Page 63 of You Had Me At Pumpkin Patch
‘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 whoalwayschooses 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 furtivelyin flagrantewith 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 lifeandlove. And stupidly, I thought you were different too. I just didn’t realise exactlyhowdifferent.’
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. Ididcare.’
‘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’msoglad 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.
40
Rosie arrived back at her hut to find the door still open. Maybe shehadleft it ajar when she’d rushed out to look for Steve, or maybe Zain had just barged in to nosy through the manuscript he’d seen her working on. She had no idea what the truth was anymore, and she was past caring. She was done with pinning her hopes and dreams on a fantasy.
How had she managed to kid herself that she’d found real love? Much like swoony heroes in romance novels, the man she thought she’d fallen for didn’t even exist. Their love had beenscripted.
Had she somehow become her own ridiculous version of a hermit in a hut at Autumn Meadows? She’d been hiding from her long list of problems. For a time, being out here had felt special and magical, like something from a fairy story.
But people didn’t live in fairy tales.
How did she expect to live her life masquerading as a stranger called Rachel, pretending that someone had simply misremembered her name? She couldn’t keep dodging the truth and hoping her ludicrous lies didn’t come to light – or she’d be no better than Zain.
In fact, she couldn’t doanyof this anymore. She wasn’t a pumpkin farm retreat expert, or a wild swimmer, or even a writer who could come up with inspiration for her own stories without the clandestine interference of a chatbot. Once again, she wasn’t playing the starring role in her own damned life. She was the understudy. Rosie had let her wild writer imagination get carried away.
Worse still, Zain now knew everything. That she had a humiliating back catalogue of sham relationships, that she could barely write a love story without him as a muse, and that she’d been fooling Agnes all along because she wasnotthe person who was meant to take this job.
How long would it be before he stormed to the farmhouse to tell their boss? He hadn’t blabbed about her being a rubbish swimmer, because he’d said grassing on people wasn’t his thing. But this was bigger. And she didn’t dare stick around to find out.
She rushed around the hut grabbing her things and stuffing them into her holdall, including the pages of her doomed manuscript. One day she’d find a shredder and gleefully annihilate it.
Rosie chose to ignore the gnawing guilt that tomorrow was the launch party and auction night. Zain and Agnes would just have to manage, like they’d always done. If Rosie was forced to spend any more time near Zain, or panicking about which of her secrets he might spill, she might explode.
All packed, she took one last glance around. There was a pull in her heart about missing her little writing nook and that typewriter. The peace, the lake, the fields...
That was probably nonsense too.
‘There are fields everywhere.’ She yanked the holdall strap further up her shoulder in case it was having weird ideas about jumping off her body and staying behind. ‘And I could buy my own typewriter.’ She shook her head. Not that she’d be doing any more writing. There’d been enough rejection for one lifetime. She’d get a quiet job in a library, where she could enjoy other people’s books.
Rosie bowed out of the little wooden hut, which had never really been hers, and marched past the lake, keeping her head down in case its still waters tried to mesmerise her. She ploughed onwards through the ever-greying semi-darkness, past Zain’s hut, through the wooden gate, and cut the quickest path through the pumpkin patches until she reached Agnes’s house. Something made her stop for a moment, even though she couldn’t bear to look up. Could she leave here without saying goodbye? Without explaining herself? Was it time to be honest with Agnes that she hadn’t arrived here to have a job interview, but had been stranded and a bit desperate, and had allowed herself to settle into a life that had been meant for someone else?
That’s what any decent person would do. And Rosie knew she was a decent person, even if she’d lost sight of things in the confusing web of white lies and wonky truths. But could she face that today? All parts of her felt like they’d been dragged backwards on a rollercoaster and thrust off into a broken heap. And though her heart hurt to run off like this, she didn’t have the words to explain herself. Maybe Zain would blurt out the truth for her anyway.
So her feet made the decision to keep on walking. Clomp, clomp, her borrowed wellies striding towards the dirt path that was the long, winding exit from the farm. The first place where she’d ever lain eyes on Zain, and if she had her way, the last time and place she would ever think of him. She was leaving this fantasy behind.
‘Rosie!’
The voice came from behind her, somewhere in the distance. She could tell it belonged to Agnes. Urgh. Had she seen her? Was it too late to scarper?
‘Rosie, please help. I don’t know what to do.’
Rosie stopped and took a deep breath. Agnes sounded like she was in trouble, and Rosie couldn’t bring herself to dash away and ignore a flustered plea. She would help the woman quickly and then get out of there. It was the least she could do.
As Rosie turned back towards the house, she saw Agnes flying towards her, stray animals skipping and flapping around her in an almighty commotion. Her eyes were full of panic.
‘It’s the house.’ Agnes jabbed a pointed finger towards it. ‘Part of the roof has fallen in. It’s devastation in there. Tiles and debris. And so much dust. What am I going to do? I’ve got all the animals out, but it isn’t safe to go back in there.’
