re exactly the same.’

Her heart felt an uninvited pang for him. Part of her wanted to hug him and apologise and take away the hurt that drove lines through his forehead and seemed to scar his very soul.

But who was he, really? Did he even have a soul? Or did he have to log into some software to activate that too? She took a step towards him, still feeling compelled to ease his suffering, even though she didn’t have a clue why she should.

He put up a hand to halt her. ‘And if you want to fling accusations about people not being who they say they are, I’m wondering if Josie being a trespassing impostor on a pumpkin farm because she wasn’t the real interviewee for the job bears any resemblance to you.

And there I’d been, wondering why a wild retreat expert didn’t know a damned thing about living in the country and couldn’t swim for toffee. Now it all makes sense.’

Rosie’s mouth dropped open. Yes, she had still been harbouring a few secrets. But they paled into insignificance compared to him tricking her in love.

‘Yes, there was a misunderstanding about my interview, but I am still the same person. The person who gets a lot of stuff wrong but does her best anyway. The person who perpetually struggles to write a decent love story, because until recently, she had no inkling how love felt. And the person who always chooses the wrong guy. Did you know that every relationship I’ve had has turned out to be a sham?

I’ve had boyfriends who were secretly lollipop-wielding criminals, or who were only fake-engaged to me, or who were furtively in flagrante with actual flipping robots.

I’ve been too ashamed to tell you, but seeing as we’re laying our cards bare, this is me.

A big, dumb loser in life and love. And stupidly, I thought you were different too.

I just didn’t realise exactly how different. ’

His jaw clenched. ‘Get out.’ His voice was low. She didn’t feel threatened, though she did know he meant it.

‘Just for the record, I don’t usually pry into people’s stuff. I was just tidying up. You looked through mine too.’ It was a valid point.

‘The door to your hut was ajar. I thought Steve had pushed his way in. And then I saw what you’d been working on.’ He nodded at the manuscript in his hand. ‘I was interested. I care.’ He shook his head. ‘Scrap that. I did care.’

‘Steve did come back, by the way.’ She flapped her hand towards the table, under which the three-legged cat was now hiding. ‘He disturbed your papers when he was bouncing about. And yes, I started to read them – even though I wouldn’t usually. Though I’m so glad I did.’

But she’d lost Zain’s attention. He thrust her manuscript at her and dropped to his knees, crawling towards Steve and making reassuring noises. She was surprised he didn’t need a script for that too.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she said, pulling her typed papers to her chest and striding to the door. His bizarre, hermit-in-a-hut life suited him. She had no clue why she’d ever tried to interfere.