Page 43 of You Had Me At Pumpkin Patch

‘It’s Kookaburra, isn’t it?’ Agnes stood at Rosie’s side, scratching her head.

They were outside the log cabin that had once been Rosie’s home but, after that night’s launch party and auction was over, wouldn’t be.

Their guests would be arriving soon. The scene before her ought to have filled Rosie with joy.

Day was slowly fading into night, the sky becoming dusky.

String lights encircled the lake, throwing golden reflections.

A rainbow fleet of wooden boats bobbed on the lake’s surface, tables of pumpkin fizz were lined up, and jack-o’-lanterns and makeshift firepits were already burning brightly.

But far from feeling happy, Rosie’s stomach was a tight ball of stress.

She’d spent the previous night squashed into the cabin with Agnes and her menagerie of animals, and none of this could continue.

After a frantic day of party organising, catastrophising about whether Zain would tell Agnes she was a con artist, and trying to keep her distance from him in case she went down for hot-blooded murder, her head was spinning.

‘I’m sorry, what?’

‘Or is it Kinnyburger? No, Kimberkoo. That’s it! Though I always call him Zain K, because it’s easier.’ Agnes clapped her hands like she was pleased she’d remembered, even though they’d started that conversation the previous night.

Rosie exhaled the world’s longest breath.

Well, she must have assumed Agnes was calling him Zain Kay, as in the surname, rather than using an initial.

Though right then, she couldn’t care less if his name was Zain King-of-the-Sodding-Cucurbitaceae.

Just because he hadn’t actively lied about his name, it didn’t change the fact he hadn’t been honest about it.

Or that he’d used a chatbot to trick her into falling in love.

‘I said I didn’t want to talk about him,’ Rosie said to Agnes, who was now putting a tartan coat on Onions so he could help his owner on gate duty, notwithstanding that he’d be the least scary guard dog ever.

‘That was yesterday,’ Agnes replied, straightening herself and pulling on her Tweed jacket, which smelled a bit like mothballs.

‘It still stands.’

‘Funny how we sometimes get confused about names, isn’t it? Remember that time Farmer Wilbur thought you were called Rachel?’

Rosie felt herself bristle. At least she’d told Agnes that wasn’t her name, even though there was still a bit of a mix-up.

‘We’ll see Wilbur later. I’m sure he’ll want to catch up with you.’

Bloody. Brilliant. Rosie just had to get through that night, raise enough money to replace Agnes’s collapsing roof, and get out of there. No head-to-heads, no heart-to-hearts, and absolutely no fireworks. Was that too much to ask?

‘I’ll be too busy for socialising.’

Rosie knew her tone was clipped, but she couldn’t help it.

Tonight would be tense enough, with the uncertainty of whether the final auction would be enough to save Autumn Meadows.

Even if Rosie wasn’t sticking around, she couldn’t bear to think of it being concreted over to build a factory, otherwise the last few weeks had been for precisely nothing.

At least Agnes’s back kitchen hadn’t been damaged in the roof-tumbling tragedy, so their chef could still use it. And luckily, Agnes had been able to rope in Zain and some locals to cover the exposed parts of her roof earlier that day, so it was temporarily waterproof.

‘You’ll be fine, love.’ Agnes gave Rosie an awkward pat on the back, even though comforting people really wasn’t her thing. ‘I’m proud of you.’

Onions barked in agreement and Rosie had to blink back a tear. She’d miss this funny lot. Well, some of them.

Warning Agnes to come back later to help with the auction so she didn’t have to get within screaming distance of Zain, they said their good lucks and got moving.

Fresh from hayrides around the pumpkin patches and campsite with Zain, visitors soon began piling into the field around the lake, their excitement tangible.

Guests were dressed in swishy skirts and casual trousers, paired with wellies and warm shawls, using big umbrellas like walking sticks, ready to celebrate, come mud or rain.

The sight made Rosie’s spirits lift a little. She’d worked hard for this night, and she ought to enjoy some of it, even if it was tinged with an undeniable end of adventure sadness.

‘Rosie! What a beautiful job you’ve done.’

Rosie spun around to see her swim friends bouncing over. She fought to swallow back the lump in her throat. She would miss being here with them too.

Mags had brought along her newly formed hurdy-gurdy band, as encouraged by Luna and Ellen.

Those two were behind, their arms draped protectively around Bonnie.

Bonnie had already declared she’d be looking for a hot gent tonight, so Rosie guessed Luna would have to loosen her clutches on her mum, now that she was thriving.

They pulled in for their usual group hug, congratulating each other on how well they scrubbed up. Rosie had opted for a floor-length floaty dress that made her feel like an autumnal flower fairy, and a fluffy cardi that her sister had once told her looked like a pile of moss.

‘I’m so glad you’re here.’ Rosie wasn’t sure how she’d get through it without them, now she and Zain were warring, and he knew enough of her secrets to bring the whole night crashing down, if he was outrageous enough.

She hadn’t told them about their fall-out, because well-meant matchmaking could end in disaster.

‘Luna, Ellen and I are donating ourselves as waitresses,’ said Bonnie, plucking three pumpkin-patterned aprons from her bag.

‘Oh wow, you don’t need to do that,’ said Rosie. ‘I want you to enjoy yourselves.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Bonnie, pulling the apron over her ashy-grey mohawk, which she’d decorated with orange and gold bows. ‘Many hands make light work.’ She lowered her voice. ‘And if I want to nab a hottie, I’ll need to mingle.’

‘Take it easy, Mother,’ Luna breathed, as if she knew her words were futile.

‘It’s an exciting night for you, Rosie. Are you feeling OK?’ asked Mags.

It looked like she’d already got her hands on some of the chocolates Rosie and Zain had made, that day in the kitchen. She shook away a memory of him licking chocolate from her finger in a way that had made her soul dance.

Rosie lifted her chin. ‘Yes, I will be.’ As soon as this is all over , she silently added. Her holdall was already packed.

When her friends had dispersed, Rosie rushed off to begin hosting duties.

She hadn’t yet spotted Zain – not that she was looking for him.

They’d kept a suitably standoffish distance all day, though it was clear they were both still steaming.

She hoped her particularly angry stares had warned him not to dare tell Agnes she was an impostor, because he needed this night to be a success more than Rosie did.

Hearing a splash and some yelping from the lake, Rosie’s head shot up.

The Three Tuxedos . She ought to have been furious at the sight of the three conspicuous men clambering into a wobbling boat, even if their squealing and shoving was farcical.

They must have paid a small fortune for a romantic dining experience.

With the tickets having been auctioned off to the highest bidders, many using discreet profile names, Rosie wasn’t quite sure who would turn up. A fact that was adding to her nerves.

She tried not to wince as she noticed the boat they were climbing into was the one Zain had painted Rosie and Him , for their first real date.

Correction. No doubt his chatbot puppet master had come up with that too.

She huffed. Perhaps it was fitting that the annoying bottoms of her Cyber Purrz nemeses would spend the evening wriggling around and probably breaking wind inside it.

She couldn’t help a wry smile when she saw a stony-faced Zain forced to help them.

He deserved to be stuck with those donkeys.

Could her night get worse from here? She shook away the mental image of fending off a clowder of robotic cats whilst serving pumpkin fizz to her ex-boyfriend and his sexbot, Zoe. Because surely things wouldn’t get that bad.

Right then, her question was partly answered by two more unexpected faces in the distance.

Oh God. What had she done to deserve this?

A huge part of her wanted to go and hide in a nice, autumnal bush.

But if she was learning anything, it was that problems spread less when you nipped them in the bud.

And tonight was about seeing through her commitments with her head held high.

So she took a deep breath and marched over.

‘Mum. Flick.’

Rosie held her breath, unsure what reaction to expect from them, after not keeping them in the loop.

She’d been hoping that when she finally saw them again, she’d be the new, improved version of herself, rather than the one who chose rubbish boyfriends or lived in a naive dream. That hadn’t quite worked out.

‘Oh darling. So this is where you’ve been,’ said Rosie’s mother, Farrah, who looked as glamorous as ever in a fitted fuchsia shift dress and matching jacket.

‘Rosie Featherstone! As if you would throw the county’s most talked about party and not invite us. Good job we’re on top of social news,’ her sister, Flick, added.

Rosie guessed there was only so long you could evade the formidable force-ten gale that was the Featherstones, and sometimes a girl needed a whip of wind to strengthen her sails.

‘You look... different. ’ Her mother cocked her head. She seemed more wobbly than usual, but that was probably because sky-scraping heels didn’t work on muddy grass. At least Rosie had learned something about suitable footwear.

Her sister did a similar head-cocking thing, and Rosie tried not to dwell on how they both looked like they were fresh from a swanky salon.

Flick reached out and touched Rosie’s hair, her manicured fingernails inspecting the ribboned braids. Rosie braced herself for a comment about hippies or needing a hairbrush.

‘Totally different,’ Flick concluded. ‘It suits you.’

‘You look wonderful,’ her mother agreed, scooping Rosie into a hug. ‘We’ve missed you. I’m so happy you’re safe and well.’

‘Oh!’ The words of approval took her by surprise.

‘You did all of this?’ her sister asked, when she’d given Rosie an equally squishy hug.

‘Well, I had help from some friends, and...’ Rosie had been about to say Zain. As if he deserved her praise, when his ideas had been plotted by a chatbot.

‘It’s amazing,’ said Flick, sounding more sincere than Rosie could ever remember. ‘Honestly. I’ve been following on social media, before realising you were behind it. I’m ridiculously impressed.’

Rosie felt herself blush. ‘Thanks.’

‘She’s a Featherstone. Of course she can throw a party. Rosie always could create anything she put her mind to,’ said her mother, pulling Rosie in for another squeeze, even though there was serious danger of her jacket getting creased. ‘My beautiful, clever girl.’

Flick nodded in agreement. Rosie brushed herself down and took a few deep breaths. Had they always been this nice? Rosie wondered if her memory too often clung to the put-downs and didn’t give enough weight to the kind things they said.

It was just a shame she’d have to tell them she’d messed up again, and this time there was no option but to come home. At least they still had the final auction, and Rosie could hopefully go out with a bang. She just prayed it was a positive one.

‘Oh helloooooo ,’ said Rosie’s mum, recognising someone from one of the glossy magazines. ‘We’re the Featherstones.’

Rosie felt her stomach take a dive as the words ‘cover’ and ‘blown’ bounced into her head.

She’d managed not to bump into Farmer Wilbur so far, but if Agnes realised Rosie was related to the Featherstones, of local schmoozing fame, she’d be looking less like one of Farmer Wilbur’s friends by the minute.

‘Erm, just these two!’ said Rosie, dodging a camera lens and whispering to her sister that she was on an undercover mission.

Then she gave her mum and sister a quick farewell hug, because she had work to do.

It was nearly time for the auction, and if it didn’t bring in enough cash to match the numbers Rosie had scribbled in her notebook, then the three men in the rowing boat would be home, dry, and sending in the diggers.