Id bought a secondhand car and, while cleaning the interior, slipped a notebook out from under the passenger seat it belonged to the previous owner.
Are you having a laugh, Alex? Seriously? The whole team spent three months on that project and now you say the concept has changed?
Alex Hart stood in the managers office, fists clenched until his knuckles turned white. Oliver Gray, a heavyset man with a perpetually sour expression, didnt even glance up from his paperwork.
Alex, lets drop the theatrics. Concepts evolve. The client can have a change of heart and we have to adapt. This is business, not a hobby club.
Adapt? That isnt adapting, thats starting from scratch! All the calculations, every document tossed in the bin? People were losing sleep over this!
They were paid for the overtime. If anyones unhappy, HR works nine to five. You can leave whenever you like.
Alex turned without a word, slammed the door so hard the glass in its frame sang, and walked past colleagues who gave him sympathetic looks. He snatched his jacket from the desk and burst into the damp October air. Enough, drummed in his temples. Enough. He stalked away, angry at the boss, the client, the whole world. He was tired of being at the mercy of other peoples whims, of the timetable of the cramped bus, of everything. He wanted something small but his own a sliver of personal space where no one could shove in a new concept.
That thought carried him to the huge automotive market on the citys fringe. He drifted among rows of battered vehicles, not really knowing what he was looking for, just watching. Shiny sides of pricey imports, the bruised veterans of British motoring. Then a cherryred, impeccably clean Ford Fiesta caught his eye. It wasnt new about seven or eight years old but it looked as if it had been loved.
Interested? said a smiling salesman, a thirtysomething chap. Great choice. One previous owner, driven gently, workhome commuter. Genuine mileage, no smoking inside.
Alex circled the car, peered into the cabin. Clean, but not sterile. It felt lived in, not merely a box to ferry a body from point A to point B. He settled into the drivers seat, hands on the cool plastic, and for the first time that day felt the tension start to melt.
Ill take it, he said, surprised by his own resolve.
The paperwork took a couple of hours. Soon he was cruising through the evening London streets in his very own car. The word own warmed his chest. He turned on the radio, cracked the window, letting the chilly air rush in. Life suddenly seemed less bleak.
He parked the Fiesta in the courtyard of his ageing council flat, sat there a long while, acclimating to the new feeling. Then he decided the place needed a thorough clean, erasing any trace of the former owner. He popped into a 24hour Tesco, bought car polish, cloths, a vacuum and trudged back.
He polished everything to a shine dashboard, door panels, windows. When he reached the space beneath the seats his hand brushed something hard. He pulled out a small notebook bound in dark navy leather. A diary.
Alex turned it over, feeling uneasy. It was someone elses life, someone elses secrets. He almost tossed it onto the back seat and walked away, but a fine, tidy script on the first page caught his eye: Emily. Just a name. He opened the first entry.
12March.
Victor shouted again today. Over something trivial I think I forgot to buy his favourite yoghurt. Sometimes I feel Im living on a powder keg. One wrong step, one misplaced word and it blows. Then he comes over, hugs me, says he loves me, that the day was just hard. And I believe him. Or I pretend to. This cherryred little thing is my only escape. I turned the music up and drove wherever my eyes could see. Just me and the road. No one yelling.
Alex set the diary down. A strange chill ran through him; he could almost picture Emily behind the wheel, sad eyes, fleeing domestic storms. He kept reading.
2April.
We fought again. This time about my job. He hates that I stay late. Normal women stay at home and bake pies, he said. I dont want to bake. I love my work, the numbers, the reports. I like feeling useful beyond the kitchen. He doesnt get it. He warned that if I dont quit, hell go to my boss himself. Humiliating. That evening I went to the Old Orchard Café, sat alone, sipped coffee and watched the rain. It was peaceful there, and the pastries were divine.
Alex imagined the Old Orchard, a small, cosy spot with huge windows not far from his flat. He pictured Emily at a table, alone, watching droplets race down the glass.
The following days rolled by in a fog. Daytime work, endless arguments with Oliver; evening diary pages. He learned Emily loved autumn, jazz and Remarques novels. Shed dreamed of learning to paint, but Victor dismissed it as childish scribble. She had a close friend, Sophie, with whom she could talk for hours on the phone.
18May.
Victor was away on a business trip. Silence was a blessing. Sophie dropped by, we bought wine and fruit and stayed up till midnight, laughing like we were teens again. She told me I should leave Victor. Lena, hell eat you, youre fading before his eyes. She was right, but where would I go? No parents, his flat was the only roof Id known. Im thirtyfive. Sophie said age isnt a barrier, its just the start. Easy for her to say her husbands a banker.
Alex sighed. He understood that fear. He was fortytwo, and the notion of a drastic change made his bones shiver. He too lived on a familiar track: workhome, occasional meetups with his mate Simon. Now, this car and this diary seemed to tug at a new thread.
On Saturday he could not resist and went to the Old Orchard. He took a seat by the window, ordered coffee and a slice of cake the one he imagined Emily adored. He stared at it, trying to picture her. Tall blond? Petite brunette? Her eyes were always sad.
The entries grew darker.
9July.
He raised his hand at me. First time. Because I was on the phone with Sophie, not with him, when he called. Just a slap. It felt like something inside me cracked, not on the surface but in the soul. I spent the whole night in the car in the yard, unable to return to the flat. The lights flickered, the windows glowed and dimmed. He must have been looking for me. Or not. I was terrified and alone. If it werent for my cherryred little car, I think I would have lost it.
Alex set the diary down, his chest tightening with injustice. He wanted to find Victor and he didnt know what to do, only to protect her the woman hed never met.
That evening Simon called.
Alex! Where have you vanished to? Fishing weekend?
Hey, Simon. No, too many things on my plate.
What sort of things? You havent even taken a holiday. Whats this mystery? Bought a caravan and disappeared?
Alex chuckled.
Almost. Listen, theres something
He told the story of the car, the diary, Emily. Simon listened in silence.
Youve really gone deep, mate. What do you need this for?
I dont know. I just feel sorry for her.
Feel sorry for him. It was ages ago. Shes probably married a millionaire by now and has forgotten that Victor. And youre sitting there, suffering for her. Toss that notebook.
I cant, Alex admitted.
Then watch yourself. Youre a Romeo, just dont end up in a madhouse. Call if you need anything.
Simons words didnt sober Alex up; they only fueled his need to finish the diary. He felt compelled to see it through, to learn how it ended.
The entries grew shorter, more jagged. Emily seemed on the brink.
1September.
Summers over, and so is my patience. He smashed the vase Mom gave me the last thing I had left from her. He called it tasteless, said it ruined his designer décor. I gathered the shards and understood it was the end. I cant stay. I must leave.
15September.
Im drawing up an escape plan, like a spy thriller absurd and frightening. Sophie will help, give me a flat temporarily. Im slowly moving my books, a couple of jumpers, my cosmetics the precious bits. Victor doesnt notice; hes too wrapped up in himself. Ive found a watercolor course Id always wanted. It starts in October. Maybe its a sign?
28September.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I go. Hes off for two days on some conference. Ill have time to grab the rest of my things and disappear. Ive handed in my resignation. Ill buy an easel, paints, and paint the autumn yellow leaves, grey sky, and my cherryred car in the rain. Its my symbol of freedom. Its terrifying. What if it fails? What if he finds me? Staying is scarier.
That was the last entry. Alex turned the page. Blank. The next page was blank too, and so on until the diary ran out.
He sat in the quiet of his tiny kitchen, wondering what had become of her. Had Sophie found a flat? Had Emily started painting? Dozens of questions swirled. He felt as if hed watched a series to the final episode only to have the ending cut out.
He reread the final pages over and over, until his eyes caught something hed missed. Between the last sheets lay a crumpled, folded receipt. It was from The Painters Palette on Peace Street. Date 29September. Listed: set of watercolour paints, brushes, paper, a small tabletop easel.
So she had bought them. She was preparing.
Alex noted the date. The diary was a year old. Exactly a year later.
What now? He could try to find her. But how? Only a first name, Emily, and a friend named Sophie. Little to go on. And why? To disturb a new life she might have built? To remind her of a past shed fled?
He set the diary aside. A week passed. He went to work, argued with Oliver, returned home. Yet the world felt larger, more textured. He started noticing details: sunlight rippling in puddles, leaves turning amber on the maples, the baristas smile in the corner café. It was as if he were seeing through Emilys eyes, the simple, ordinary life shed craved.
One evening, while aimlessly scrolling the news feed, an announcement flashed: Autumn Vernissage Emerging Artists of the City. Among the participants was the name Emily Hart. He clicked. A modest gallery displayed her works: landscapes, stilllifes, portraits. In the centre was a small watercolor of a cherryred Fiesta parked under an autumn drizzle on a quiet lane. The paint was alive, a touch melancholy yet brimming with hope.
He stared at the picture and smiled. She had made it. She had left. She painted. She lived.
He found Emily Harts profile on a social network. The avatar showed a smiling woman in her midthirties, short hair, bright eyes. She posed beside her canvases; there was no trace of the frightened woman from the diary. Her feed was filled with exhibition photos, snapshots of her cat, sketches of city streets. No Victor. No pain. Just a calm, creative life.
Alex felt a huge relief, as if a weight had lifted. He didnt message her, didnt send a friend request. There was no need. Her story had found its ending, and it was a happy one. He simply closed the tab.
He picked up the diary again, feeling its pages no longer as a collection of strangers secrets but as a testament to courage that its never too late to change everything.
The next day, after work, he entered The Painters Palette. He lingered among the aisles, then bought a modest canvas and a set of oil paints. He had never painted before, but a sudden, desperate urge pushed him to try.
Back home he set the canvas on the kitchen table, squeezed bright colours onto a palette, and took up a brush. He didnt know what would emerge perhaps a ruined canvas, perhaps the start of his own story. The rain began to patter against the window. Every soul has its own road and its own autumn. Sometimes, to find ones path, you must stumble upon anothers.
