Page 9 of You Had Me At Pumpkin Patch
‘Right.’ Well, that was probably for the best, as Rosie had no desire to see any more male nakedness or have any more unbidden thoughts about strangers in Speedos this week. Or, in fact, ever.
Of course, sheshouldexplain that this had all been a terrible mix-up. Rosie knew that. Though it was getting trickier by the second. Now it would involve admitting to Agnes that she’d been drinking her tea and stringing her along for a whole hour, like some complete oddball. No. It would be easier to say the job wasn’t for her.
Which she definitely would. Very, very soon.
But would it hurt to pretend to try it out for a day or two? Just to appease Agnes and prove she’d given it a shot. Then she could bow out politely before she got rumbled, and everything would befine.
Rosie was needed here.Wanted,in fact. Even if it wasn’t exactly Rosie that Agnes had been expecting, and the real interviewee might still appear at any moment. Feeling needed, however fleetingly, was intoxicatingly good. Especially when she’d spent the morning facing the truth that in her own life, she was nothing more than a loser.
‘There’s running water,’ said Agnes, turning on a tap that screeched and spluttered in protest. ‘Just needs a bit of encouragement. And the electrics work some of the time. There’s a bed. It’s warm. I provide the food, as it’s not so handy for shopping out here.’ She pointed to a basket of supplies on the small worktop. ‘And did I mention the peace and quiet?’ Agnes was smiling with every single one of her teeth, even if it looked a tad frantic. ‘Nothing better for your soul than the great outdoors.’
Well, Rosie’s soulwasin a mess. And she didn’t have a bed to call her own. She couldn’t face slinking back to the family townhouse, with her sister gabbling about her misfortunes to her fifty squillion Instagram followers, and her mum saying,‘I knew you always picked buffoons.’Her car wasn’t working. She had no trusted friends to call on, because she often distanced herself when people pointed out her boyfriends’ flaws, and her ex-colleagues probably only liked her when she bought cakes. In truth, she’d never really felt like she’d fitted in with anyone, other than Vix, who’d rudely gone to live in Portugal when they were both in their teens.
Staying here and pretending to be the real interviewee for any length of time would be outrageous.Obviously. And she wasn’t an outrageous person.
‘Just one night. See how the place grows on you.’ Agnes’s voice was getting a little more desperate.
Just one night. Right then, the fantasy of hiding in a remote, Wi-Fi-free hut for just a little longer was luxurious compared to facing reality. On the other side of the farm’s boundaries, she had nothing but a list of troubles. But here? Here there was a typewriter that was calling her fingers, and a log burner that needed logs. And that intriguing man in the hut across the lake...
So perhaps just a short while longer, then she’d leave tomorrow. Unquestionably. She could sleep on things and then get up, ask to use a phone, arrange something with the breakdown people and be on her not-so-merry way.
‘Just one night,’ she heard herself whispering.
‘Great! Or maybe two. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’ Agnes checked her watch again. ‘Right-ho. Must be off.’
Rosie exhaled a long breath. Because she knew she would have to let Agnes down at some point. Perhaps she wasextremely creative, like the person Agnes had been hoping for – but it had never amounted to much. She wasn’t right for this job like she’d never been quite right for anything. And yet somehow, Rosie felt compelled to stay here. Just for one night. Or maybe two...
7
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, homelessRaggy Dollsreject. 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 aMisery-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’tcompletelyabsurd.
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 sheheartbroken? 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 beenoddly 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 deceasedsort-offiancé, 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 ofthe 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. Shecouldread 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’tthatmaniacal, 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...
