Page 3 of Beautiful Ugly

I am holding the phone pressed to my ear and have started pacing.

“Can you hear me?” I ask, but she doesn’t answer.

Then I hear footsteps again.

It sounds as though Abby might be getting back into the car, but she still doesn’t reply.

The only thing I can hear is the sound of someone breathing.

It does not sound like my wife.

A moment ago, I was happier than I had ever been. Now I am paralyzed with fear.

This is the worst best day of my life.

I know the stretch of road she is on. It leads directly to the coast, and is not far from the house. The nearest building is a mile away, there is nobody close by I can call for help. I start walking. Then I run. I’m still holding the phone to my ear with one hand, breathless but calling her name. She doesn’t answer.

The night is too dark, too cold, too wet. There are no streetlights in the countryside, only shadows. All I can see is an anthracite sky speckled with stars, a silhouette of fields on one side of the road, and a moon-stained sea on the other. All I can hear are the waves slamming into the cliff, and my own labored breaths. Isee her car parked on the verge, and I slow down, taking in the scene. The headlights are still on, the indicators are flashing, and the driver’s door is open.

But Abby isn’t here.

There is no sign of a person lying in the road either. No signs of life at all.

I spin around, squinting into the darkness at the empty lanes and rolling hills. I shout her name and hear my voice echo on the phone attached to the dashboard. She is still on the call to me. Except that she isn’t. The fish-and-chips are still on the passenger seat, along with Abby’s handbag. I look inside it, but nothing appears to have been stolen. The only unfamiliar thing in the car is a white gift box. I open the lid and see a creepy-looking antique doll with shiny dark hair and dressed in a red coat. Her big blue glass eyes seem to stare right at me, and her mouth has been sewn shut.

I take another look around, but everything is still and silent and black.

“Where are you?” I shout.

But Abby doesn’t answer.

My wife has disappeared.

ONE YEAR LATER...

GOOD GRIEF

You look bloody terrible. Good grief, I barely recognize you,” my agent says as I enter her office. It seems like such an odd expression. Can grief ever be good?

“It’s nice to see you too,” I tell her.

“I’m not insulting you; I’m describing you.”

Kitty Goldman never sugarcoats her words. She gives me a hug, then sits back down behind her desk where she has always looked most at home. I see that a few more wrinkles have dared to decorate her face since the last time we met, and I like that she doesn’t try to hide her age. What you see is what you get, but not everyone sees her the way I do. Not many people get this close. I’ve never known exactly how old Kitty is—it’s one of many questions I daren’t ask—but if I had to guess, I’d say early seventies. She’s wearing a pink tweed skirt suit and smells of perfume. Chanel, I think. She peers over her designer glasses.

“And I see you brought Columbo with you?” she says, staring down at the black Labrador making himself comfortable on her expensive-looking rug.

“Yes. Sorry. I hope that’s okay. I don’t have anyone who cankeep an eye on him, and I can’t leave him alone in the hotel during the day.”

And there it is—the head tilt of sympathy. The pity I’ve become so familiar with makes itself at home on her face and I have to look away. It’s been a year since my wife disappeared. Everyone who knows what happened looks at me this way now, and I can’t bear it. I’ve grown weary of people saying, “I’m sorry for your loss.” I’m sure they are sorry, for a while, until they forget all about it and continue with their lives. And why shouldn’t they? They didn’t lose their reason for living. That would be me.

I stare down at my shoes, unpolished and badly worn at the heel. Kitty speed-dials her latest assistant—sitting right outside the office—and asks her to get us some tea and biscuits. Since Abby disappeared I often forget to eat. I can’t write either and I find it difficult to sleep. My nightmares are always the same, and it feels like I can’t breathe when I wake up. I didn’t just lose my wife. I had everything I ever wanted and I lost it all.

I still don’t know what happened to Abby.

I don’t even know if she’s alive.

It’s that, more than anything, thenotknowing, that keeps me awake at night.