Id bought a secondhand Ford Focus and, while giving the interior a onceover, I felt something stiff under the passenger seat a diary belonging to the previous owner.
Are you having a laugh, Alex? Seriously? The whole department spent three months on this project and youre now saying the concept has changed?
Alex stood in the managers office, knuckles white from clenching. Oliver James, a bulky man with a perpetually sour expression, didnt even glance up from his paperwork.
Alex, cut the drama. Concepts shift. The client can have a change of heart and we have to adapt. This is business, not a hobby club.
Adapt? Thats not adapting, thats tearing everything down and starting from scratch! All the calculations, all the paperwork tossed in the bin? People were losing sleep over this!
They were paid for the night shifts. If anyones unhappy, HR is open from nine to six. Youre free to go. I wont hold you.
Alex turned without a word and slammed the door, the glass in the frame chiming. He passed colleagues who gave him sympathetic looks, snatched his coat from the desk and stepped into the damp November air. Enough, drummed in his temples. Enough. He walked, oblivious to the winding streets, 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 overcrowded doubledecker, of everything. He wanted something his own, even if it was small a sliver of personal space where no one could push in a new concept.
That thought carried him to the sprawling usedcar market on the towns edge. He drifted between rows of battered vehicles, not really knowing what he was looking for, just watching. Shiny bodies of expensive imports glinted beside battered veterans of the British motor industry. Then he saw it: a modest, cherryred Ford Focus, spotless on the outside, about seven or eight years old, but looking as if it had been loved.
Interested? a smiling thirtysomething salesman approached. Great choice. One previous owner, driven gently, worktohome commuter. Real mileage, no smoking inside.
Alex circled the car, slipped a glance into the cabin. Clean but not sterile. It felt lived in, not just 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 ease.
Ill take it, he said, surprised by his own resolve.
The paperwork took a couple of hours. Soon he was cruising the twilight streets in his very own car. The word own warmed his chest. He turned on the radio, cracked a window, let the chilly breeze curl inside. Life suddenly seemed less bleak.
He parked in the yard of his ageing council flat, sat there for a long time, absorbing the new feeling. Then he decided the car needed a thorough clean, a fresh start, no trace of the former owner. He bought cleaning supplies from a 24hour forecourt shop polish, cloths, a portable vacuum and went back to the Focus.
He scrubbed everything until it shone: the dashboard, the door panels, the windows. When he reached the space beneath the seats, his hand brushed against something hard. He pulled out a small notebook bound in dark blue leather. A diary.
Alex turned it over, uneasy. A strangers life, secret after secret. He almost tossed it onto the back seat, but something stopped him. The first page bore a neat, tidy hand: Poppy. Just a name. He opened to the first entry.
12 March.
Today Vadim shouted again. Over something trivial I forgot to buy his favourite yoghurt. Sometimes I feel Im living on a barrel of gunpowder. One wrong step, one misplaced word and it blows up. 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 car is my only escape. I turned the music up and drove wherever my eyes could see. Just me and the road. No one yelling.
He put the diary down, a shiver running through him. He could almost see Poppy behind the wheel, sad eyes, fleeing the storms at home. He turned another page.
2 April.
We argued again. This time about my job. He hates that I stay late. Proper women stay at home and bake pies, he says. I dont want to bake pies. I love my work, the numbers, the reports. I want to feel needed beyond the kitchen. He doesnt get it. He warned that if I dont quit, hell go straight to my boss. Humiliating. In the evening I went to the Old Park Café, sat alone, drank coffee and watched the rain. It was peaceful. The pastries were delicious.
Alexs thoughts drifted to the Old Park Café. He knew it, a cosy spot not far from his flat, with large windows. He imagined Poppy there, alone, watching the rain trickle down the glass.
The days that followed blurred. By day he was at work, endless spats with Oliver, by night he read the diary. He learned Poppy loved autumn, jazz, and the novels of Remarque. She dreamed of learning to paint, though Vadim dismissed it as childish dabbling. Her close friend Claire was someone she could talk to for hours on the phone.
18 May.
A good day. Vadims off on a business trip. What peace silence. Claire called, came over, we bought wine and fruit and stayed up till midnight, laughing like we were twentysomething again. She says I should leave him. Poppy, hell eat you up, youre fading fast. I know shes right. But where would I go? No parents, his flat is still my home. Its scary to start from zero. Im thirtyfive. Claire says age isnt a barrier, its just the start. Easy for her to say shes married to a banker.
Alex sighed. He felt that fear. He was fortytwo, and the thought of a radical change made his bones tremble. He, too, lived on a predictable track: work, home, rare meetups with his friend Stephen. And now this car, this diary.
On Saturday he could not hold back and went to the Old Park Café. He sat by the window, ordered a coffee and a slice of cake the one he imagined Poppy liked. He stared, trying to picture her. Tall blonde? Petite brunette? Her eyes were always sad.
He kept reading. The entries grew darker.
9 July.
He raised his hand at me. For the first time. Because I was on the phone with Claire instead of him when he called. Just a slap. It felt like he broke something inside me, not in my face but in my soul. I spent the whole night in the car in the yard, unable to go back inside. I watched the street lamps flicker. He was probably looking for me. Or not. I didnt know. It was terrifying and utterly lonely. If it werent for my cherryred car, I think Id have gone mad.
Alex closed the diary, a knot of injustice tightening in his chest. He wanted to find Vadim and he didnt know what to do. Just protect her. The woman hed never met.
That evening Stephen called.
Alex, where have you vanished to? Gone fishing for the weekend?
Hey, Stephen. No, just swamped.
Swamped? You havent even taken a holiday. Whats the mystery? Bought a canoe and vanished?
Alex chuckled.
Almost. Listen, something weird came up
He told Stephen about the car, the diary, Poppy. Stephen listened in silence.
Youve really dived deep into someone elses life, havent you? What do you want with it?
I dont know. I just feel sorry for her.
Feel sorry for him. Its been ages. Shes probably married a millionaire by now and forgotten Vadim. And youre sitting there, grieving for a phantom. Toss that notebook.
I cant, Alex admitted.
Then watch yourself. Romeo, dont end up in a madhouse over it. Ring me if you need anything.
The chat didnt sober him up. It pushed him to finish the diary, to see how it ended.
The entries grew shorter, more jagged. Poppy was reaching a breaking point.
1 September.
Summers over. So is my patience. He broke the vase my mother gave me the last thing I had left of her. Said it was tasteless and ruined his designer décor. I gathered the shards and realised that was it. The end. I cant stay. I have to leave.
15 September.
Planning my escape. Like a spy thriller. Silly and scary. Claire will let me stay at her flat for a while. Im slipping my things over books, a couple of sweaters, makeup. The most precious bits. Vadim doesnt notice. Hes too busy with himself. Ive found a watercolor course Ive dreamed of. Starts in October. Maybe its a sign?
28 September.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I go. Hes off for a twoday conference. Ill have time to collect the rest of my stuff and disappear. Ive handed in my resignation. Ill start a new life. Buy an easel, paints, paint the autumn yellow leaves, grey sky, and my cherryred car in the rain. My symbol of freedom. Terrified to the bone. What if it fails? What if he finds me? Yet staying feels worse.
That was the final entry. Alex turned the page blank. The next was blank too, and so on until the book ran out.
He sat in the quiet of his tiny kitchen. What had become of her? Had she escaped? Had Claire found a flat? Had she begun to paint? Hundreds of questions swirled. It felt like hed watched a series to its last episode, only for the finale to be cut. He reread the last pages over and over, and then noticed something hed missed: tucked between the final sheets was a tiny folded receipt. A receipt from The Painters Supply on Mira Street, dated 29 September. Listed: watercolor set, brushes, paper, a small tabletop easel.
Shed bought them. She was preparing.
Alex looked at the date. The diary was a year old. Exactly one year had passed.
What now? He could try to find her. But how? Only a first name, no surname. A friend named Claire. Little to go on. And why? To disrupt a new life she might have built? To remind her of an old one?
He set the diary aside. A week slipped by. He went to work, argued with Oliver, came home. But the world seemed larger, richer. He began noticing the way sunlight glinted in puddles, the way ash trees turned amber, the smile of the barista at the corner café. It was as if he were seeing through Poppys eyes, the very eyes that longed for a simple, ordinary life.
One evening, aimlessly scrolling through news feeds, he stumbled on an announcement: Autumn Vernissage Emerging Artists of Manchester. Among the listed exhibitors was Poppy Whitaker. He clicked, and a modest gallery of works opened. Among stilllives and portraits, a small watercolor caught his breath: a cherryred Ford Focus parked under an autumn drizzle on a quiet lane. The brushwork was vivid, a touch melancholy, yet brimming with hope.
He stared, a faint smile forming. She had made it. She had left. She painted. She lived.
He searched for Poppy Whitaker on social media. Her profile picture showed a smiling woman in her midthirties, short haircut, bright eyes, standing beside her canvases. No Vadim, no bruises, just exhibitions, photos of her cat, sketches of city streets. A quiet, contented life.
Relief flooded Alex. It felt like a weight lifted from his shoulders. He didnt message her. He didnt add her as a friend. Her story was finished, and it ended happily. He simply closed the page.
He lifted the diary from the table, turned it over once more. It was no longer just a collection of secrets; it had become a story of courage, of how its never too late to change everything.
The next day, after work, Alex stopped by the same Painters Supply shop from the receipt. He wandered the aisles, then bought a small canvas and a set of oil paints. Hed never painted before, but a sudden urge drove him to try.
Back home he set the canvas on his kitchen table, squeezed out bright colours onto a palette, and lifted a brush. He didnt know what would emerge perhaps a ruined canvas, perhaps the start of his own new tale. Outside, rain began to fall. Everyone has their own road and their own autumn. Sometimes, to find your path, you have to stumble upon someone elses.
