Id bought a secondhand car and, while giving the interior a onceover, I felt something hard under the passenger seat. It was a small, darkblue notebook a diary left by the previous owner.
Are you having a joke, Alex? Seriously? The whole department spent three months on this project and now you say the concept has changed?
I stood in the managers office, fists clenched until the knuckles went white. Oliver Whitaker, 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 rethink and we have to adapt. This is business, not a hobby club.
Adapt? Thats not adapting, thats tearing the whole thing down and starting from scratch! All the calculations, the documentation tossed 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. Im not holding you.
I turned without a word, slammed the door and the glass in the frame rang. My colleagues gave me sympathetic looks as I grabbed my jacket and stepped out into the damp October air. Enough, a voice hammered in my temples. Enough. I walked, mind a tangle of anger at the boss, the client, the whole system. I was fed up with other peoples whims, with the cramped bus schedule, with everything. I needed something of my own, however small, a slice of space that no one could invade with a new concept.
That thought steered me to the sprawling usedcar market on the edge of Birmingham. I drifted between rows of battered hatchbacks and polished foreign saloons, not really looking for anything. Shiny panels of imported models glistened next to the scarred veterans of British motoring. Then I saw it: a modest, cherryred Kia, a few years old but clearly loved.
Interested? a cheerful salesman in his thirties said, flashing a smile. Great choice. One previous owner, driven gently, mostly for work and home. Genuine mileage, no smoking inside.
I circled the vehicle, opened the door and peeked inside. It was tidy, not sterile, as if a person had lived there rather than just shuttling from point A to point B. I slipped into the drivers seat, hands resting on the cool plastic. For the first time that day I felt the tension ease.
Ill take it, I said, surprised by my own certainty.
The paperwork took a couple of hours. Soon I was cruising the twilight streets in a car that was, finally, my own. The word warmed my chest. I turned the radio on, cracked a window and let the cool breeze drift in. Life suddenly seemed a little less bleak.
I parked outside my old council flat, sat there for a long while, getting used to the new feeling. Then I decided the interior needed a thorough clean, a fresh start that would erase any trace of the former owner. I hit the 24hour shop, bought carcleaning chemicals, rags and a vacuum, and returned to the car.
I polished everything until it shone: the dashboard, the door panels, the windows. When I reached the space under the seats, my hand brushed something hard. I pulled out a modest notebook bound in a darkblue cover.
I flipped it open, uneasy. A strangers life, a strangers secrets. I almost tossed the book onto the back seat and walked away, but something stopped me. A neat, tidy script greeted the first page.
Poppy
The name was all that greeted me. I turned the page.
12 March.
Victor shouted again today. Over a trivial thing Id forgotten his favourite yoghurt. Sometimes I feel Im living on a powder keg. One wrong step, one misplaced word and it blows up. Then he comes over, hugs me, says he loves me, that it was just a rough 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 I could see. Just me and the road, and no one yelling.
The diary lay on my lap, the words making me feel oddly close to Poppy, as if I could see her behind the wheel, eyes downcast, fleeing the storms at home. I turned the page.
2 April.
We argued again. This time over my job. He doesnt like that I stay late. A proper woman stays at home and bakes pies, he said. Im not interested in pies. I love my work, the numbers, the reports. I want to feel useful beyond the kitchen. He cant understand that. He warned hed go straight to my boss if I didnt quit. Humiliating. In the evening I slipped into The Old Park café, sat alone, sipped coffee and watched the rain. It was peaceful there, and the cakes were good.
I pictured the little café, a short walk from my flat, its large windows spilling soft light onto the tables. I imagined Poppy there, staring at the rain tracing the glass.
The days that followed were a haze work, endless spats with Oliver, and nighttime reading. I learned Poppy loved autumn, jazz, and the novels of Remarque. She dreamed of learning to paint, but Victor dismissed it as childish dabbling. Her close friend, Samantha, was the one she could talk to for hours on the phone.
18 May.
Victor was away on business. The silence was a blessing. Samantha turned up, we bought wine and fruit and stayed up drinking tea until midnight, laughing like we were twenty again. She told me I should leave Victor. Lena, hell eat you up, youre fading before his eyes. She was right. But where would I go? No parents, his flat is his. Im thirtyfive. Samantha says age isnt a barrier, its a fresh start. Easy for her shes married to a goldsmith.
I sighed, feeling the same fear that had kept me in my rut. I was fortytwo, and the thought of a radical change made my skin prickle. My life was a familiar groove: workhome, occasional drinks with my mate Steve. And now this car and this diary were shaking things up.
On Saturday I could no longer hold back. I went to The Old Park, took a seat by the window, ordered a coffee and a slice of cake the very one Poppy seemed to love. I stared at it, trying to picture her. Was she a tall blonde or a petite brunette? Her eyes were always sad.
The entries grew darker.
9 July.
He raised his hand at me for the first time. For answering Samanthas call instead of his. A slap, but it felt like he cracked something inside me, not my face but my spirit. I spent the night in the car, unable to go back inside. The lights in his flat flickered on and off. He was probably looking for me, or maybe not. I felt terrified and utterly alone. If it werent for my little cherryred escape, I think Id have lost my mind.
I put the diary down, my chest tightening with injustice. I wanted to find Victor and I didnt know what to do, other than protect her. The woman Id never met.
That evening Steve rang.
Alex, whereve you vanished to? Fishing weekend?
Hey, Steve. Cant say, too many things on my plate.
What things? You havent even taken a holiday. Whats this secrecy? Got yourself a new hobby and vanished?
I gave a halfsmile.
Almost. Listen, theres something
I told him about the car, the diary, Poppy. He listened in silence.
Youve got yourself into someone elses life, mate. What do you need that for?
I dont know. Just I feel sorry for her.
Feel sorry for him. It was ages ago. She might have married a millionaire and forgotten Victor entirely. And youre sitting here mourning for a stranger. Dump that notebook.
I cant, I admitted.
Then look after yourself. Dont go mad. Give me a shout if you need anything.
Steves words didnt sober me up. If anything, they spurred me to finish the diary.
The entries grew shorter, more abrupt. Poppy was reaching a breaking point.
1 September.
Summer ended, and so did my patience. He smashed a vase my mother had given me the last thing Id kept from her. He called it tasteless, said it ruined his designer décor. I collected the shards and realised that was it. No more. I had to leave.
15 September.
Im plotting an escape, like in a spy film. Funny and frightening. Samantha will let me crash at her place for a while. Im shifting a few things books, a couple of sweaters, my makeup the essentials. Victor never notices; hes too wrapped up in himself. I found a beginners watercolour class starting in October. Maybe thats a sign.
28 September.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow Im gone. Hes off to a twoday conference, giving me time to grab the rest of my things and vanish. 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. It feels terrifying, but staying is scarier.
That was the last entry. I turned the page blank. And the next one, blank as well. The diary simply stopped.
I sat in the quiet of my tiny kitchen, wondering what had become of Poppy. Had she managed to leave? Did Samantha find a flat for her? Had she started painting? A dozen questions swirled. It felt like Id watched a series to the very last episode, only for the ending to be cut.
I read the final pages again and noticed a tiny folded slip tucked between them. It was a receipt from The Artist on Market Street, dated 29 September. Listed were a set of watercolour paints, brushes, paper, and a small tabletop easel.
Shed bought them after all. Shed been preparing.
The diary was from the previous year exactly a year ago.
What now? I could try to find her, but with only a first name and a friends name, it seemed futile. And why? To interfere with a life she might have rebuilt? To remind her of the past?
I set the diary aside. A week passed. I went to work, argued with Oliver, returned home. Yet everything felt different. The world seemed fuller: the sun glinting off puddles, the leaves turning amber on the maples, the baristas smile at the corner café. It was as if I were seeing through Poppys eyes, the simple, ordinary life shed craved.
One evening I was scrolling through news feeds and stumbled on an announcement: Autumn Vernissage Emerging Artists of the City. Among the participants was a name: Lena Whitfield. My heart quickened. I clicked. A modest gallery displayed her work, and among the watercolours was a small painting of a cherryred Kia parked under a drizzle on a quiet lane. It was vivid, a touch melancholy, but full of hope.
I stared at the canvas and smiled. Shed made it. Shed left. She was painting. She was living.
I tracked down Lena Whitfields social profile. Her avatar showed a smiling woman in her midthirties, short hair, bright eyes, standing beside her artworks. No trace of the frightened woman from the diary. Her feed was filled with gallery openings, photos of her cat, sketches of city streets. No Victor. No pain. Just a calm, creative life.
Relief washed over me, a weight lifting off my shoulders. I didnt message her or send a friend request. Her story had reached its own conclusion, and she seemed happy. I closed the page.
I picked up the diary once more. It was no longer just a collection of someone elses secrets; it had become a tale of courage, proof that its never too late to change.
The next day, after work, I went back to The Artist. I lingered among the aisles, then bought a modest canvas and a set of oil paints. Id never painted before, but a sudden urge drove me to try.
Back home I set the canvas on my kitchen table, squeezed bright colours onto a palette, and grabbed a brush. I had no idea what would emerge perhaps a mess, perhaps the start of my own new story, inspired by the voice of a stranger 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 your path, you have to stumble upon anothers.
