I still remember the day I bought a secondhand car and, while cleaning the interior, discovered a diary tucked beneath the passenger seat.
Are you having a joke, Alex? Seriously? The whole department has spent three months on this project and now you claim the concept has changed?
Alex stood in the managers office, fists clenched until his knuckles turned white. Oliver Irving, a bulky man with a perpetually sour expression, didnt even glance up from his paperwork.
Alex, cut the drama. The brief changed. The client can have a rethink, and we must adapt. This is business, not a hobby club.
Adapt? Thats not adapting, its tearing everything up and starting from scratch! All the calculations, all the paperworkinto the bin? People were losing sleep!
They were paid for the overtime. 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 ringing sharply. He walked past colleagues who offered sympathetic looks, snatched his coat from the desk and stepped into the damp October air. Enough, throbbed his temples. Enough. He walked, mind a tangled knot of anger at his boss, the client, the world itself. He was tired of being at the mercy of others whims, of the timetable of the overcrowded bus, of everything. He needed something of his ownsmall, but his. A sliver of personal space where no one could shove in a new concept.
That thought led him to the sprawling car market on the towns edge. He drifted between rows of used vehicles, never quite knowing what he was looking for. Shiny foreign hatchbacks sat beside battered veterans of the British motor industry. Then he saw it: a modest, cherryred Ford Fiesta, about seven or eight years old, immaculate on the outside as if it had been loved.
Interested? a cheerful salesman in his thirties said, flashing a grin. Top condition. One previous owner, treated gently, mostly commuting to work. No smokers inside.
Alex circled the car, peered into the cabin. It was clean, though not sterile. It felt lived in, not just a transport box. He slipped into the drivers seat, hands resting on the cool plastic, and for the first time that day felt the tension ebb away.
Ill take it, he said, surprising even himself with the certainty.
The paperwork took a couple of hours, and soon he was cruising through the evening streets in his very own car. The word own warmed his chest. He turned on the radio, cracked a window, letting the crisp night air spill in. Life suddenly seemed less bleak.
He parked at the back of his old council flat, sat there for a long while, acclimating to the new feeling. Then he resolved to erase any trace of the previous owner. He bought cleaning supplies from a 24hour garagepolish, rags, a vacuumand returned to the car.
He polished everything until it gleamed: the dashboard, the door panels, the windows. When he reached the space under the seats, his hand brushed something hard. He pulled out a small notebook bound in a deep navy cover. A diary.
Alex turned it over, uneasy. A strangers life, secrets that were not his. He almost tossed it onto the back seat and walked away, but something stopped him. The first page bore a neat, modest script: Harriet. He opened it.
12March.
Victor shouted again today. Over a trivial thingId forgotten his favourite yoghurt. Sometimes it feels Im living on a powder keg. One wrong step, one misspoken word, and it blows. Then he comes over, hugs me, says he loves me, that the day was hard. And I believe him, or at least pretend I do. This cherryred little car is my only escape. I turned the music up and drove wherever I could see. Just me and the road. No one yelling.
Alex set the diary down, a strange weight settling in his chest. He could almost picture Harriet behind the wheel, sad eyes, fleeing domestic storms. He kept reading.
2April.
Another fight. This time about my job. He hates that I stay 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 useful beyond the kitchen. He doesnt get it. He warned hed go to my boss if I didnt quit. Humiliating. In the evening I went to the Old Orchard café, sat alone, sipping coffee, watching the rain. It was peaceful. The pastries were lovely.
The Old Orchard was a tiny, cosy spot not far from his flat, with large windows. Alex imagined Harriet there, alone, watching the droplets race down the glass.
The days that followed blurred. Daylight brought work and endless rows with Oliver, nightfall brought the diary. He learned that Harriet adored autumn, jazz, and Remarques novels. She dreamed of learning to paint, but Victor dismissed it as childish dabbling. Her close friend Samantha could talk for hours on the phone.
18May.
Victor was away on business. How sweet the silence! Samantha called, we bought wine and fruit and stayed up till midnight, laughing like we were teenagers again. She told me I should leave him. Lena, hell eat you up, youre fading fast. She was right. But where would I go? No parents, his flat was hers. At thirtyfive, starting anew seemed frightening. Samantha said age was just a number, it was only the beginning. Easy for herher husband was a banker.
Alex sighed. He understood that fear. At fortytwo, the thought of a radical change made his knees shake. Hed lived a predictable lifework, home, occasional meetups with his mate Simon. Now, a car and a diary had upended it.
One Saturday he could not hold back and went to the Old Orchard. He took a seat by the window, ordered a coffee and a slice of cakethe very one Harriet seemed to favour. He stared, picturing hersometimes a tall blonde, sometimes a petite brunettebut always with sad eyes.
The entries grew darker.
9July.
He raised his hand at me for the first time. For answering Samanthas call instead of his. A slap, really, but it cracked something inside menot my face, but my spirit. I spent the night in the car outside his flat, unable to go back inside. The lights flickered on and off. He was probably looking for me. Or not. I was terrified and alone. If it werent for my cherryred car, I might have lost my mind.
Alex closed the diary, a surge of injustice tightening his chest. He wanted to find Victor and He didnt know what to do, only that he wanted to protect her. The woman hed never met.
That evening Simon called.
Alex, whereve you vanished to? Fancy a fishing trip this weekend?
Hey, Simon. Swamped, cant remember the last time Ive taken a break.
Too many jobs? No holidays at all? Gone off the grid?
Alex chuckled.
Almost. Listen, theres something
He told Simon about the car, the diary, Harriet. Simon listened in silence.
Youve stuck your nose in someone elses life, mate. What do you want with it?
I dont know. I just feel sorry for her.
Feel sorry for him. It was ages ago, love. Shes probably married a millionaire by now and forgotten Victor. And you sit here moping. Toss that notebook.
I cant, Alex admitted honestly.
Then watch yourself. Romeo, dont end up in a madhouse. Ring if you need anything.
The chat didnt sober him; it spurred him to finish the diary.
The entries grew shorter, jagged, as Harriets patience frayed.
1September.
Summer ended, and so did my tolerance. He smashed the vase Mom gave me, the last thing I had left of her. He called it tasteless, said it ruined his designer décor. I gathered the shards and realised that was it. No more. I had to go.
15September.
Im planning my escape, like a spy filmhalf absurd, half terrifying. Samantha will let me stay at her flat for a while. Im moving books, a couple of sweaters, makeupeverything precious. Victor is oblivious, wrapped up in himself. Ive found an evening watercolour class that starts in October. Maybe its a sign?
28September.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow Im leaving. Hes off on a twoday conference, giving me time to collect the rest of my things and get out. Ive handed in my resignation. Ill buy an easel, paints, and paint the autumngolden leaves, grey sky, and my cherryred car in the rain. It feels frightening, but staying is scarier.
The last entry was a blank page, then another blank, and so on until the diary ran out.
Alex sat in the quiet of his tiny kitchen, wondering what had become of her. Had Samantha managed to get her a flat? Had she taken up painting? He reread the final pages repeatedly, then noticed a folded slip tucked between thema receipt from The Artists Supply on Meadow Street, dated 29September, listing watercolour paints, brushes, paper, and a small easel. She had bought them. She was preparing.
He looked at the date. The diary was from the previous yearexactly a year ago.
What now? He could try to find her, but with just the name Harriet and a friend called Samantha, there was 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, sparred with Oliver, returned home, but the world seemed fuller. He noticed sunlight glinting in puddles, leaves turning amber on the maples, a baristas smile in the corner café. It was as if hed begun to see through Harriets eyes, the simple, ordinary life shed yearned for.
One evening, while aimlessly scrolling through news, he stumbled on an announcement: Autumn Vernissage Emerging Artists Exhibition. Among the participants was a name: Harriet Whitfield. He clicked, and a modest gallery of works opened. In the centre was a small watercolour of a cherryred Ford Fiesta parked under an autumn drizzle on a quiet lanealive, a touch melancholy, yet brimming with hope.
He stared at the painting and smiled. She had made it. She had left. She was painting. She was living.
He found Harriets profile on a social network: a smiling woman in her midthirties, short hair, bright eyes, posing beside her canvases. No Victor, no painjust exhibitions, photos of her cat, sketches of city streets. Her feed was a quiet, contented life drenched in creativity.
Alex felt a great relief, as if a heavy load had finally been lifted. He didnt message her, didnt add her as a friend. Her story was complete, and she seemed happy. He simply closed the page.
He lifted the diary once more. It was no longer a collection of strangers secrets but a tale of courageproof that its never too late to change everything.
The next day, after work, Alex entered The Artists Supply shop, the same one on the receipt. He wandered the aisles, finally buying a small canvas and a set of oil paints. Hed never painted before, but an urgent need to try pulsed through him.
Back home, he set the canvas on his kitchen table, squeezed bright colours onto a palette, and took up a brush. He had no idea what would emergeperhaps a ruined canvas, perhaps the start of his own new story, inspired by the voice of a stranger found beneath the seat of an old cherryred car.
He looked out as rain began to fall. Everyone has their own road and their own autumn. Sometimes, to find your path, you must first stumble upon someone elses.
