Page 18 of Beautiful Ugly

“Are you okay?” asks Cora Christie, peering in at me through the glass. She’s wearing a green coat and a green woolly hat and appears to be heading home for the day. “This phone is broken, has been for months now, I told you that already,” she says, pointing at theOUT OF ORDERsign with a green fingernail.

“I thought I heard...” From the look on her face I think it might be best to stop talking.

I’m already worried that the whole island will think I am crazy.

I remember that I haven’t slept for a very long time. Maybemy mind is just getting more creative with the tricks it insists on playing on me. I’ve imagined seeing my missing wife before, maybe now I’m starting to hear her.

“Thought I might just borrow a book,” I say, picking up a random paperback.

Cora nods but her beady eyes are still full of suspicion. “Good for you,” she mumbles before sticking her hands in her pockets and walking away.

When she is out of sight, I press the buttons on the phone one more time, just in case.

But there is nothing except a deafening silence.

I think I really am losing my mind.

The sky has already dressed itself for twilight by the time we reach the forest. I find my way without using the compass, and as soon as we are inside I pour myself a large glass of scotch. My hands are still shaking, my head is pounding, and I don’t feel at all well. I know it’s an old-fashioned concept, but husbands are supposed to protect their wives and I didn’t. I know what happened wasn’t my fault, but I still sometimes blame myself. I should have done more to keep her safe.

Everyone had their theories about her disappearance at the time. Her friends, the press, the police. The large amounts of cash that Abby withdrew from our joint account made other people—including Kitty—think that my wife left me. I still have no idea what she needed all that money for, despite searching every inch of our home for clues, but I’ll never believe that version of events.

We loved each other more than any other couple I know.

I know that even if nobody else does.

Something happened to Abby, something bad. And until I know where she is and whether she is okay I don’t think my life can ever return to anything resembling normal. I need to know the truth. I see the Magic 8 Ball and decide to give it another try, picking it up to ask a question.

“I must have imagined it but... did I hear Abby on the phone in the village?”

Two words appear on the screen:VERY DOUBTFUL.

I nod as though a toy has just confirmed my deepest fears: Iamgoing mad.

Maybe it’s the tiredness catching up on me.

Perhaps it’s the result of still being so desperate to know what happened to her.

Or it’s possible my mind has broken due to the stress caused by what I’ve just done.

Seems to me I had three options when I found Charles Whittaker’s secret tenth novel:

Tell Kitty what I have found.

Tell Kitty I’ve had a great idea, then steal Charles’s book and pretend it is mine.

Tell Kitty nothing.

I always tell my agent everything—writing can be a lonely business, and I don’t have anyone else to talk to—so the third option wasn’t really an option at all. And, until relatively recently, I’ve always told my agent the truth. I ask the Magic 8 Ball another question.

“Have I done the right thing with the book?”

Four words appear on the screen:MY SOURCES SAY NO.

I throw it back down on the chair, reminding myself that it is just a silly toy, and that whatever message it displays means nothing. But doubts are already starting to whisper themselves inside my head. It’s too late to do anything about it now, the letter has been posted, but maybe it wasn’t a smart thing to do. Regrets, by definition, are the least punctual of emotions.

Abby was always very good at doing the right thing. It was something I loved about her from the start. She was good at beinglikable too; everyone who met her adored her, including me. I feel jealous of people who are naturally outgoing and friendly, even toward people they can’t possibly like. I would love to be that way, but for me all social situations with people I do not know are stressful and uncomfortable. Parties are my idea of hell. Even a brief encounter with an elderly shopkeeper has left me feeling exhausted. I decide to rest my tired eyes for a moment. I haven’t slept properly since I left London. That’s a lie—I haven’t slept properly since my wife disappeared—but maybe sleep is finally going to find me.

I can’t see a thing when the sound of someone knocking on the cabin door wakes me. I don’t know where I am at first, or how long I’ve been sleeping, and I blink, adjusting to the low light. The darkness that had gathered at the edges of the evening sky has now wiped it black, so I must have been asleep for a while. I turn on a lamp as Columbo rushes over to greet whoever it is outside—Labradors do not make good guard dogs—then I hurry to the door myself but hesitate before unlocking it. I feel a little disheveled and disorientated having just woken up. “Who is it?” I ask.