Page 12 of You Had Me At Pumpkin Patch
‘I’ll show them my writing isn’trobotic,’ she whispered to herself, thinking back to all of those publishers who’d rejected her previous attempts at writing a novel. ‘And that my words are better than something churned out by a chatbot.’ With no internet out there, Kimberkoo Chat could go andchatter off.
She pulled some paper from the desk drawer and fed it into the typewriter. Usually, her writing sessions would begin with a whole lot of faffing. She’d make tea and prepare snacks. Light candles. Gather notebooks. Line up lucky gonks. All these things she would cling to, as though she couldn’t write a word without the moral support of a pink-haired troll and three varieties of biscuits.
Yet today, there was no preparation. She noticed there were fairy lights strung around the writing cubby, but she didn’t stop to flick them on. When the paper was ready, she began to type.
Rosie wasn’t even sure what was spilling out onto the page. She vaguely registered there was someone not unlike Zain, who was now ingeniously called Cain. There was showering outside in the elements, surrounded by the glory of nature. Trees and water and birdsong. Nakedness and goose-bumped flesh and feelings she’d never quite experienced but was starting to imagine. Her fingertips felt like they were buzzing with inspiration, as did every single part of her. When she paused to remember intimate moments from her past, she couldn’t recall ever having felt truly alive. Had things always been...robotic?Had she been no more animated than android Zoe, and her false, cat-like emissions?
She shook her head and rewound her thoughts back to the full, eye-watering form of Zain, and her creativity sprang back to life. In reality, the man was infamously grouchy, and he’d made it abundantly clear that she was another thorn in his bottom – but her imagination didn’t care about that. Or maybe it liked him all the more for his lack of compulsion to people-please. No doubt he never felt obliged to buy toilet roll if it wasn’t his job or laugh at his colleagues’ mundane jokes, even if most of Zain’s colleagues were probably pumpkins. What tonic was he drinking? Because she wished she could get a mouthful of that.
If she didn’t keep her distance, Zain would no doubt quickly suss her out for being an impostor. He didn’t seem like the type to care about throwing her under the Agnes bus for being the big porkie-pie liar that she was. Though again, her imagination had no care for harsh realities. Or perhaps it enjoyed the tingle of danger.
As she typed, her emotions pouring onto the page, the strangest thought began to emerge. She shook it away at first, because who would believe in such a thing? Yet it was almost undeniable. Here she was, writing in the now semi-darkness, words flowing from who knew where, like she was some sort of thing possessed. If she was willing to see magic wands and cloak-clad fairy godmothers in her mind’s eye, perhaps she was going to have to accept this curious truth.
Zain was her muse.
Nooooo.Could that really be right? She stopped for a moment and scratched her head. Hadn’t Virginia Woolf had a muse? And Shakespeare had apparently treated himself to a few. Not to compare herself to great bards, or anything. She had yet to write a manuscript that hadn’t been scoffed at and stamped with ‘get this crap off my desk’. Even her attempts at writing about periodontitis weremediocre.
Maybe a muse was exactly what she’d been missing. Would she still be able to write if she wasn’t around him? The panicked thought gripped her chest. No, that was silly. She’d be leaving here tomorrow, and she had no capacity for such concepts.
Rosie felt a growl in her tummy. It was probably the only sound she’d heard in hours, other than the rhythmic tapping of her fingers against the typewriter’s keys. The peace out here was incredible. No car alarms or horns beeping. No jolly banter from pubgoers outside her window. It was no wonder Zain was so prickly at having to share his tranquil lake, because there was something to be said for solitude. It was like her very own writing retreat.
She checked her watch. It had been hours, and writers deserved food. There was a spell at work here, though even spells allowed time for tea breaks, and she was sure she’d spied cake in Agnes’s basket of food.
Rosie switched on the fairy lights and desk lamp, realising typewriters didn’t light themselves up like laptops. Perhaps she’d find matches for those candles too, although she’d have to be careful of the small wadge of typed manuscript that had now amassed. Even the sight of it filled her heart with glee. Some days it was hard to believe she was areal writer, when she’d been faced with publisher rejections and a boss who made her write about rotting teeth.
But here in this moment, she had the tiniest sense that anything could be possible, away from the noise of real life and the shadows of doubt that other people cast on her.‘It’s not a proper job though, right?’That one had been Cassius’s sister, queen of doing not a lot.‘You’re not bloody Jane Austen.’Kelvin, her delightful ex-boss. She was probably only fifteen miles from it all, and it had only been a few hours. Yet somehow, in this remote, Wi-Fi-free serenity, it felt like a lifetime away.
She leaned across and gave her perfect pile of papers a stroke. Of course, it wouldn’t be the easiest thing to edit. Not like a computer, where you could move text around, or quickly delete the dreadful bits. But she’d always loved to edit on paper. Somehow, it made the process feel more real.
Rosie unfolded herself from her writing cubby, taking care not to bump her head. She filled the kettle and found the softest, sweetest-smelling ginger cake in Agnes’s basket. It was wrapped in a brown bag decorated with little gingerbread people and looked like it was from a homely café somewhere. Grabbing what she needed, she reinstalled herself at her desk.
It was gone midnight when Rosie finally climbed into bed, cosy in her flannel pyjamas, belly full and thoughts emptied onto paper. It had been the most surreal day, and she ought to be sobbing into her pillow about the state of everything. Her lowly writing role hadn’t given her enough spare cash for savings, and she had no intention of sponging from her parents when she’d had more than three decades to sort her life out. The thought of having to slope back there and live like she was on the set of a Cotswold reality TV show gave her palpitations.
Though somehow, none of that was troubling her right then. It felt so far away that she could barely even reach it. If she closed her eyes tightly enough, she could pretend that messy life belonged to someone else entirely, and that hers was just rosy.
As she curled up under the fresh-smelling duvet and pulled the soft, clean blankets around her, she almost felt...happy. It was probably still part of the strange aftershock. Maybe she would wake in the night screaming and worrying about robots taking over the world, and about never finding a job that couldn’t be done better by some software package with a stupid name.
But for now, she would takehappy. Because who knew what tomorrow would bring?
10
‘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’sThe Wrong Trousers.
