Page 70 of You Had Me At Pumpkin Patch
If nothing else, she should chat it through with her boss tomorrow, over that nice cup of tea. That would be the polite, sensible thing to do.
Rosie climbed the steps to her cabin, clutching the collection of ominous orange envelopes her sister had brought to the party, which Rosie was in no rush to deal with. At least she wouldn’t have to share her hut with Agnes and her cats and dogs that evening, now part of the house was safe. The woman mumbled in her sleep, which was nearly as bad as the various snoring cats and her flatulent dog. Though maybe Agnes was still grabbing her stuff, as the light was on inside.
‘Agnes?’ Rosie called, as she pushed through the door. ‘Whoa!’ She dropped the collection of bright orange envelopes. They scattered to the floor. ‘Who on earth are you?’
‘I might ask you the same thing,’ replied the older man. He was short and stout, with a ruddy face under his straw hat – and he was surelynotmeant to be in there. Though he was brandishing Agnes’s toothbrush like it was a particularly scary weapon. Was he about to scrub Rosie to death?
‘What business is it of yours?’ Rosie stepped inside and put her hands on her hips, kicking the bothersome envelopes out of her way.
‘Well, you’re no more Rachel than I am a pumpkin sandwich.’
Rosie winced. This must be Farmer Wilbur – and she’d been terrified at the thought of him even before he’d made threats with a small brush.
‘Erm. I can sort of explain.’ Rosie edged her way around him. At least she’d be in snatching distance of the Colgate, if she had to bite back.
‘Explain how you’ve been stringing along my dear friend for weeks? She’ll be livid when I tell her. She doesn’t like being played for a fool, our Agnes. I’ve been away on my holidays, and it turns out that flighty Rachel took a better-paid job and didn’t mention it. Can’t trust anyone these days. So what’s your game, Missy?’ He put the toothbrush in his not-so-clean-looking overall pocket. He must be there to collect Agnes’s things. ‘Are you trying to get money out of Agnes? Or steal her land?’
‘No! Why would I do that? I love being here.’ Rosie scratched her head. ‘I mean, I did love being here. I worked hard for Agnes, and I helped to raise a whole lot of funds to save the farm tonight. Even if I didn’t clear up the mistake about not being Rachel, surely I’ve proved my worth?’
He cocked his head. ‘All that money. Planning to run off with it, were you? I see your bag’s already packed.’ He pointed to her holdall, which was still ready to go since she’d last started to flee.
‘I am not that sort of person,’ Rosie half-yelled.
There was a knock on the open door of the cabin. They both spun their heads to it.
‘Are you Rosie?’ The voice belonged to a blonde woman, who was a bit younger than Rosie and looked vaguely familiar. ‘Oh, you did get my letters.’ The woman pointed to the floor, where the orange envelopes were strewn. Rosie realised instantly that the woman was linked to yet another inconvenient truth that she’d been dodging. Her name was Bianca, and she was apparently her ex-fiancé James’s other fiancée. Because why propose to one sucker when you could have two? ‘It’s just that you’ve got my late fiancé’s stuff. I’ve been asking you to give it back for weeks, but you keep avoiding me. Why are you holding it hostage? Is it money you want?’
Rosie’s shoulders dropped. Worst. Timing. Ever.
‘So this doesn’t lookgreat.’ Rosie put her hand on her forehead. Where did she start? Could she even be bothered? She checked her watch. It was nearly onea.m., and she was dog-tired. Tired of juggling fibs. Tired of having to prove herself. And bloody desperate to bury her head and sleep, quite frankly, with no one to disturb her. No awkward questions. No skeletons coming out of closets, or farmers waving toothbrushes, or women her late ex had been shagging turning up and demanding his stuff. Which she didn’t even have, because it was still at her other ex-bloke’s flat. The ex who preferred to have his end away with kinky hardware, rather than the one who used software to woo her. Just to be clear.
Rosie looked through the window, at the thought of him. And as if by annoying magic, there Zain was. Standing on the porch of his cabin with something under his arm. It looked a lot like his secret laptop.I haven’t consulted the chatbot in a long time. Well, it didn’t look like that was true.
If she stuck around, all Rosie could foresee was a night of unpicking lies and getting yelled at by Agnes. Maybe she’d want to sue her for trespassing. Were there laws against impersonating a person called Rachel? There ought to be.
That, or she’d have to fight off Wilbur with her toothpaste and try to hail a taxi with Bianca, who’d probably pull out more photos of the son James had apparently fathered, presumably while he wasworking late, but at some point before he was squashed by a cactus. She could have just about endured all that, if it wasn’t for the complete shambles with Zain.
It was simply too much.
So she grabbed her holdall for the umpteenth time that autumn, together with a small torch that she’d probably get accused of pilfering, and hotfooted it out of there.
Zain seemed to have disappeared, which was just as well, because she had no energy for another slanging match. She legged it through the field, out of its gate and towards the farm’s exit, with nobody likely to chase after her and beg her to stay. Not Agnes, not Zain. Not even Onions the dog, and he’d chase his own bottom for a bit of sport. Rosie Featherstone was leaving Autumn Meadows Farm, once and for all – and nobody cared enough to stop her. She knew she only had herself to blame.
‘Even the rain can’t be bothered with a decent send-off,’ Rosie muttered, as she reached the end of the dirt track on her not so grand exodus.
In all the best novels, the weather came out in full force when a heroine dramatically fled. There would be great snows or storms. Thunder, lightning, hurricanes. All the clouds could muster for her was a bit of that spitty rain that made your hair frizzy.
Stop dreaming, Rosie, she chided. Even when she’d seen the chaos her wild imagination got her into, she was still doing it. When would she ever learn?
45
Going back to stay in the luxury of her family’s Cheltenham townhouse ought to have been heavenly, compared to freezing outdoor showers and compost toilets where a spider might crawl across your backside. Yet, somehow, Rosie felt like she was festering in her own personal hell.
She spread out across the huge bed, feeling rubbish that she wasn’t more grateful. Her mother had been lovely, and – with the help of staff – had made sure her old room was comfy, and that the kitchen was stocked with her favourite snacks. On paper, Rosie had more than a person could wish for. So why did her entire world feel dark, like a colony of bats was living on her head? She’d spent days here, sobbing to herself and scribbling angry doodles in her notebook. Doodles would have to do, now she’d resolved never to write again. The grim realisation that she could barely create a story without a chatbot having plotted it hit her again.
Rosie grabbed the box of tissues.
She hadn’t heard from Agnes or Zain, although they didn’t know where her parents lived, and neither of them had ever needed to know her phone number. She’d barely switched on her mobile at the farm, and she’d been living among them anyway.
