Id bought a secondhand hatchback and, while giving the interior a good onceover, I spotted a little notebook tucked beneath the passenger seat.
Are you having a laugh, Alex? Seriously? The whole team spent three months on this project and now youre saying the concepts changed?
I was standing in the managers office, fists clenched until my knuckles went white. Oliver Hart, a heavyset man with a perpetually sour expression, didnt even look up from his paperwork.
Alex, cut the drama. The briefs been altered. A client can have a change of heart, and we have to adapt. This is business, not a hobby club.
Adapt? Thats not adapting, thats starting from scratch! All the calculations, all the documentationthrow them in the bin? People lost sleep over this!
They were paid for the overtime. If anyones unhappy, HRs open from nine to six. You can leave now; Im not going to hold you.
I turned on my heel, slammed the door so hard the glass in the frame rang, and walked past colleagues who gave me sympathetic looks. I snatched my jacket from the desk and stepped into the damp October air. Enough, thumped in my temples. Enough. I walked without watching the road, angry at the boss, the client, the whole system. I was sick of being ruled by other peoples whims, of the timetabled bus, of everything. I needed something of my ownsmall, but mine. A slice of personal space where nobody could push in a new concept.
That thought led me to the sprawling usedcar market on the edge of Manchester. I drifted between rows of preowned vehicles, not really knowing what I was looking for, just staring. Shiny foreign imports sat beside battered veteran British builds. Then I saw her: a modest, cherryred Kia, about seven or eight years old, spotless on the outside, as if someone had loved it.
Interested? a cheery thirtysomething salesman called out. Great car. One previous owner, driven carefully, used for work and home. Low mileage, nonsmoker interior.
I walked around the car, glanced inside. It was clean, not sterile. You could tell someone lived in there, not just used it to get from point A to point B. I slid into the drivers seat, rested my hands on the cool plastic, and for the first time that day I felt the tension ease.
Ill take it, I said, surprised by my own resolve.
The paperwork took a couple of hours, and soon I was cruising through the evening streets in my very own car. The word own warmed my chest. I turned on the radio, cracked the window, let the chilly breeze in. Life suddenly seemed a little less bleak.
I parked the car in the courtyard of my old postwar council flat, sat there for ages, getting used to the new feeling. Then I decided the interior needed a proper clean, no trace of the previous owner. I popped into a 24hour shop, bought automotive cleaning fluid, rags and a handheld vacuum, and returned to the car.
I polished everything until it shone: the dashboard, the door panels, the windows. When I got down to the space beneath the seats, my hand brushed something hard. I pulled out a small notebook bound in darkblue leather. A diary.
I turned it over in my hands, feeling awkward. A strangers life, her secrets. I almost tossed it onto the back seat and walked away, but something stopped me. A tiny, neat script greeted me on the first page: Emily. Just a name. I opened to the first entry.
12 March.
Victor yelled again today. Over something trivial; I think I forgot to buy his favourite yoghurt. Sometimes I feel Im living on a powder keg. One misstep, one wrong word and it could explode. Then he comes over, hugs me, says he loves me, that it was just a hard day. I want to believe him, or at least act like I do. This cherryred little car is my only escape. I turned the music up and drove wherever my eyes could see. Just me and the road, and no one shouting.
I put the diary down. Something about it made me uneasy. I could almost picture Emily behind the wheel, eyes sad, fleeing from the storms at home. I kept reading.
2 April.
We fought again, this time about my job. He doesnt like me staying late. Proper women stay at home and bake pies, he said. I dont want to bake pies. I love my work, the numbers, the reports. I like feeling needed beyond the kitchen. He cant understand that. He warned that if I didnt quit, hed go straight to my boss. Humiliating. That night I went to The Old Park café, sat alone, sipped coffee and watched the rain. It was peaceful, and the cakes were lovely.
The name The Old Park rang a bell it was a little café not far from my flat, with big windows. I imagined Emily at a table there, watching the rain trace the glass.
The days afterwards blurred. By day I was at the office, arguing with Oliver, by night I read the diary. I learned that Emily adored autumn, jazz and the novels of Remarque. She dreamed of learning to paint, but Victor dismissed it as childish doodling. Her best friend Sophie was someone she could talk to for hours on the phone.
18 May.
Victor was away on a business trip. Silence was a blessing. Sophie called; we bought wine, fruit and stayed up until midnight, laughing like we were teenagers again. She told me I should leave Victor. Emily, hell eat you up, youre fading fast. I know shes right. But where would I go? No parents, his flat is his. Im thirtyfive. Sophie says its not about age, its a fresh start. Easy for her to say shes married to a banker.
I sighed. I understood that fear. I was fortytwo, and the thought of a radical change made my legs shake. I, too, lived on a railway, workhome, occasional meetups with my mate Stephen. And now this car and this diary.
On Saturday I couldnt hold it in any longer and drove to The Old Park. I took a window seat, ordered a coffee and a slice of cake the one I imagined Emily liked. I stared at the empty chair opposite me, wondering what she looked like. Sometimes a tall blonde, sometimes a petite brunette, but always those sad eyes.
The entries grew darker.
9 July.
He raised his hand to me for the first time. For answering the phone with Sophie instead of him. Just a slap, but it felt like something inside me cracked. I spent the night in the car in the courtyard, unable to go back inside. The lights in his flat flickered. He was probably looking for me, or maybe not. I felt terrified and alone. If it werent for my cherryred escape, I think Id have gone mad.
I closed the diary; a knot of injustice tightened in my chest. I wanted to find Victor and I didnt even know what to do, just to protect her. A woman Id never met.
That evening Stephen called.
Alex, where have you disappeared to? Fishing this weekend?
Hey, Stephen. Not much, just swamped.
Swamped? You havent even taken a holiday. Whats up? Bought a canoe and vanished?
I laughed.
Almost. Listen, theres something
I told him about the car, the diary, Emily. He listened in silence.
Youve got yourself into a proper mess, mate. You really need that?
I dont know. I just feel sorry for her.
Feel sorry for him. It was ages ago, Emily might have married some millionaire and forgotten Victor. And youre sitting here pining. Toss the notebook.
I cant, I admitted.
Then look after yourself. Dont end up in a mental ward. Call if you need anything.
Stephens words didnt sober me up; they pushed me to finish the diary.
The entries grew short, fragmented. Emily was at her limit.
1 September.
Summer was over, and my patience too. He smashed a vase Mom had given me the last thing Id kept from her. He called it tasteless, said it clashed with his designer décor. I gathered the shards and knew it was the end. I had to leave.
15 September.
Im planning an escape, like something out of a spy film. Its absurd and scary. Sophie will let me crash at her place for a while. Im slowly moving my books, a couple of sweaters, my cosmetics the things that matter. Victor doesnt notice; hes too busy with himself. Ive found an evening watercolor class starting in October. Maybe thats a sign?
28 September.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow Im gone. Hes off to a twoday conference, so Ill have the chance to collect the rest of my things and disappear. Ive handed in my resignation. Ill buy an easel, paints, and start painting autumn yellow leaves, grey skies, and my cherryred car in the rain. Its terrifying, but staying is even worse.
The final entry was blank. I turned the page; it was empty, and the next one too, all the way to the end. The diary had simply stopped.
I sat in the quiet of my tiny kitchen, wondering what had become of her. Had Sophie manage to get her a flat? Had she started painting? Hundreds of questions buzzed in my head. It felt as though Id watched a series to the very last episode, only for the finale to be cut.
I reread the last pages over and over, then finally noticed a small, folded slip of paper tucked between them. A receipt from Artist Supplies on Mira Street, dated 29 September. It listed a set of watercolour paints, brushes, paper and a little tabletop easel.
So she had bought them. She was preparing.
The diary was a year old. Exactly twelve months had passed.
What now? I could try to find her, but with only a first name and a friends name, there was hardly any trail. And why? To disturb a new life she might have built? To remind her of a past shed left behind?
I set the diary aside. The next week I went to work, argued with Oliver, returned home. Yet everything seemed a little richer. I started noticing the sunlight glinting off puddles, the way the maple leaves turned golden, the baristas smile at the café. It was as if I were seeing the world through Emilys eyes, the very eyes that longed for a simple, ordinary life.
One evening, scrolling aimlessly through the news, I stumbled on an announcement: Autumn Vernissage Emerging Artists of Manchester. Among the participants was a name: Emily Watson. My heart gave a small jump. I clicked the link, opened a modest online gallery, and there among the landscapes and stilllifes was a painting of a cherryred Kia parked under an autumn rain on a quiet lane. Watercolour, alive, a touch melancholy, but full of hope.
I smiled. Shed made it. Shed left. She was painting. She was living.
I tracked down her social profile. The avatar showed a smiling woman in her midthirties, short hair, bright eyes. She stood beside her canvases, a cat curled on a windowsill, a backdrop of street sketches. No Victor, no painjust a quiet, creative life.
Relief flooded through me, as if a weight had finally lifted. I didnt write to her, didnt send a friend request. Her story was finished, and it ended well. I simply closed the page.
I lifted the diary again, feeling it was now more than a collection of someone elses secrets. It was a testament to courage, proof that its never too late to change everything.
The following afternoon, after work, I stopped by Artist Supplies. I lingered among the aisles, then bought a small canvas and a set of oil paints. Id never painted before, but a sudden urge pushed me to try.
Back home I set the canvas on the kitchen table, squeezed bright colours onto a palette, and grasped a brush. I had no idea what would come of itperhaps a ruined canvas, perhaps the start of my own new story, inspired by the voice of a stranger whose diary Id found under the seat of a cherryred car.
Rain began to patter against the window. Everyone has their own road and their own autumn. Sometimes, to find yours, you have to stumble onto someone elses.
