Page 8 of You Had Me At Pumpkin Patch

Rosie watched Agnes dash off around the lake, back in the direction of the wooden gate and the big house beyond. Just a bit longer, and then, seriously, I have got to get out of here and face things.

She clapped a hand over her forehead. What was she even doing?

She was all but trespassing here. Masquerading as someone she wasn’t, because it was marginally easier than confronting who she really was – a jobless, homeless Raggy Dolls reject.

If Agnes found out she wasn’t the potential new employee she’d been waiting for that morning, she might set her deaf dog on her or come for her feet with a Misery -style sledgehammer.

And Rosie only had one set of un-bashed toes left.

Yet somehow, agreeing to stay here felt like the least surreal thing that had happened that day.

If someone had told her yesterday that she’d be fired in favour of a chatbot, find her boyfriend naked with a robot called Zoe and spend twenty-four hours hiding out in a wooden hut, the part about the hut would sound the most likely.

At least, that was one way of convincing herself that being here wasn’t completely absurd.

Agnes had left her with a tatty guidebook to who knew what, before marching off in her frog-eyed wellies, insisting she had things to do.

‘Zain’s around if you’ve got any questions,’ she’d said, in a slightly too breezy voice that suggested she didn’t believe Zain would help her if her bum was on fire.

In fact, Agnes’s exit had been surprisingly sharp, as though she’d known loitering a moment longer would give Rosie the chance to change her mind and bolt.

‘We’ll talk more about the job tomorrow,’ Agnes had shouted over her shoulder as she’d practically legged it.

Tomorrow. Rosie sighed and kicked off her boots. That would of course be the day when Rosie would say ‘no thank you,’ and be on her way.

She took off her coat and flopped down on the sheepskin rug by the wood burner, its soft fleece seeming to welcome her in.

Her fingers wove themselves through it, as if trying to anchor her.

Her whole universe had shifted, and here she was, clinging to a borrowed rug like it was a life raft, while her world still tremored.

If earthquakes had aftershocks, that was where she was.

Although a thought kept tugging at her consciousness.

Shouldn’t she feel... sadder ? She’d just lost everything that she’d thought made her who she was.

And yes, she was wobbly and hurt, from her blackened appendages to her streaked mascara.

She felt like she’d just done ninety minutes in a tumble dryer on an extra hot spin.

Though she wasn’t quite mournful. Was there something wrong with her?

Why wasn’t she heartbroken ? Maybe losing James, and the collection of disastrous relationships that had followed, had numbed her.

She let out a gasp. Oh God . What if she’d grown immune to love?

Was that why her scribbled love scenes had been oddly lacking ? No. That didn’t bear thinking about.

Her eyes flitted towards her coat, the ludicrous orange letter still stashed in its pocket.

Even the letter’s contents hadn’t completely floored her, as though some part of her had known the truth would always come for her.

The truth about her deceased sort-of fiancé, James.

Couldn’t she just have one past relationship that remained sacred, without having it tarnished with suspicion?

But was the letter’s author telling the truth, or was she simply a gold digger, hoping to nab the contents of the box , which Rosie hadn’t even brought with her? She pulled the envelope from her coat pocket, registering again its faintly familiar whiff.

Her fingers toyed with it. She could read it again and try to piece things together. She could have her own Jessica Fletcher moment and attempt to solve the mystery of who was lying and who could be trusted.

Or she could just rip the damned thing up.

Before she had chance to change her mind, her hands quickly set to work. Rip, rip, rip. Such a satisfying tune. With a small chuckle that probably wasn’t that maniacal, she threw the tiny pieces into the air and watched them land around her, now as flimsy as feathers.

There. That was how you sorted out junk mail.

She’d faced quite enough problems for one day.

Her heart feeling lighter, she crawled around collecting the torn shreds and throwing them into the unlit wood burner.

Now that Rosie had no particular address, surely no more of these strange-smelling accusations could find her.

Now all she had to do was get her head straight and get ready to leave this place first thing in the morning. And above all else, not get any floaty, carried-away ideas about hiding out here, like her other real-life issues didn’t matter.

Because she could already sense her writerly imagination settling itself in.

She was a hopeless swimmer, and yet she was sure the shimmer of the lake had tried to charm her.

Zain and his pumpkins wouldn’t want her here, yet this cosy hut was doing its best to cuddle her in.

And as for the call of that typewriter. ..

No. There would be absolutely no getting settled.

She tried not to dwell on the fact that a hunk of 1980s Citroen metal was the only thing that would be missing her.

Cassius wouldn’t have told anyone she’d caught him with a sexbot and fled.

He’d probably assumed she’d scurried back to the Featherstones, so he’d be happily entertaining Zoe.

She was rather bendy, and Rosie definitely couldn’t do the upside-down bicycle for that long.

Rosie huffed and stood. Nature called. Must be all that tea. She shuffled around the hut, opening doors – but all she found behind them were cupboards. Where on earth was the bathroom?

She consulted the tatty guidebook, which wasn’t much help.

‘Come to the house and grab food and supplies when you need them,’ Rosie read.

‘Cottage pie available on Wednesdays, and I sometimes do sausage and pumpkin hotpot on a Friday, though don’t count on it.

Likely the dogs will beat you to it. Or feel free to forage.

No shooting.’ Rosie let out a giggle, imagining Agnes’s no-nonsense voice as she read.

‘Spare toilet roll is kept at the house. And sawdust. Helps with the stink.’

The stink? Rosie sniffed the air. Everything smelt OK to her. Where exactly was she going to put this sawdust anyway? She’d only ever seen it used for guinea pig beds or to cover piles of vomit at primary school. This place got curiouser.

As she peered out of the window wondering if she’d missed something bathroom-like on the way in, she saw Zain darting out of his cabin.

Surely he’d be able to explain the facilities?

Agnes had suggested he was completely unsociable, but there was something about him that made her story sensors twitch like a mouse’s whiskers.

Nobody was hostile for no reason. Maybe he’d be perfectly nice when you got to know him.

Not that she’d be sticking around. She craned her neck to get a better look, but he was gone.

And for some reason, she couldn’t help getting up to follow.

‘He might be scary, but my eyes can’t possibly witness anything more terrifying than what I’ve already seen today,’ she reasoned. And if he was already starting to inspire a character for her novel, she’d better get out there and poke around. Plus, she really did need a wee.

She eased her feet back into her boots and rescued her coat from the floor. It was time to meet her fellow lakeside dweller properly – even if they wouldn’t be sharing a lake for long. He grew and cared for cute mini pumpkins, for goodness’ sake. There was nothing at all to be frightened of.